Articulations of Aspen

The flight in the private jet back to Boston is the first time you’re confined to a space alone with Andy since the morning after everything unraveled at the villa. The two of you had orbited around each other, and he’d only forced your company for the social engagements. It had been shocking, and you had expected there to be some point at which he’d demand an interaction.

But he hadn’t.

Even the morning of your departure, there’d been a note left on the kitchen counter that there was business associate he and Lloyd had to take a meeting with, and so he’d see you on the tarmac.

He hadn’t taken any meetings for nearly seven weeks, so why he had one on your final day seemed like an excuse, but one you were glad he’d made.

You keep to yourself for the first hour, blanketing yourself in music and noise-canceling the entire plane. The flight attendant brings you food; you turn it down. Andy doesn’t even look up from his tablet or whatever he’s staring at. You’re astounded by the discipline, the sheer restraint. Seven weeks of being together—sleeping together, eating together, sometimes not even breathing unless the other was in the room—and now you’re basically anonymous passengers to each other on a plane. You should be grateful for the reprieve, but it makes you feel something worse than anger. It’s a fatigue that’s half heartbreak and half relief, an exhaustion so deep it feels stitched into your bones, making it hard to want anything at all—not even vengeance.

For the last week you’ve harbored the exhaustion of wanting something you’re ashamed of wanting, the kind that makes thirty-five thousand feet of sky feel like the bottom of the ocean.

Even now, you think about calling your mom or calling Thea, and you can’t stomach it. You don’t want to be the fool who messed up again, and you know neither of them would let you feel that way, you do know that. But you still can’t stomach having to talk about everything that’s happened.

You look up at the roof of the cabin when the familiar ache at the back of your throat gets worse, when you realize your vision has gone blurry at the edges. You let yourself cry only once at the villa. You don’t want to be crying, and you certainly don’t want him to see it, but of course he does.

You feel it before you look up—the cabin contracting, his attention shifting from deliberate absence to something still and fixed. When you look over, he’s there, eyes on you, not bothering to look away.

He’s not glaring. He’s not smirking. He’s just sitting there, hands braced on his knees, head slightly lowered, as if he’s waiting for a verdict or maybe for you to say something—but you have nothing to say to him, not right now, not ever in a way that wouldn’t cost you more than you can afford.

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes until you see stars, then look away, back to the window. Nothing out there—just black, the kind that makes you feel like the plane is standing still, like there’s nowhere left to arrive. The hum of the cabin fills in around the edges. You. Him. Whatever it is you’re going to have to figure out how to carry when you land.

He does finally speak, somewhere over Newfoundland, in a tone so flat it could almost be the engine noise.

He says your name. Not Mrs. Not wife. Just your first name, like it’s a code word or a trigger. It floats across the cabin and you can feel it snag deep in your ribs, a sudden, sharp tug. You keep your eyes straight ahead.

“I know I can’t fix what happened in Italy,” he says. His voice is calm—not soft, not kind, just controlled. “But I want to know if you’re coming back to Boston as my partner, or as my hostage.”

You laugh, a sharp, biting sound that comes out before you can stop it. “Was there ever a choice?”

He lets it hang. The cabin is silent but for the white noise of engines and air rushing past aluminum. Quite reluctantly, you look at him. He’s leaned forward in his seat, elbows braced, hands locked tightly together.

“I need you to understand something,” he says, and the rattle of the cart in the galley is the only sign the world is continuing outside of this conversation. “The life we’re going back to is not going to feel like that house.”

“You made that abundantly clear,” you say, “You told me yourself—liminal space, not real life. Isn’t it a relief to get back to the world you designed?”

He doesn’t answer at first. He lets the words pool between you, absorbs them. His stare is unwavering, stripping away the distance between your seats, but it’s not cruel—if anything, it’s the most exposed you’ve seen him outside the night he gave you his mother’s brush.

“No, it’s not a relief,” Andy says finally. “It’s a liability.” He stops. Inhales. “You’re a liability.”

You did not expect those words, and almost lands as an insult, but instead you’re almost proud—finally, something true and ugly, not polished for effect. “I’ll try not to be,” you say with a humorless smile, but the ache in your throat is getting worse, and now it’s not from fatigue.

He sighs, and you hear the edge of human tiredness in him, not the constructed fatigue of someone performing the part. “I know I was ruthless with you. I know what I am.”

The questions of why did you do any of it, then? why take the risk? why force me? why pretend? swirl in you like a storm, but you don’t let any of them out in this moment.

Instead, you venture, “Do you want to know what I hate the most?” You give him a look so sharp you hope it draws blood, but you’re too tired for real malice. “I hate that it was good. I hate that you were better than I expected in ways that made me want things I couldn’t have. I hate that you made me want to stay, and then made it impossible to stay.” You take in a deep breath and then say the worst part. “I hate that I’m heartbroken.”

Andy absorbs this. He doesn’t try to talk you down or walk back the truth you’ve lobbed at him. He just rubs a hand over his bearded jaw, and when it drops away, you see the faint trembling in his fingers.

“I didn’t want it to end that way,” he says at last, staring at the tabletop between you like it might yield the correct answer if he keeps staring. “I thought if I took you far enough away, surrounded us with something perfect, we could…” He searches for the word, but even he doesn’t seem to know what shape to give it. “It doesn’t matter.”

You almost want to ask him what it was supposed to be between you, but what does it matter? How are you supposed to trust any of it?

Andy turns his head, gaze fixed on the oval window, the blue-white arc of the jet’s wing. “I can’t shut it off,” he says after a long beat. “I thought with you, maybe—” He stops. “I wanted to.”

You blink, not sure you heard it right. Maybe he’s angling for sympathy, but the words don’t quite land that way; they’re surrendered, not given.

You almost say, I wanted that, too. But the words feel buried under the weight in your throat. You’ve been in almost this spot with him before, and you won’t give him another soft admission this time.

You remember the reverence in his voice one of those blissful, happy nights in Lake Como, a tone you’d never heard before.

“I like us here,” he’d murmured into your ear.

And you, caught in the spell of it, had admitted, “I do, too.”

“I’ll be in New York for the next week. Maybe two.” Like he’s talking about going out for a carton of milk. “There are things I need to set in order since I’ve been gone.”

Everything inside you wants to spit something cruel, but you just nod, keeping your eyes fixed on the window. “You’ll have Shep and Mark. I’m not leaving you unprotected. But…” he pauses. Sighs, the word dissolving before it’s fully formed. “You can do what you want with the time.” You wonder if he thinks this is a kindness. If he expects gratitude. You say nothing. The silence endures, painful, invasive. He says, “I’ll be out of your way,” again, softer, and this time you almost believe he means it as penance.

You land at Logan airport. The customs officials board the plane and clear you for re-entry. The black Range Rover is waiting on the tarmac, backseat climate-controlled and softly lit, Mark up front, Shep waiting with the rear door open, his posture all respectful deference and zero curiosity.

Andy doesn’t make a show of seeing you to the car. He simply helps load your bag in the trunk and shakes Shep’s hand as if he’s passing along a charge. There’s no hug, no goodbye, but there is one last look. Short, and with a nod. Then he’s on the phone before you’ve finished getting into the back seat, and he’s striding back to climb the stairs into the plane and leave you for New York.

The city’s lights seem surgical after weeks of olive oil and sun, a whole different wavelength—unfamiliar, then familiar, because Boston is still utterly, inescapably home. The perimeter of things you have to face here is coming into focus, and beyond the ache in your ribcage and the hollowing exhaustion, there is a brittle sense that you are braced for it. At least some parts are. The rest is raw and soft and probably always will be.

You expect the house to be cold and dark, but you forgot that Andy’s people would keep the mechanisms of daily life humming and stoke them back to full life for your return. The lights are on, the entry immaculate, flowers everywhere.

The re-entry is a shock to the system. You wander upstairs and stand under the shower’s sterile, even heat, so different from the sun-warmed water at the villa. You let the cold marble chill your feet, a grounding sensation, and watch condensation erase your reflection in the glass.

You are halfway dried off and dressed in a robe when you hear Shep’s voice through the hallway, relaying some detail of tomorrow’s schedule to Mark—something about groceries and deliveries and your standing appointment at the studio. You almost want to cry at the normalcy. The urge to resent Andy for anticipating all your needs, for giving you back this version of your life like it’s a favor is strong, and yet it’s a relief to not have to fight for things to start up again.

You are almost ready to crawl into bed and lose yourself in a marathon of whatever the algorithm serves you, but there’s a knock at your bedroom door. You’re so unused to being summoned that your first thought is that you imagined it. The knock comes again, firmer.

A voice follows: “Ma’am?” It’s Shep.

You cinch the robe, open the door. Shep stands there, hands folded in front of him, gaze respectfully averted.

“Shep, you really can’t keep calling me ‘ma’am.’ You’re, what? Eight? Ten years older than me? It’s weird.”

He gives a short, almost silent laugh. “Forgive me. It’s not a matter of age. It’s just—never first names, not in this line of work.” His words settle with a gentle finality, as if he’s stating one of the few things in his world that is simply not negotiable. You want to argue—tease, even—but there’s a dignity in Shep’s posture that tells you he’s not performing. It’s not subordination, but a kind of personal code. “If you don’t want ma’am, I can use Mrs. Barber, or an equivalent. But never your first name. That’s not respectful.”

You almost smile at this. “Fine,” you say, “ma’am if you absolutely must. But you can drop the tone like you’re addressing the principal.”

He nods, a fraction less rigid. “Understood.” The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely.

“Is this just a courtesy check, or?”

“No, there’s a small matter that needs your attention down in the kitchen.”

“Alright, give me just a moment.”

He nods, and you close the door. You throw on leggings and a cashmere sweater, not bothering with makeup or anything else, and head down the wide staircase, following Shep. “What about a nickname? Like my security detail codename! You have those for us, right? Like the Secret Service?”

“Your codename on the records is ‘Mrs. Barber.’”

“That’s lame,” you huff. “It literally couldn’t be anything more interesting than that?”

Shep’s shoulders hint at a shrug, and the movement smooths out his usual ex-military stony bearing. “He insisted upon it from day one, ma’am, but we all would have. Codenames are for assets, not family. You’re not an asset.”

“I might as well be,” you mutter. But you drop it as Shep steers you into the kitchen, where the lights are bright, the air is flush with the smell of American fast food, and two figures you’d know anywhere are such a profound relief you could weep.

Your parents are standing at the island, your father in his battered Red Sox sweatshirt and your mother wearing a navy cardigan you would have called “teacher-core” if you had the emotional bandwidth for jokes. She’s unpacking a paper bag from Shake Shack, a guilty-pleasure custom sandwich in each hand. Your dad is setting out cartons of fries and the crinkle-cut pickles that only your mother will touch, and both parents look up in the same instant when they see you.

For one sharp, embarrassing second you nearly cry. Not from homesickness, but an animal relief you didn’t realize you’d been holding at bay for weeks. You’re in your own kitchen, your parents are here, and you have never felt so much like a child in your adult life.

Your mother, of course, crosses the kitchen in three steps, gathers you in a hug so tight you hope your ribs pop. She doesn’t let go, not when your dad comes around to add his own arms, both of them holding you in a sandwich of warmth and cheap detergent and fryer grease.

She smells your hair, then cups your jaw with one hand, tilting your face to the light. “You look too thin,” she says, which is her form of ‘I missed you so much it hurts,’ and you almost laugh, because you know you undoubtedly filled out more with all the indulgent meals and sweets that you never worried about at the villa.

“Oh, she’s fine,” your dad says, and then to you, “You look great, kid.” He scuffs your shoulder and draws you in, rolling his eyes at your mother in the way of a man who has built his whole life around loving her, and of course you.

You mumble something about not expecting them, as you step back.

“Did we overstep?” your mom flusters. “Andy texted us yesterday that you were coming home but that he had to go directly out of town for a bit, and he said there’d be nobody here to greet you. I thought—”

“We didn’t want you coming home to an empty house,” your father finishes.

You’re hit with the double impact of their presence—the comfort of being known and the mortification of being inspected by people who will always see more than you want them to.

“You didn’t overstep,” you say, because you realize it’s the closest thing to relief you’ve felt since boarding the plane. “I just. I’m really glad to see you.”

Your mother beams. “You don’t have to thank us, dear. You know we’d walk through fire for you.” She is, as ever, immediately in motion, pulling a chair out and patting it, already unwrapping your sandwich, refilling your water bottle, doggedly ignoring the bags under your eyes and the maternal worry warping every word. “Sit, sit, and tell us everything.”

You sit with them at the kitchen island, because that’s what you’ve always done, and let them fuss and fill your plate and ask questions you are both eager and terrified to answer as you fill your stomach with food that feels like home.

You do not tell your parents about the end of what happened in Italy, but you do tell them every detail of the lake, the food, the neighbors, and Lloyd—your mother wants to know everything, leaning forward on her elbows, and your father sits back with his arms crossed and a look on his face like he can’t quite decide if Lloyd is the funniest thing he’s ever heard or if you’re making him up. You leave out his mafia affiliation, of course.

You focus on what isn’t hard to say: the meals, the wine, the impossible blue of the water, the way Andy cooked from his mother’s recipe book. You skip all the nights of the last week, and edit your time down to just sun and laughter and the gradual narrowing of a world to the shape of the villa.

You let yourself be cared for. With every bite of the familiar food, every casual question about their friends, the tension in your shoulders eases. They are a shelter you didn’t know you were desperate for. You watch them, these people who have nursed you through everything, and know their love could contain the entire ugly truth. But the words won’t come—not about Andy, not about a marriage that feels both forced upon you and chosen, the two truths tangled so tightly you can’t find the start of either one. Especially not now, with damage you haven’t yet found the language for.

When your mother’s phone lights up mid-anecdote with a call from one of her friends, she excuses herself with an apologetic grimace and heads down the hall. You expect her to linger in the mudroom or maybe stand in the foyer, but she vanishes properly, leaving you and your father alone at the island.

He checks to make sure your mother is out of earshot, then sighs and leans in, folding his arms on the stone counter. He’s never been good at letting silence hang, so you brace for the bluntness you know is coming.

He says your name, softly. “Level with me. Are you okay?”

You look at your father, and your first impulse is to say, yes, of course, because you always want to be his strong, brave little girl. But you’re beyond empty, and the real answer is floating so close to the surface.

“No,” you say. “But I will be.”

He tilts his head, studying you, and you recall, with a sick kind of fondness, how your dad has never bought a single lie out of your mouth, not since you were six and inventing elaborate reasons for missing homework. He waits. His face settles into something patient and unguarded, the same expression you remember from every hard conversation you’ve ever had at a kitchen table with this man.

You flex your fingers around your glass, smearing the condensation that’s gathered there, and then you admit, honestly, “I don’t know, Dad.” Your voice comes out calm, steadier than you expected. “This all spun out a little faster than I thought it would.”

He nods slowly, his eyes dropping to the Shake Shack wrappers between you. “Your mother threw a plate at me once.” He says it quietly, picking at a napkin. “1987. We’d been married two years. I’m not telling you marriage is hard—you know that.” He finally looks up, his eyes steady. “I’m just telling you it’s your choice. And if you ever needed to just… come home,” he gestures vaguely at the room around you, “you could. You know that, right?”

You force yourself to nod, not trusting your throat to work around too many words. “I know. I do.”

Your father’s face breaks into a tiny smile, and it’s the only thing that keeps you from falling apart entirely. He squeezes your hand, then clears his throat. “It’s better with a full stomach,” he says, gesturing at the wrappers, “and better with company.”

Your mother returns, phone call over. “You two didn’t finish all the fries, did you?”

You shake your head and say, “Wouldn’t dare.”

Your father passes the rest of his fries to her, and your heart thrums happily watching them.

The evening winds into a tangle of low, sweet moments—your mother gushing over some of the gorgeous kitchen appliances, your dad quietly snooping through the fridge and coming back with four pints of ice cream, and insists you all do blind taste tests until your tongue is numb and you cannot stop laughing.

Eventually the yawns win out, your mother shooing you off the kitchen stool like a child past her bedtime. You protest, but your body sags in grateful relief as she ushers you up the stairs. Your parents gather their things, making you promise to come by theirs Sunday for brunch and any other night you just want company while Andy’s gone.

Back upstairs, you truly internalize that you’ve never been alone like this in this bedroom alone before. It’s the same room, the same balcony view, the same walk-in closet and familiar textures, but no one was waiting, and no one will eventually join you.

Andy is not here. He is not coming—not tonight, not for a week, probably not for longer.

The actuality of it feels weirdly hollow.

You drift through the motions of bedtime. You try to read for a bit, and you’re sure you do, but the words blur and ghost by. Your teeth are brushed, your face is washed; you can’t quite remember doing either. You are so wrung out you can barely cobble together the will to change into pajamas. You settle for underwear and a t-shirt, and sink into the endless white of the sheets.

You fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, and when you surface again, it’s to a spill of midmorning light and an unfamiliar quiet. For a second you forget where you are. The confusion is clean, like you could be anyone and in any life, and you let it last until the dull ache in your chest has time to catch up, and you realize you’re in the bed, alone. You feel oddly rested. Not good, necessarily, but not the emotional hangover you’ve been battling back bit by bit each day, either. It’s as if your body has decided, somewhere deep inside, to metabolize all the heartbreak and embarrassment into a low, manageable hum now that you’re back in Boston.

You rouse yourself and stretch, expecting the sensation of Andy’s hand on your lower back, but there’s only the cool rush of linen and your own skin. You lie there, staring up. The ceiling molds itself around the sunlight in a way that makes you ache for the lake villa, for the slow, gold mornings that rewired you to want gentleness.

You get up, pad across the cold floor, and spend an aimless hour in the shower, letting the spray needle your scalp until your thoughts turn clear. You towel off, dress comfortably, and head for the kitchen, not even bothering with a bra or shoes because this giant house is where you live and you don’t care who sees you here.

After breakfast, you meander into your study, pleased to see your plants were well taken care of in your absence, but after only glancing at the elegant desk with your laptop, you wander back out and head upstairs again.

You settle for the easiest distraction: unpacking. You’d only pulled out a couple of essentials the night before, and the suitcases are still half-zipped and listing open on the bench in the walk-in closet, the contents slumped and jumbled, exactly as you left them in the haze of last night. You unfold a tangle of linen dresses, roll up the last of the swimsuits. The second suitcase ends up containing the soft things you’d loved in Italy and the handful of gifts Andy had forced on you (a silk robe, the ridiculous but beautiful leather boots, the scarf you’re embarrassed you already missed). You’re nearly finished when you see it: a heavy cream envelope, not sealed, with your name written in Andy’s all-caps print.

You pause, thumb knocking the edge, considering whether to open, wait for some future courage, or refuse to read it altogether.

You stand in the middle of the closet, the envelope dense with the weight of what it might contain, and make yourself hold it for a count of ten, the way you once trained yourself to resist the urge to scratch mosquito bites as a child. Then you set it on the bench, hands steady, and back away as if it might be hot to the touch. You busy yourself with the rest of the suitcase, but your eyes keep wandering to the envelope. Eventually, you give in—how could you not—and stalk out of the closet, grab your phone, and hit Andy’s number before you can change your mind.

He answers before the second ring is finished. “I was waiting to see how long it would take,” he says, not quite soft, but without the shield of irony.

You don’t let him steer any further, not this time. “I found your letter,” you say.

There is a half-beat of stillness, then, “You haven’t opened it yet.” Not a question. A reading of you, as accurate as it is infuriating.

“No.” You squeeze the phone tighter, shift your weight from one foot to the other. “I hate you for knowing that.” You mean it to land with more weight, but it sounds raw.

“I figured you’d start with a text,” he replies, “but this is better.”

You close your eyes and force yourself to inhale, to let the silence expand before finally finding the words you want. “I can’t believe you wrote me a letter,” you tell him, and now the irritation has a shape and a target. “You don’t get to be Mr. Darcy. You don’t get to drop all this on a page.”

Andy lets out a short, breathy laugh. “I’m not pretending to be noble or romantic, or whatever you want to call it. I wrote it because I thought… I thought it might be easier for you to hear without having to look at me. Or fight me. Or argue.” A pause. “And maybe as a showing that I heard you and that you can read it in your own time. Or you don’t have to read it at all. It’s your choice.”

You want to hang up, to tell him that nothing on a page can fix the fact that you’re speaking only because of a letter he left for you to find, like some reverse land mine meant to detonate all of your resolve. But you don’t hang up.

“I might read it,” you say. You sit on the edge of the bed, the phone pressed to your ear. You don’t look at the envelope. “But since you might be listening, I’ll say this: I don’t care what you wrote. I need you to know it’s not about the letter. It’s about whether I can trust you to give me a real choice. A real relationship. Ever.”

Andy’s breathing is barely audible. “I know,” he says.

“I’m going to hang up now,” you tell him.

“Okay.” The word is a soft exhalation. Then he says your name, and you wait another moment before ending the call. “If you ever want to talk, I’ll always answer. No matter what.”

For those of you who were hurt/betrayed/livid after last chapter: I want you to know Andy doesn't get a quick fix overnight. I promise.

For better or for worse, because of how things combusted between them in Italy, our reader is going to be more assertive, more resistant, and hold her boundaries and demands more firmly. She still holds complicated feelings for him, but the feelings won't excuse or circumvent things anymore.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Instead, you venture, “Do you want to know what I hate the most?” You give him a look so sharp you hope it draws blood, but you’re too tired for real malice. “I hate that it was good. I hate that you were better than I expected in ways that made me want things I couldn’t have. I hate that you made me want to stay, and then made it impossible to stay.” You take in a deep breath and then say the worst part. “I hate that I’m heartbroken.”

Okay. First, I loved her parents showing up. And her dad knowing things weren’t all peachy. I think she really needed to be comforted in that way and seen by someone other than Andy.

I’m glad Reader is more steely and guarded now, and also that we see some remorse in Andy, but just like Reader, I don’t actually trust him or it or that it all won’t flip on its head eventually. It’s kind of ironic in a really sad way—I imagine because of Andy’s life and profession, absolute trust would be so important to him, and yet he keeps fucking it up with the person he seems to care about and want most. He needs a good, long period of groveling 😤

I imagine because of Andy’s life and profession, absolute trust would be so important to him, and yet he keeps fucking it up with the person he seems to care about and want most.

This fall out is the jolt he needed to grasp the reality of the situation one hundred percent. I told you it's what shakes things into reality for our Reader, but even more for Andy. He'd been rationalizing things away, trying to make up for things, never fully acknowledging, and now that he went from highest high to lowest low, he's every bit eyes wide open now. And we'll see evidence of that, but obviously with more ground for him to have to make up, if he will be able to at all. (Well, at least mostly eyes wide open - he's still got a lot of shit do deal with in himself.)

But Andy? Even in this chapter... He knows you need space, so he exiles himself to New York. He didn't tell your parents things went to shit, but he did tell them you were coming home but that he'd be going to New York and didn't want you to be alone and who better to see & keep her company. He told his people to fill the home with flowers for your return. He does know you and what you need, he just needs to stop being domineering about it and do it more like this. Self-exile to New York? Not the best way/that's as much for him to skulk away with "a good reason" (business) as it is to give you space. But the other things were good.

And I hate to say it, because it's absolutely NOT to torture you and anyone else reading, but we won't find out what was in that letter in the next chapter. It's actually nothing to do with drawing out the suspense in not knowing but absolutely to give our Reader that time and space to NOT read it/to refuse to read it and narratively to give more distance from the drop of the letter to anything he's said in it potentially giving him any grace. I don't want to give him the shift in our perception of him that soon.

And I love this reader too much to just magic everything to good. They've fought a lot or the small amounts of vulnerability and trust and affection and gaining ground in their relationship, those elements that took them into the honeymoon, and I don't want to cheapen that. Those were earned, and any potential redemption/reconciliation must be, too.

Log Date 53499Willow5

Subjects stabilizing companionship. No outbursts or conflicts observed. Biometric data balanced with signs of pheromonal compatibility. No mating behaviors. Further enrichment introduced to enclosure.

You stare at Kurt. Your eyes narrow. There’s no way. He can’t.

“Do you have any fives?”

“Goddamnit,” you huff under your breath, handing the cards over the table.

A small smirk quirks at his lips before vanishing—smug asshole. He’s wiping the floor with you. You can never win. Not checkers, not hangman, not go fish. He’s good at every game you come up with.

“Don’t pout like that,” he gruffs, tucking the cards into his hand and putting all four on the table in a pile. “You’re cute. It doesn’t suit you.”

You swallow. Shifting in your seat, you shuffle the cards in your hands. Trying to focus on the numbers. Not the way his comment plucks at something longing inside you. The next one you need to make a set—that’s what matters. Your eyes flick up to Kurt, his attention solely on you. His brow quirks.

“Do you have any sevens?” you ask.

Before he can respond, a loud bang rattles the window. You jump.

A creature stands outside, their voice garbled as they gesture with long appendages. Their teeth gnash with saliva. All the while, they continue to pound on the glass.

Your eyes dart over the surface, sure the force will be enough to cause cracks. Your pulse pounds in your ears, in time with each strike. You start to lean away, bracing for the moment when the alien will break through.

Kurt’s cards scatter over the table. His solid form shielding you as he steps in front. Widening his stance, his arms hang at his sides. His fists clench and unclench readying for action. Yet you still peek around him.

“I hope he doesn’t try to get one,” you mutter under your breath.

“What?” Kurt’s asks, glancing over his shoulder with a bewildered pinch to his expression.

The keeper door hisses open. Virion glides into your habitat, their hand gesturing for calm. Your alien walks toward the window as others of their kind intervene without.

Are you alright?

“We’re fine,” you direct toward Virion as they stand between you both and the scene outside. “Are they going to be able to, you know?”

Kurt shoots you another searching look, his brow furrowed.

Virion’s head swings from one side to the other. You breathe in relief. Your head nods in acknowledgment. The thought of some human unknowingly sent to live with that kind of…fervor. A shudder quakes down your spine.

Virion approaches. Their hand lifting. And you just know that they aim to place it upon your head and stroke over your hair. To offer comfort.

But before they can get too close, Kurt blocks the way. “You can leave.”

Virion stops short, staring down at Kurt with an indecipherable expression. Cool and calm ever present but rigid. Their gaze finds you, still seated at your table. Cards flicking and shuffling in your hands.

Does he speak for you?

They blink slow as they wait for your response. Hand cradled against their chest, ready to extend once again for the contact you expect.

You drop the cards, stand, and tug on Kurt. He steps aside. His jaw tics, a heavy breath flaring his nostrils. He doesn’t step far. His shoulder stays in your way.

“They probably need to make sure we’re calm now,” you say under your breath to him. “Let them perform their checks and then they can go. They’re just doing their job.”

“Yeah,” he huffs in response, arms crossing over his chest and bulging his muscles. A quick look cast over his shoulder toward you. “Keeping us here. Making us a spectacle.” His eyes narrow in a glare. “They’re not fucking touching me.”

Your lips part. Not for breath but in searching for something more to say. Any placation for Kurt gone with an exhale. You’re blank.

May I inspect you?

You turn your gaze back to Virion. Your alien holds out their hand.

Kurt growls in the back of his throat. A grumbling comment he spits out, “it would be better if they just left us alone.”

You hesitate with that statement, mulling it over in your mind. Would it? Without the interaction with Virion, would it be better?

You skirt around the man who would be your protector. Strong resolve in the answer formed in your mind—no.

Your hand finds Virion’s. They guide you a distance away, toward the glass. Kurt stays planted in place, glower affixed just as firmly.

Have you told him about our connection?

Their hand lifts to your head. A brush of it over your hair. A cooed praise that rolls in their throat. Chirps and chittering words follow. You don’t think you’ll ever understand them. Though you find you don’t mind. Your head shakes back and forth in response. Their gaze brightens.

We would like to perform an attachment test soon. Would you be willing to comply?

“What’re they saying?” Kurt asks with a huff.

You ignore both. Thoughts snagging on the phrasing—attachment test. Attachment to whom?

You nod regardless. Trepidation pulses in your chest. Virion won’t go far. They’ll come back eventually. It’s just a test. Or maybe Kurt? You wouldn’t want to be here alone. Not again. It’s been so nice to have constant company—no matter how surly he may be.

Three cycles. Will that be enough time?

Your lips part without an answer. Because what does that mean? Three days for what? The test? To prepare? Though Virion has never been very transparent with explanations, questions buzz through your head. But then they coo something soft, a treat offered in their fingers.

You accept. Mouth full as you reply, “I guess.”

“How do you know what they’re saying?” Kurt calls over, his eyes narrowed and flashing between the two of you. “They teach you their language?”

“Not exactly,” you reply with a hum, glancing toward him in your periphery. “It’s like—”

Stop.

You trip over the thought. Virion chitters something, tilting your head back toward them.

He will not understand.

“What’s happening?” Kurt asks, finally making his move. His hand wraps around your wrist, a tug drawing you away from your keeper. “What’re they doing?” His voice drops low, only for you to hear.

You can’t figure out what to say. How to explain with Virion on one side and Kurt on the other.

Your brow tilts. Kurt’s glare landing solely on your alien. His lips lifting in distaste.

Kurt’s teeth click. “You done here?” The subtlest of shifts placing him between you and Virion.

Virion’s eyes narrow. The closest you’ve ever seen a reaction akin to outright displeasure. They step back and retreat toward the door without another glance.

“Why do you act like that?” you ask, letting space fill between you and Kurt. “They’ve only ever been kind to me.”

“Except for kidnapping you and placing you in their zoo, you mean?” Kurt bites back. “I don’t trust them.”

A flare of irritation fills you with fiery heat. It licks at your belly as you retort, “well, what else do we have?” You gesture to the enclosure around you. “There’s no way out. We’re here whether we like it or not. We might as well make the best of it.”

Kurt doesn’t respond. The sharpness of his stare cutting as he sizes you up in a new light. He huffs and turns, leaving you to wander through the trees of your space. Lost among the branches until you’re alone.

You turn back toward the window. The crowd gathers without. You sit and watch them pass, tears blurring your vision.

Next Part

A creature stands outside, their voice garbled as they gesture with long appendages. Their teeth gnash with saliva. All the while, they continue to pound on the glass.

TRULY alarming. Initial pounding, yes, startling, but this !!! And I will say that despite a softening of my attitude to Kurt because Curtis, I think this, Kurt's shielding also after the little almost flirty moment of him calling us cute would have had me changing my mind. I was almost considering it last chapter, but these are each significant in their own right.

And specifically with the games?

This is something I'm constantly in awe at with how you're rationing out the narrative of this story with us, and the game scene is a prime example. These segments are succinct, but you're dispensing them with this insane architectural precision! Giving just enough to convey what you want, but allllllways leaving us wanting more in a good way. (Painful, but good.) The fact that they're playing games, and it's been many games - different games, and we gather probably many of each - means that they're enjoying the time doing so. We've seen Kurt be impatient and taciturn, so the fact that he's so willing/at ease playing, and you haven't imbued any impatience here really shows us without telling us where they are, and you're just BLOODY BRILLIANT for it.

I hope you know that.

It's so clear you're being very intentional with this story, and your efforts are appreciated.

Now this whole Kurt and you and Virion moment is verrrrry intriguing. I'm so

jfaoj;oadsj

There's just an intimacy that was developed there between Virion and this human. There are still questions I have about their initial encounters (in a good way) and so much more that I crave for/from them (in a good way).

And I'll just flounce/huff away now, finally experiencing this as everyone else is now. I was too spoiled in getting to read so many chapters in succession without having to wait, and now that is my blessed curse.

Like so often when he watched you, a soft smile curled Ransom’s lips, his gaze becoming less sleepy and more curious as it shifted from you to the breakfast tray sat before him. 

It was littered with a variety of things: a loaf of bread, a glass of water, the coffee machine but no actual coffee, a jar of peanut butter, and a big sharable bag of M&Ms. And then surrounding all of these items was a decorative border of freshly picked flowers–and a few weeds, too–from the back garden.

It clicked for Ransom instantly, the way you had obviously latched on to the concept of breakfast in bed from the movie you guys had watched the other night. It was also obvious–and sweetly so–that you didn’t quite get it.

Which only made him smile wider as he bit back a laugh. 

“Thank you, kitten, I love it.”

“Really?” you asked hopefully, rocking back and forth on your feet as you watched him. 

“Really, the only thing that would make it better is if you got your cute butt back here in bed beside me so I can share all these goodies with you.”

“Okay!” you chirped, scrambling to return to bed and happily situating beneath his arm as he curled it over your shoulder. 

Still grinning, Ransom reached for the bag of M&Ms, popping it open and offering it to you. 

You eyed the sweets with interest, but hesitated, your warm gaze returning to Ransom before you leaned in and pressed a sweet kiss to his lips.

“Good morning,” you murmured, brushing your nose with his and making a happy sound as Ransom leaned in this time to give you a kiss.

“Very good morning,” he purred, giving your shoulder a squeeze before rattling the bag of candy at you.

He watched in amusement as you picked out your favorite color only before settling back to eat them, and of course sipping on some water at his encouragement as you two shared your very first breakfast in bed together.

A few weeks later, you experienced another first with Ransom.

Receiving a real gift, for the first time ever. 

He seemed more excited than usual as he returned from running a few errands in town, beelining to where you were keeping Ruby company in the kitchen as she prepped dinner. Ransom took your hand and pulled you away and into the living room, so it was just the two of you. 

“I have something for you,” he smiled, tugging you down beside him on the sofa before placing a flat square box in your lap. 

It was royal blue and tied shut with a silver ribbon that was arranged in a beautiful bow on top. You touched it carefully–reverently–before your soft, shy gaze flickered up to meet Ransom’s. 

“For me?”

He nodded. 

“Why?”

It was foreign to you, the concept of gifts. For so long, you had never had very many material possessions at all, let alone anything nice or special.

“Just because,” Ransom murmured, nodding to the box. “Go on, kitten, open it.”

You were so very careful as you untied the ribbon from the box, setting it aside and already planning to keep and cherish it forever. You lifted the lid and gasped at what you found inside–the most beautiful necklace you had ever seen. 

It was a flat, circular pendant with a dandelion engraved on it, and realizing what the image was had your eyes filling with happy tears as you remembered that day in the meadow with Ransom–your picnic and picking dandelions together. 

It was a moment that had felt so magical and special to you, and now this gift confirmed that it was something that Ransom held close to his heart too, and that made you nearly vibrate with joy. 

“You’re my wish come true,” you echoed your words from that day as you smiled over at Ransom, leaning against him and nuzzling his arm as he kissed the crown of your head.

You returned your gaze to the necklace, gingerly tracing around the pendant as you gazed at it and whispered an awe-filled, “So pretty!”

“You’re pretty,” Ransom murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Can I put it on you?”

“Yes please!” You sat up like a shot, bouncing in your seat and making Ransom laugh. 

“Here, turn that way a little,” he encouraged you to put your back to him as he scooped up the box and removed the necklace. 

He was careful as he put it on you, pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck. 

“Let me see.” 

You turned to him, smiling big and ecstatic as he observed your new accessory with satisfaction. 

“It’s perfect.” His eyes lifted to yours, so warm and soft as he said, “And so are you.”

Bouncing forward, you kissed him, petting his hair before pulling away and jumping to your feet. Ransom called after you as you scurried into the entryway, pausing before the huge antique mirror propped against the wall and nearly crying as you admired the pretty necklace sitting against the top of your chest. 

The only thing that made it more beautiful was when Ransom appeared behind you, looking amused, his eyes so bright and tender as he came up behind you and wrapped you in his arms. 

“You’re such a sweetheart,” he hummed as you immediately sank back against him, enjoying his embrace.

“Always want to see it,” you whispered, your gaze returning to the mirror–to your necklace–as you gently touched the pendant.

Ransom perked up at that, grinning as he said, “I have an idea. Come here.” 

He took your hand, chuckling as you pouted to be pulled away from staring at your new gift. He led you back into the living room, to the sofa, digging his cell phone from his back pocket before sitting down and pulling you down beside him, so close you were nearly in his lap. 

“Here, we’ll take your very first selfie,” he smiled at you, curling his arm around your shoulders, and tugging you close. 

You watched, confused, as Ransom fiddled with his phone before holding out in front of you both. And when he pressed his smooth cheek to yours, you hummed your content, glancing over at him with soft eyes as you heard a strange clicking sound. 

“We can take a few,” he muttered, readjusting how he held his phone.

When he leaned in close again, you got distracted, nuzzling into him like a kitten seeking affection, oblivious to the shutter sound of his phone camera going off a few times.

And hours later, that night in bed, once you were fast asleep and curled close to Ransom’s side, he scooped up his phone–still wide awake–and scrolled to his camera roll. 

To those selfies with you. 

As he swiped through each one, he felt himself melt more and more, because in every single photo, you were just gazing over at him in adoration. A little awe, too.

It was right there before his very eyes, how much you cared about him, like no one else ever had before, and it made something unfamiliar rise up in him. Something that had his eyes stinging and a lump swelling in his throat. Something that had this light, fluttery feeling he had never felt before invade his chest.

It had Ransom setting his phone aside and sinking down in bed beside you, curling up as close as possible so he could watch you sleep–looking so pretty and at peace–as he whispered, “You’re my wish come true, too” before kissing your forehead and holding you close.

You frowned from your spot curled up on the sofa, watching as Ransom paced across the living room. He seemed both anxious and excited as he stalked back and forth, muttering to himself.

He stopped suddenly, turning to you, his next words more for him than you. “It will be fine. He’ll just be here for the day. It will be good to see him. It’s not a big deal.”

You nodded tentatively, mustering a smile despite the way your belly fluttered with nerves. 

Because today you were meeting Ransom’s cousin. He was traveling out to the manor, and from what you understood, he lived far away, in the same city where Ransom used to live before being sent here. 

Ransom perked up, lips tilting at the sides, “And it will be so good for you! My cousin is a tech genius and low key hacker and was able to get a bunch of essential paperwork created for you. So now you’ll have an official birth certificate and social security card and passport, all the things you need or may ever need, you know?”

You nodded again, unsure of what any of that stuff was, but if Ransom said it was good, you believed him. “Thank you!”

As if on cue, the doorbell chimed, announcing the arrival of Ransom’s guest. 

“Come on!” he held out a hand to you, grasping it gently as you hopped to your feet and hurried to the front door alongside him. 

When Ransom opened the door, the smile froze on his face, his shoulders hunching as he spied not one familiar figure, but two.

“I cannot believe you were exiled to the fucking middle of nowhere,” Bryce laughed before his gaze flickered to you and widened. “Well, well, well, what do we have here?” He shoved his way inside, slapping Ransom’s chest as he gave you a wide, wicked grin. “Of course if anyone could bag some play in the middle of nowhere, it’s you.”

You didn’t understand half of what the stranger said, but the way he was looking at you made you feel scared, and you curled in on yourself as you retreated to hide behind Ransom. 

“Hey!” Ransom snapped. “Lay off, Bryce, don’t be a dick.”

“Geez, is that any way to greet your best friend after months away?”

Sneering, Ransom turned his attention to the second stranger still standing on the doorstep, his cousin who was aiming an apologetic smile Ransom’s way. “Jake. What the fuck?”

“Sorry,” Jake cringed, broad shoulders lifting to his ears. “He kind of just…wouldn’t take no for an answer after I mentioned coming out here to see you.”

Rolling his eyes with a huff, Ransom stood back, gesturing Jake inside. He took a deep breath, trying to shake off the unpleasant surprise before reaching for you and tugging you close. 

“Kitten, this is my cousin, Jake Jensen,” the big blonde with the kind eyes waved at you with a friendly smile that you hesitantly returned, “and this is Bryce.”

“Langley,” Bryce purred, touching his tongue to his teeth as he gave you a shameless onceover. “What’s your name, kitten?”

“Don’t fucking call her that,” Ransom snarled as you quietly whispered your name.

You felt on edge now, seeing Ransom so worked up all of the sudden, and also because Bryce was making you extremely uncomfortable even though you didn’t quite know why.

“Dude, chill, I thought you’d be happy to see us, damn.”

“So uh,” Jake stepped forward, nudging Bryce out of the way as he kept his tone light, trying to break the tension. “Here’s all of her documents. I fabricated everything she could possibly need.” He handed a large, brown envelope over to Ransom, keeping a second one for himself. He held it up, “And there’s a bunch of legal paperwork for us to go over and sign to move the app along to the next phase.”

At that, Ransom straightened, looking genuinely excited, which had you perking up, too. 

“What’s an app?” you asked curiously before you could stop yourself.

Bryce snorted, disbelieving as he gaped at you. “Who doesn’t know what a fucking app is? I know we’re in the country, but I didn’t realize we went back in time.”

You wilted at his mocking tone, but then Jake shifted to block Bryce from your view, his smile warm and encouraging as he explained,  “It’s like a program you can use on your cell phone or other devices to access various softwares or games or the like. We’re calling ours DIYbrary and it’s this really awesome one stop shop for all the DIY media that you could ever need. But instead of needing to go to Pinterest and YouTube and Google, you can find it all in one place!”

You understood nearly none of what Jake had just said, but he seemed so happy and enthusiastic about it that you smiled excitedly along with him as you said, “Wow!”

Watching you with an amused smile, Ransom touched your back, earning your gaze. “DIY means ‘do it yourself,’ so it’s kind of like an online place that will host all of this educational media–like tutorial videos and write ups–of how to do different things. Like cooking, crafting, gardening, pet care, all kinds of stuff.”

Better understanding what they were talking about–and how amazing it sounded–you hugged Ransom’s arm as you gazed up at him with big eyes. “And you made that?”

“We all did,” Ransom shrugged, his cheeks going rosy under your soft admiring gaze, as he gestured to the other two. 

“Eh, speak for yourself,” Bryce scoffed, moving further into the manor and gazing around with interest. “I was more there for moral support or whatever, but I’ll cash in on it anyway.”

You caught the way Jake’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched as he glared at Bryce, gripping the envelope of legal paperwork in his hand even tighter before he felt your gaze. He straightened, the hardness in his eyes fading away into something curious and knowing as he watched you, then Ransom, before a small smile tilted his lips.

“So, how about we get the boring paperwork out of the way?” he suggested. “Then we can catch up,” he told Ransom. “And get to know each other better,” he said to you. 

You perked up at that, your smile tentative. “Like, friends?”

“Yeah,” Jake murmured. “Like friends.”

You didn’t have many of those, but you had some, more now than ever before. You bounced excitedly on your feet as you told Jake, “Ruby and Savannah are my friends! Now you can be my friend, too!”

“Cool, I’d love to be your friend,” Jake replied earnestly. 

He shared a soft smile with Ransom before the latter turned to you and gave your back a rub before speaking to Jake.

“We can sit in the dining room. We have a whole lunch spread being set up on the back patio, so we can head out there after.”

He gestured to the doorway leading into the dining room, waiting for Jake and Bryce to go through before turning to you. 

“You can come sit with us if you want, or you can go help Ruby with setting up lunch, or just go hang out, whatever you want. I don’t want to force you to stick with me if you’ll be bored and uncomfortable.”

“I can go with Ruby?” you perked up at that idea. “You won’t be mad?”

“No, of course not,” Ransom smoothed a hand over your head. “I know it’s a lot, having new people around, and Bryce is just…”

“Mean,” you whispered. “He has mean eyes.”

Ransom grimaced. “Yeah, he’s…a lot. I’m sorry, I didn’t invite him, but he tends to just do what he wants anyway.” 

Wanting more than anything to smooth the furrow from Ransom’s brow, you chirped, “Jake is nice!”

“He is, he’s a good guy, that’s why I didn’t mind you meeting him.” Sighing, Ransom said, “Why don’t you go sit with Ruby?”

“Okay,” you nodded, eyes fluttering as Ransom ducked near and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. 

“They’ll only be here for a few hours, okay?”

“Okay.”

Despite knowing Ransom had to step away for a while, you pressed against him, sinking into his embrace as he held you for a moment, snuffling along your shoulder. 

“Dude,” Bryce scoffed from the doorway. “You coming or what?”

Stiffening, Ransom gave your back a rub before shooting you a small smile, then turning toward the dining room. 

You watched him go with a frown, shuddering as Bryce caught your gaze and shot you a wink before being shoved out of sight by Ransom. 

Jake rifled through the stack of legal paperwork, organizing it as Ransom and Bryce sat at the table on either side of him. 

Bryce smirked at Ransom, leaning across the table as he drawled, “So did they cut off your balls before they shipped you out here, too?” Laughing at Ransom’s irritated look, Bryce went on, “I’ve never seen you acting like such a fucking dope over some pussy.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Ransom growled.

“Wow, you have it bad, huh?” Bryce snorted, crossing his arms and slouching back in his seat. “Never thought I’d see the day that Hugh Ransom Drysdale would be tamed.”

“Shut up, Bryce,” Jake interrupted, shoving some papers his way, and a pen along with them. “Sign or initial anywhere there’s a little sticky arrow.”

Rolling his eyes, Bryce didn’t bother to read any of the fine print before him, just started to scribble his signature as needed to get it over with. 

Jake turned to Ransom, setting papers and pen before him now too. “Same deal for you.” He hesitated before leaning close, keeping his voice low as he met Ransom’s wary gaze. “She seems really sweet. I’m glad I could help and…I’m happy for you, Ransom.”

Ransom’s face softened, but he didn't say anything, focusing his attention on the paperwork before him as he started to review it all. 

Still smiling, Jake turned his attention to his own stack of contracts and legalese.   

Ransom and Jake had barely started when Bryce scribbled his final signature with a flourish before shoving the paperwork away and rising to his feet. “Where’s the bathroom? I gotta take a leak.”

“Through that doorway then down the end of the hall,” Ransom pointed without looking up. 

“Be right back,” Bryce hummed, smiling to himself–in a devious way–as he sauntered from the room and out of sight.

You turned off the bathroom faucet and dried your hands on the soft towel, pausing as you caught sight of yourself in the mirror, and specifically your dandelion necklace.

Grinning you leaned in closer to the mirror, touching the pretty pendant for a second before straightening, because you had things to do! Fun things! 

You were excited to help Ruby set up the table on the patio. You loved making the spreads so pretty and inviting, and the yummy food was your favorite, too. 

Opening the bathroom door, you gave a squeak when you found Bryce waiting on the other side. You got a glimpse of his devious smirk before he was pressing so close that you stumbled away from him and back into the bathroom. 

He followed you, shutting the door behind him before pressing you up against the bathroom counter and grinning at your startled look. 

“God, look at you, you have sweet good girl coming off of you in waves.” He hummed, his gaze slowly drifting down the length of you. 

When he reached out and tugged on the hem of your dress, fingers grazing your bare thigh, you shied away, shoulders hunching as your eyes burned with tears and your heart hammered in your chest.

You hadn’t felt this scared and unsafe since the last time you had been in the shed with your poppy, but this was different, too. Something about the way Bryce was looking at you made you feel dirty.

When his fingers touched your bare skin again, trailing higher, you jolted, trying to turn away with a quavered, “No, please.” 

But you had nowhere to go in the tight space, and certainly not with Bryce looming so close, his tall frame brushing up against you as you hugged yourself and tried not to cry.

“Has Ransom fucked you yet?” Bryce asked, grinning when you trembled harder and sniffled. “Yeah, of course he has. Who could resist such a sweet, innocent temptation? Especially when he has fuck all to do out here.”

“Want to leave now,” you trembled bravely, eyes flickering up to Bryce’s, fear zipping up your spine at the malice glittering in his gaze. 

He ignored your request, resting his hands on the counter on either side of you, trapping you before him as he leaned in close. 

“You know Ran and I have shared women before, maybe he’ll share you with me, too.”

You shook your head, then whimpered when Bryce suddenly grabbed your chin, his grip harsh and painful as he tipped your face back and leaned in so close his nose brushed yours. 

“I bet you’d cry so pretty taking two cocks at once, kitten.”

He turned your face to the side, leaning in to drag his nose along your cheek before he pressed a kiss to your skin. His mouth brushed your ear as he whispered, “I’ve known Ransom practically his whole life, and you’re one in a very long line of fuck ‘em and chuck ems.” 

Bryce turned your tearful eyes back his way, smirking when he saw his meaning register in your hurt gaze. “It’s just a matter of time before Ransom gets bored with you and leaves you, too.” He shifted closer, pressing his hips against you, and you gasped as you felt his hardness twitch against your belly. “But if you’re nice to me, show me what a good girl you can be, maybe I’ll keep you company once he’s gone and you’re all alone.”

You shook your head, both at Bryce’s lewd offer, and the thought of Ransom leaving you–of being all alone. Again.

Your tears finally spilled over, and Bryce laughed meanly, shoving away from you before slipping out of the bathroom and leaving you there to tremble and cry as you sank back against the counter, shaken. 

Ransom frowned as he found the dinner table set for two, but you completely MIA. 

He didn’t think it too odd that you didn’t join him, Jake, and Bryce for lunch, because he could tell you were uncomfortable by their visit. He figured you were off hiding away upstairs until they were gone.

And now they were and had been for a while, but Ransom hadn’t seen hide nor hair of you in hours.

Calling your name, he jogged upstairs, heading toward his bedroom and feeling his chest tighten when you weren’t in there either. 

“Kitten!” Turning on his heel, Ransom rushed down the hall and toward the guestroom you had stayed in those first couple of weeks but hadn’t occupied in months, not since you had started to spend your nights in his bed. 

The room was just as untouched as ever, but as he turned to leave, he heard a muffled sound coming from the closet. 

He hurried to the door and pulled it open, his stomach sinking as he found you curled up on the floor, hugging one of his sweaters, your eyes rimmed red from crying. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Ransom asked, sinking to his knees before you. “What happened?”

“Don’t leave, please!” you wobbled, reaching for him and clinging to him desperately as you babbled and hiccupped, “I’ll be good! I’ll be smarter and better! Please. Please, Ransom! Don’t leave me all alone!”

“Hey, I am not leaving you,” Ransom promised, gathering you close and hugging you tight.

“Promise!” you begged, holding up your trembling pinky. 

“I promise,” Ransom said, fixing you with a very serious look as he gently hooked his pinky around yours and gave it a shake. 

Rather than reassure you, his promise only seemed to distress you more, and Ransom could only watch–completely at a loss–as your face crumpled, and you sank against him, clutching onto him for dear life as you cried harder than before.

Ohhhhh, this sweet, traumatized bean. Stupid, gross Bryce!!!! It was only a matter of time before the outside world worked its way into their lil bubble 😭

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