ClassyBroad

His weight pins you into the mattress, thick fingers already buried deep, deep inside your soaked, velvety cunt, stretching you around them in a firm constant motion.

His forearm flexes as he pumps and pumps them in and out with a wet, filthy rhythm, thumb pressing into your little nub and knuckles brushing onto that sweet, sensitive spot that makes your thighs jerk over and over again.

"Shhh, babygirl," Joel murmurs, voice low. "Daddy's got you. Daddy's got his baby. Just let it happen, honey."

You're already crying—soft, small hiccuping sobs that shake in your chest—because it's too much, too fast, too overstimulating for your poor little cunt, and you've never ever felt anything like this. 

Oh and Joel knows you've never felt this way before. 

Your hands can only push weakly at his shoulders, and he won't move. Solid, immovable, pinning you completely under him, every ounce of his strength focused on squeezing another orgasm out of you.

"Daddy—please, I-I think I'm gonna—" Your voice cracks as fresh tears slip down your temples. The pressure in your belly is so unbearable, a hot, insistent throb that presses and presses. "I'm gonna pee, I can't—"

Joel's free hand slides up, palm broad and calloused, and presses firmly right below your belly button. The heel of it sinks into the soft flesh of your tummy, and the sensation makes your whole body jolt against him. 

"S'okey, baby. You ain't gonna pee. That's not what's happenin'." He places a kiss on your forehead. "You're gonna squirt for Daddy, that's all. My messy girl just needs a little help."

His fingers curl again, scissoring them inside you, and the wet sound is obscene—slick, squelching, constant. Your thighs tremble around his wrist, trying to close, but he's wedged between them, hips braced wide so you can't escape the relentless drag of his knuckles. 

Every thrust and rub makes your clit throb oversensitive, swollen and aching, you can feel how puffy your folds are, how they cling to his fingers on every pull.

"T-too much," you whimper, voice breaking. Fresh tears spill, hot, salty, melting into your hair. "Daddy, please, I can't—"

He hushes you again, leaning down so his beard brushes your cheek, breath warm against your ear. 

"You can, honey. You're doin' so good for me." He murmurs, his free hand going behind your head and making you look at his fingers disappearing in your hole. "Pretty cunt takin' my fingers like it was made for 'em. So tight, so wet—fuck, listen to you." 

He punctuates the words with a particularly deep, hard thrust, and a gush of slick spills out around his knuckles, soaking the sheet beneath you.

"Oh—" you gasp, your hands fist into his flannel shirt, tugging, but it's useless. 

He's too damn heavy, too solid, and he knows it.

The knowledge sits in his pretty brown eyes when he pulls back just enough to watch your face; dark, patient, maybe a little amused.

"Push all you want, babygirl. Ain't movin' till you give it to me."

The pressure crests then again, sharper this time, and your back arches hard off of the bed. 

Joel's hand on your tummy presses down firmer and firmer, pinning you, making the overstimulation worse. The combination—his fingers stroking that spongy spot inside you, the weight of his palm, his body lying on top of you—snaps something loose.

"There she goes."

You sob his name as it hits, a sudden, violent rush that sprays out around his fingers in a hot, messy arc. It soaks the sheets, splashes up his wrist, wets his pants and keeps coming and coming in pulsing, squelching waves while your cunt clenches desperately around him. 

Joel groans low in his chest, the sound filthy and approving. "There it is. That's my girl. Look how much you had in ya, so messy." 

But he doesn't stop. 

His fingers keep moving, slower now but still deep, working you through every aftershock until you're a twitching and whimpering mess. 

The overstimulation burns, sharp and electric, every nerve raw and singing. You try to twist away but his body  keeps you caged, your hips shifting just enough to grind the heel of his palm against your clit on every stroke.

"Shhh, I know," he soothes. "Daddy's too strong for you, ain't he? Can't get away even if you wanted to. And you don't really want to, do you? Feels too good, havin' your old man ruin that pretty pussy."

Your answer is a broken moan, hips jerking helplessly as another smaller gush leaks out around his fingers. 

Joel chuckles, low and warm, finally easing his hand free. 

Your cunt flutters around nothing, empty, aching,  slick dripping down the cleft of your ass to join the wet patch beneath you.

He shifts his weight then, one knee nudging your thigh wider, and the blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance suddenly. 

He's thick, hot, the ridge catching on your swollen folds as he rocks forwards just enough to tease. 

You shake your head immediately, a whine of protest leaving your lips. "S'too much, daddy..."

"S'okey, honey. You're okay. We're gonna do that again," he murmurs, and your stomach flips. "But this time, i'm gonna fuck it out of you. Fill you up all nice and slow, and make you squirt on my cock, over and over till you can't think straight. Ya hear me, sweet girl?"

You can't do anything but nod, tears still clinging to your lashes, body trembling under him. 

This overstimulation in your body has you floaty, every sensation now amplified: the drag of his cockhead through your slick, the way his chest hair rasps against your nipples when he leans down, the steady press of his hand still splayed across your tummy because he owns it.

Joel pushes in slow, the stretch burning sweet  and so, so deep, making your walls flutter around him, still so sensitive from the earlier release. 

He groans when he bottoms out, hips flush to yours, and stays there for a moment, rubbing your little clit, letting you feel every inch. 

"Theere we go, just take me. You're so tight, honey." he breathes. "Even after all that, still squeezin' me like you don't wanna let go."

When he starts to move—it's long, deliberate strokes that grind against every oversensitive spot inside you. 

Each thrust punches little gasps and pitiful whimpers from your throat, and the wet sound of your cunt taking him is louder now, slick and messy from everything he's already pulled out of you. 

His hand stays on your belly, thumb stroking soothing circles even as his hips snap harder, driving you up the bed.

"Gonna make you squirt again," he promises, voice rough with effort. "Gonna feel you gush around my cock, soak the both of us. And you're gonna take it, 'cause Daddy knows what you need better than you do."

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in, but there's no fight left—just the overwhelming rush of sensation as he fucks you through the overstimulation, each thrust pushing you closer to that same unbearable edge. 

Joel's voice stays in your ear the whole time, sweet and condescending, praising and guiding you through every wave until you're sobbing his name again and again while the sheets are ruined completely beneath you.

This makes me kinda want to write a piss kink fic but...I already got so much hate for writing fauxcest im a LITTLE traumatised😭😭

You roll your eyes, affection for the sweet man momentarily drowning out your painful insecurities. Once you're behind the bathroom door, though, the dam breaks.

All your worst thoughts flood through, sweat pricking at your brow. The shape-wear you shoved yourself into just hours ago is too tight, suffocating as you peel your dress above your head, wiggling the pinched fabric down your hips.

Once your skin is free of its confines, you can breathe a little easier. It's stolen from your lungs once again, though, when you slip your dress back over your head.

The satin clings to your tummy in a way that makes you cringe, a low wince slipping through your teeth. You pinch at the loose skin, sucking in and turning every which way in a sad attempt to flatten your stomach.

Why did you have that second helping of pasta? Why did you agree to dessert? Why would Jack ever be attracted to someone like you?

Tears slip past your ducts, and you hold your head parallel to the ground in an attempt to preserve your makeup. You catch your arms in your periphery, the extra jiggle in them as your shoulders shake, a gasp escaping your throat.

Do detox teas work in 30 minutes?

You don't have time to Google your absurd question, as a knock comes from outside.

"You okay, baby? Heard some heavy breathing in there, you're not sick are you?" Jack's sweet voice rings out, and your heart aches.

Sick in the head, maybe.

"No, I'm good," your voice comes out shaky, and utterly unconvincing.

Jack picks up on it, because of course he does, with a sassy huff.

"You sure? Can I be of service in any way, doll?" He pushes, and for some reason, that name snaps something deep within you.

"Don't call me that," you hiss, and he's silent for a moment.

Guilt and regret flood you in equal parts, burning deep in your belly like poison.

"I'm sorry," he responds, and you just cry a little harder. "I'm going to come in though, okay? It's very obvious you're crying, and I can't have that. This is your warning, alright?"

He waits a second before turning the knob, sliding across the threshold, brows furrowing when he sees you in such a state.

"Honey, what is it? What's wrong? Anything hurt?" He jumps into doctor mode, if only for a moment, while he gets underneath you to scan your face.

"Hm, pretty as ever," he muses, pinching your wet cheek.

You sniffle, arms coming up to cover your stomach. He knows this move, has picked up on all your little signs in the short time you've been dating, a small coo escaping his lips at the action.

"Oh, honey, you're overthinking that meal, aren't ya?" He asks, and it's so matter of fact that it makes you cry even harder.

"Oh, shh, shh, shh," he whispers, stroking your hair and peppering kisses to your scalp. "You're okay, I got you, you're so beautiful."

"Stop lying to me, Jack," you babble, throat scratchy and voice hurt. "I saw the way our waitress was looking at you, y'know?"

He takes a step back at this, clearly surprised. You keep going.

"In fact, I see the way all girls look at you when we go out, the way they look at me," you mumble, avoiding eye contact.

"Yeah?" He prods. "And how's that?"

"Like they can't believe you'd be with someone like me," you answer, punctuating with a pitiful laugh. "Hell, I can't believe it most days."

"What are you saying to me right now, baby?" He asks, and you roll your eyes. "Don't give me that. What are you trying to tell me?" He demands, and it's embarrassing how easily you fold.

"I'm saying that you could be with anyone in the entire world!" You throw your hands up, gesturing to your curvy frame. "But you chose me? Why? I just don't understand what you see in me, is all."

You trail off at that last bit, crossing your arms over your body once more. He's not having any of it, hands immediately coming down to remove them.

"What?" Is all he manages, a sad whisper reluctant to leave his lips. "You don't understand what I see?" He laughs, though nothing about his tone is humorous. "Baby, you're half my age!" He exclaims, and you roll your eyes.

"No, I'm serious, do you know how scared I was to ask you out on a date? Robby had to talk me off the roof, I'm serious," he insists, and you swat at his arm, remembering the day.

A new EMT at PTMC had flirted with you, and as Jack described him, he was younger, fitter, and more…age appropriate. He'd come rushing to you, had told you that the thought of you with someone like that scared the living shit out of him; you'd told him you weren't interesting in that. Only him.

So why is it so hard for you to understand that this is a two way street?

"Can I help you understand?" He asks, taking your hand. "Please?"

You nod, letting him take you from the bathroom to his bedroom, where he takes a seat at the edge of the bed. You stand in the doorway, watch for a minute as he undoes the mechanisms of his prosthetic, carefully sliding it off and resting it on the side of the bed.

He uses his palms to scoot himself back, not too far, but enough to open a spot for you between his knees. You take it, slotting in like a perfect puzzle piece. His hands start low, fiddling with the hem of your pink dress.

"'s this okay?" He murmurs, and you whisper a breathy, 'yes'.

He doesn't lift it up, rather continues to work his hands up the fabric, pinching your thighs and massaging your ass. Resting his head against your tummy, he peppers kisses there, and your face heats.

"Jack, you don't-" you try to move his head out of the way, discomfort an ever present third in this relationship. "You don't have to do this just because I was sad, I'm a big girl, I'll get over it."

He chuckles, it's sardonic, almost a little mean as he continues to kiss your plush skin.

"I know you are," he mumbles into you. "That's not what this is about. This is about me taking what I want. Y'gonna let me do that? Or are you going to keep doing this lil' shy girl thing?"

Your stomach burns at his words, jaw dropping in surprise.

"Jack-" you exclaim, a gasp wrestling from your chest as he pulls you further into him. "Oh!" You moan, throwing your head back and finally letting yourself lean into his touch.

"There she is, thaaaat's my girl," he coos, finally pulling your dress up over your head.

Your tits bounce as they're freed from the fabric, your tummy spilling over the waistband of your panties, just a little.

His eyes glaze over at the sight, and you cup his cheeks in your hands. He can't take his eyes off your body, and you have to fight the instinct to run away, to hide.

"So fucking beautiful," he grumbles, pushing his face deep into your tits.

You gasp as his hands follow suit, grabbing at your skin, kneading them, enclosing his own head between them. You can't help but giggle, trying to separate yourself from him.

"Jack! You're gonna suffocate!" You chuckle, but he just holds you closer.

"Perfect way to go, stop interrupting me," he quips, latching onto your nipple now.

A sweet 'oh!' leaves your lips, fingers coming up to scruff and tug on his hair. He groans at that, the vibrations around your peak sending shockwaves straight to the apex of your thighs.

"Prettiest fucking body I've ever seen, you don't even know," he breathes out, switching his attention to your other breast now.

Spending some time there, he moves his lips lower now, lifting you with ease so he can better access the swell of your tummy. His hands and lips are all over, kneading and massaging what you've always imagined to be your worst feature.

You tell him so, and he just shakes his head, a sardonic chuckle leaving his lips.

"'s fucking insane, baby. Thought you were my smart girl, hm?" He asks, looking up at you.

You nod, tears filling your eyes. He smiles at the sight, his thumb coming up to brush them away.

"Not a very smart thing to think, that you're anything other than a fucking goddess," he whispers. "Not smart at all."

He scoots back some more, holding his hand out for you to straddle him. He pulls you to him by your hips, his hands sliding lower until they reach your ass. You're thankful you at the very least had some foresight to put on a cute pair of panties.

They're not entirely a thong, but a pretty, seamless pair that slides between your cheeks anyways. He groans, bites down on your shoulder at the sight of them.

"God, you have all this back there and have the nerve to be insecure?" He asks, finding purchase on the real estate of your skin.

He grabs at it, kneads like dough, even leaving a few slaps there. You whine at that, and he groans, the way your skin jiggles rolling his eyes back.

"Jesus fucking Christ, want you over my lap. Now," he orders, and you scramble.

Your tummy and tits press up against his soft duvet, your hips settling on his lap. Heat blooms warm in your belly as he rubs a hand over your skin, a soft, "good girl," falling from his lips.

You whimper, arching your back into his touch. He chuckles, and it's almost mean as his hand cracks down on your skin.

"Jack!" You squeal, lurching forward. He just grips your waist, strong hands holding you in place.

"Ah, ah, ah," he tsks, giving you another slap in punishment. "Stay still, yeah?"

You nod, and he smacks you again.

"Yeah?" He repeats, firmer, stronger.

"Yeah," you blubber, wiggling into his harsh touch.

"Good girl, that's my sweet girl," he mutters, dropping another slap onto your cheek.

You squeeze your eyes shut, wetness dripping down your thighs. You can feel his hard length beneath you, and you don't feel so embarrassed, knowing he's turned on, too.

Wiggling your hips into his crotch, he chuckles, coos a bit before cracking his hand down once, twice, three more times. You whine, though you arch into his touch all the same.

"Okay, okay, we can be done," he secedes, and you huff out a breath. "C'mon, up, thatsagirl," he purrs, settling you upright on his lap once more.

He massages your raw skin as you get comfy, leaving one last little smack before pulling his cock out.

You swallow thickly, helping him lift his shirt over his head, as well. He's so pretty, his buff, rugged frame threatening to swallow you whole. Darting your tongue out, you wet your lips before leaning back into him.

He kisses you with a fervor you have no chance of resisting, shoving his hand between you. His coarse fingers collect your wetness, bringing it up to your clit with slow circles.

It feels incredible, your tummy already tightening at the pressure. Your lips form a cute 'o', a small moan escaping them. He splays a hand across your lower back, pulling you further into him.

"I know, feels good, doesn't it, pretty girl?" He asks, and you whine. "D'ya think you can take me like this? Think you're wet enough? Or d'ya need my fingers to split you open, first?"

As delightful as his fingers sound, you think you'll die if you go another 10 seconds without his cock.

"I'm wet enough, I am- oh God, please!" You whine, thrashing your hips for more friction.

He cuts your writhing off with another sharp slap to your ass, and you throw your head back in a whine.

"Y'gonna stop being a brat so I can fuck you properly?" He asks, lining his tip up with your entrance.

You nod, tears pricking your eyes at the pure desperation.

"Good," he mumbles, poking his tip into you.

Your jaw goes slack, ever the stretch, no matter the lubricant.

"Yeah, yeahh," he draws out, pulling you down even further onto him. "That's it, 's a lot, isn't it? Big dick for my sweet girl, hm?" He asks, getting you seated fully.

You rest your hands on his shoulders, squeezing your eyes shut as you adjust to his size. When you try to move, though, he stops you, his big hands once again controlling your actions.

Your head whips up, eyes glassy, lips pouty. He cocks his head to the side, faux-pity lining his features. You rake your nails across his skin, reveling in the goosebumps that erupt on his skin.

"Jeeeesus," he groans out, taking a deep breath to maintain his composure. "What did I say about bein' a brat? Get comfortable, y'gonna hurt yourself if you try to move so quickly."

Your heart flutters at his casual dominance, the way he takes over your decision making. It makes your head go fuzzy, your hips wiggling in his grasp.

"God, you're fuckin' pushin' it, aren't ya?" He asks, swatting your backside once more.

"'m sorryyyy," you whine out, sounding nearly drunk of him already. "Just feels too good, need more, please."

He relents at that, relief flooding through you when he says, "Fine, but go slow, and be careful."

You listen, because of course you do, rocking your hips every so slightly.

"Good, gooood job, baby, s'nice, huh?" He coos, and your tummy turns at his words. "Nice and full of me, hm?"

You nod, desperate and shaky as you lift yourself up, just slightly, to drop back down.

"That's my girl, body looks so fucking beautiful riding me like this," he mutters, and you bury your face in his neck.

"Nuh-uh," he tsks, pulling your hair to get you to look at him.

You whine, and he pouts at you.

"Ooh, that hurt?" He asks, and you nod. "Mmm, sorry, angel," he replies, not sounding sorry in the slightest.

His hands grip your ass once more, helping you move up and down on him like an expert. You babble around him, utter nonsense flowing from your lips at the intense pleasure.

"Jack-Jackie-ooh! Oh, it's so good!" You whine, breath hitching as he hits your sweet spot.

"Yeah, that's the spot isn't it? Makes you feel so nice every time I hit it," he inhales sharply. "And I do hit it every time, don't I?" He calls for reassurance, and you wonder how much of it is for him and not you.

"Every time, Jackie, fuck me so perfect every time," you whine, pushing him back onto the bed to gain more purchase above him.

He flops back in surprise, eyes going wide as you press two delicate hands on his chest. You resume your bouncing, this time with much more fervor. Your skin prickles as you feel your orgasm build, the warmth in your tummy has been brewing for too long, you're starting to grow desperate.

"God, this fuckin' view," he groans, hands gripping your love handles. He squeezes the extra skin there, thumbs running over the chub. "So perfect, baby, gonna dream about this for years."

You giggle, picking up your speed, just a little.

"Y'know, you can always just ask me to fuck you, don't have to dream about it," you tease, earning you another spank.

"I guess I can, can't I?" He muses, arms coming up to rest behind his head.

"Mmhm," you coo, circling your hips to get friction onto your clit. "Comfy?"

"Incredibly," he replies, and your eyes shine with love. "Gonna cum for me?" He asks, and you're reminded of the task at hand.

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, the burning sensation in your stomach hard to ignore, growing more impossible each second. You nod, brows furrowing in desperation.

His lips collect in a whistle as he drags his thumb between your legs. He rubs, and it's nearly immediate, how your orgasm takes over. Arching your back, lightning shooting through you as the first wave washes over.

Your orgasm comes in a million little explosions, fireworks popping through your veins, tightening your pussy around Jack. This spurs his own release, as he releases inside you, a raspy "good girl," falling from his lips.

Trails of fire litter through you as you both come down, the throbbing of his now softening cock like a reward for your hard work.

"That's it, thaaat's it, good job, honey," he mumbles as you pulse around him, limp body flopping into his chest.

His large hands creep up your back, rubbing soothing circles on your sweaty skin. Chests heaving together, he slowly lifts you up and off of him, where you both groan at the sudden emptiness.

"Baby, will you grab me my crutch so I can go to the restroom 'n clean you up?" He asks, a bit of red tinting his cheeks at the request.

"Honey, of course," you say, leaning over to the opposite side of the room. "But I can always go myself, you know?"

"Ah, ah, ah," he cuts you off with a wave of his finger. "Don't want hear that, you know that, hm? What did I say about being a brat?" He asks, hoisting himself up.

"Hmmm," you pretend to think, resuming your spot on the bed. "Not sure, you're going to have to remind me later."

He growls, gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, pressing one last sloppy kiss to your lips.

He kept both hands on the steering wheel. Not tight. Not loose. Just there.

Second floor. Third door from the stairs. He’d watched it long enough to be certain.

The light was on. You were inside. Waiting.

He knew it.

The gun sat in the glove compartment. Cleaned that morning. Loaded. Safety on.

The job was simple.

Go in. Take the money. Bring her in. Leave.

Except it wasn’t.

A truck roared past on the highway, headlights slicing across the motel windows before disappearing into the dark. The office television cast a dull blue glow through dusty blinds. No one watching. No one caring.

Clint shifted in his seat.

The two-weeks old wound tugged when he moved his arm too far. Not deep. Not fatal. But it had stayed with him. His fingers brushed the scar beneath his shirt before he caught himself and let his hand fall.

It left a mark in the muscle. It left something else deeper.

And that made tonight harder than it should’ve been.

He lit a cigarette. The flare of the lighter burned too bright inside the car. He didn’t take his eyes off the room. Smoke gathered between him and the windshield, thin and restless.

Weeks of chasing ghosts.

A rental clerk who remembered the scar. Kids who wouldn’t say your name twice. Dead ends dressed up as leads.

And now you were ten yards away.

Two minutes to the stairs. Thirty seconds to the door. One pull of a trigger.

If he pulled it.

He’d been angry before. Wanted people dead before.

That part was easy.

This wasn’t.

You’d shot him. Stolen from him. Made him look weak.

That should’ve been enough.

It wasn’t.

Ever since the day he lost everything, he’d made rules for himself. Lines he didn’t cross. Things he didn’t allow. Attachments. Weakness. Hope.

You complicated everything.

And something else.

Like Russian roulette—no middle ground.

Either he hated you.

Or—

He crushed the thought before it finished forming.

The neon buzzed again.

He didn’t move.

The curtain shifted. Or maybe it was just the air conditioner kicking on. Hard to tell from this distance. Clint reached for the glove compartment this time. Opened it. Took the gun. The metal felt steady. Familiar. Reliable in a way nothing else was.

He stepped out of the car.

The night air was cooler than he expected. Early May still carried the edge of spring after dark.

He dropped the cigarette, ground it beneath his heel. Slid the gun into the back of his waistband.

He looked up at the window one last time.

His pulse kicked— not fear. Something worse.

Reckless.

Like he was about to make a mistake instead of a decision.

He shook it off.

Didn’t help.

Then he started toward the stairs.

Slow. Measured.

One hand hovering near the gun at his back.

The memory came anyway.

The first time he saw you.

The start of the whole damn mess.

May 6, 1989

One Week Earlier

On a Friday night in Oakland, normal people did normal things.

They lined up outside neon-lit bars. They packed into loud houses where music bled into the street. Someone fell in love. Someone got into a fight.

That’s how Fridays worked.

Clint didn’t do Fridays.

Fridays were collection nights.

They hadn’t always been.

A year and a half ago, Fridays used to mean something else.

Dinner reservations. Takeout cartons on the coffee table. Her feet in his lap while some late movie played in the background.

Then a job followed him home.

After that, the calendar stopped meaning anything.

He didn’t laugh much anymore. Didn’t joke. Didn’t smile unless it was strictly functional.

The men he collected from used to call him cold. Now they called him efficient. He preferred that.

Now you might be wondering — Why was he still doing this? Why keep walking into rooms full of men who would shoot him if they thought they could get away with it?

Fair question.

Because The Guy had made him an offer.

One last stretch. A few high-value collections.

After that, his file disappears.

No warrants. No flagged reports. No ghosts on paper. A clean slate. New city. New name.

And before you ask —Did he trust The Guy?

No. Hell no.

But that wasn’t really the point. Trust was for people with options. This was leverage. A transaction.

The Guy needed Clint to finish strong. Clint needed The Guy to erase him.

Simple. On paper. Trust wasn’t part of the agreement. Leverage was. And Clint didn’t have much left to trade. When a man loses everything, the last thing he holds onto isn’t hope.

It’s control.

He’d spent the last year and a half punishing himself with the worst jobs.

The dirtiest ones.

The kind you don’t tell stories about.

He told himself it was penance.

That if he stayed in the dark long enough, it might balance something out.

Normal life felt like mercy.

And mercy was something he didn’t believe he deserved.

But he was tired.

Tired of Oakland. Tired of walking into rooms where everyone already knew what he was. Tired of being the man who ruined evenings.

If he stayed, he would always be that Clint.

Time hadn’t softened the loss.

It hadn’t dulled the shot that still echoed in his head.

But maybe distance would.

Maybe if he left, the air would feel different.

Maybe somewhere else he could breathe without remembering.

This Friday was supposed to be the last one.

Deliver the money. Collect the file. Disappear.

He wouldn’t retire. He would vanish. So much for a quiet exit. Clint, of course, had no idea.

In less than fifteen minutes, he would meet the woman who was about to derail the last plan he had left.

The pool hall on 14th was thick with cigarette smoke and cheap cologne.

Neon beer signs hummed against wood-paneled walls.

The crack of billiard balls echoed sharp and clean over low rock playing from a jukebox that hadn’t been updated since ’79.

Men laughed too loud. Money changed hands too fast.

Clint stood near the back office door, quiet as a shadow in a leather jacket that had seen more nights than most of the men in the room.

The owner handed over an envelope without argument.

Smart.

Inside: cash. Folded tight. Warm from someone else’s pocket.

“Tell him we’re square this week,” the owner muttered.

Clint didn’t promise anything.

He tucked the envelope inside his jacket and walked out without finishing his beer.

Outside, Oakland air hit cooler than it had any right to be.

The parking lot was a mix of shadow and broken streetlight glow.

His car sat where he’d left it. Quiet. Unremarkable. He unlocked it. Slid into the driver’s seat. Door shut. Key turned. Click—

Cold steel pressed into the back of his neck.

A barrel. Not shaking. Not accidental.

“Don’t.”

A woman’s voice. Calm. Close.

Clint didn’t flinch.

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

The weight told him plenty — small frame, steady grip. Not amateur.

His fingers eased off the steering wheel slightly.

Buying himself a second.

From the back seat, you leaned forward into the rearview reflection.

Eyes sharp.

Amused.

The gun steady in your hand.

“Put the money on the dash, handsome,” you said, gesturing lightly with the barrel.

Clint’s eyes flicked to the mirror again. Assessing. Not panicked. Just irritated. “You’re making a mistake,” he said.

“Money, Clint. Dash. Now.”

His eyes narrowed. You knew his name. That changed things.

For half a second it looked like he might refuse. Then he moved.

One hand slipped inside his leather jacket.

You adjusted the barrel slightly against his temple. “Easy,” you said softly. His fingers found the envelope against his ribs. He pulled it free slowly. “Good,” you murmured. “Nice and slow.”

His jaw flexed. The envelope came out fully. He could try for the gun. He’d done worse under pressure. But he wasn’t interested in getting his head blown off tonight. He placed the envelope on the dashboard.

Then you moved. Fluid. Controlled.

One leg sliding over the console, folding forward between the seats with quiet precision.

Your hair brushed the shoulder of his leather jacket. Not perfume. Something lighter. Clean.

Wrong place for a scent like that.

The muzzle never drifted. Too smooth to be luck.

His shoulder tensed.

“Uh-uh,” you murmured. “Don’t move. I’m not in the mood to clean brains off the leather… and I like your face the way it is.” There was amusement in your voice. You took the money. Never breaking eye contact. Clint finally turned his head enough to see you fully.

Up close.

For a second, it didn’t register.

Then it did.

And his mind went straight to work—

distance, angle, timing.

How to take you down—

without getting his brains blown out first.

The choker caught his attention, then the scar beneath it.

Right side of your neck. Not recent.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked.

You gave him a small, knowing smile. “Someone who checks the back seat. You should try it sometime.”

His eyes darkened. Stealing his money and cracking jokes.

Jesus.

You leaned closer, the gun still steady.

“That all?” you asked quietly. “Or you hiding something else in that jacket?”

Your hand brushed lower than necessary along his thigh before correcting upward.

He went rigid. A small flinch he couldn’t stop.

“Oops,” you said, not sounding sorry at all. “My bad.”

His voice dropped. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“Relax,” you replied softly. “I did my homework.” That made him still.

“You’re predictable.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’ll figure it out.” Your fingers slipped inside his inner jacket pocket. You found the cigarette pack. Paused. Smiled. “Well,” you said lightly, pulling your hand back out, “looks like you’re telling the truth.”

His jaw tightened. “Done?”

“Almost.”

Still watching him, you slipped the envelope inside your own jacket.

“You touch that,” he said quietly, “you better be ready for what comes after.”

“Hm,” you said. “Tempting.”

“Put it back.”

You tilted your head like you were considering it. “Hm. I’m thinking no.”

He exhaled slowly.

“Nothing personal, Clint.”

His eyes darkened. “You shove a gun in my face, dig through my jacket, steal my money, and you’re tellin’ me it ain’t personal? You bet your ass it’s personal.”

“Oh,” you said lightly. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Lady, you’re about three bad decisions away from getting yourself shot.”

You smiled faintly. “Then I guess you’d better make the first one count.” Still aiming at him, you opened the passenger door slowly. One foot touched pavement. Then the other. “Well,” you said lightly, “this has been a lovely conversation.”

You moved like you’d rehearsed it. “Try checking the back seat next time.”

Then you were gone.

Clint counted to one.

Then he moved.

He grabbed the revolver from the glove compartment and flipped the cylinder open. Empty. “The fuck?”

Across the lot, an engine roared to life. A red ’86 Camaro. You leaned out the driver’s window. “Looking for these?”

Something small arced through the air. Metal clattered across the asphalt. Bullets rolled across the pavement. You held his gaze through the windshield. You gave him a slow wink. “See you around, handsome.” Then you blew him a kiss. The Camaro peeled out of the lot.

Clint exhaled once. “Fuck.” He jumped back into his car. Key turned. The engine coughed. Once. Twice.

Then died. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…” He tried again. Nothing. “Son of a—” He stepped out and popped the hood. Under the dim streetlight he scanned the engine.

It didn’t take long. Distributor cap — loosened just enough to fail.

He tightened it. Then he saw it.

A small square of paper tucked near the hood latch. A lipstick mark.

Under it, in neat handwriting:

Should’ve listened.

Clint stared at it.

Then reached into his jacket pocket. The first note was still there. Left on his windshield last week. He unfolded it beneath the streetlight.

How many more jobs follow you home?

Then another slip of paper. Two days ago.

Not every job is worth finishing. Come find me.

He held both slips side by side.

Same handwriting. Same pressure. Same deliberate slant.

Yeah.

You’d been watching him.

Looks like she found me first, he thought.

He let out a slow breath. “Who the hell…”

He folded the notes carefully. Thinking.

Nobody had ever tried to rob Clint Flood before.

Most people knew better.

But this woman had.

And you’d done it while looking him straight in the eye.

“Alright,” he muttered, his jaw tightening as he slid the notes back into his jacket.

“My fucking turn.”

The next morning.

Dick's restaurant.

Dawson chewed slowly, watching Clint over the fork.

“The Guy’s not happy, Clint.”

Clint leaned back slightly. “Didn’t realize you’d been promoted to messenger.”

“So how’d you lose it?” Dawson asked, grinning like a rat. “What, she blew you and you tipped her with his money?”

He snorted and shoveled another forkful of eggs into his mouth.

For a moment, Clint pictured it—

fist in Dawson’s hair, slamming his face into the table, hard enough to shake it—plates jumping.

He was good at that.

Especially with people who deserved it.

He let it go.

“Careful, Dawson,” he snarled. “Wouldn’t want that to be your last meal.”

For a second Dawson’s grin faltered.

Then it came back.

“You lost the money,” he said between bites. “That makes it your debt now.”

Of course it did.

That was how these things worked.

Dawson wiped his mouth with a napkin and slid out of the booth.

“Find the girl.”

He adjusted his jacket.

“If I were you…” he said casually, “I’d start with the car.”

He turned and walked toward the door.

Clint grabbed his coffee and took a slow sip.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Guess I will.”

An hour later.

The rental office smelled like old carpet and burnt coffee.

A dusty fan turned slowly above the counter.

Clint rested one hand on the desk.

“Red ’86 Camaro,” he said. “Rented last week.”

The man behind the counter squinted at the computer screen.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Still out.”

Clint’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Still out?”

The clerk leaned back in his chair.

“Girl who rented it never brought it back.”

Clint waited a moment.

“No ID?”

The man shook his head.

“Cash rental. Happens sometimes.”

“You sure she didn’t leave anything?”

“Look, pal—”

“Clint.”

“—Clint. I already told the cops the same thing. No ID. No address. No phone.”

His gaze didn’t move.

“Think again.”

The man rubbed his temple like Clint was giving him a headache.

“I am thinking. And I’m telling you the same damn thing. Lady walked in, paid cash, took the keys.”

Clint leaned slightly on the counter.

“You remember what she looked like.”

The man frowned, trying to recall.

“Couple things, yeah.”

For a moment he described you, piecing the memory together.

Then he lifted a hand and gestured near his own neck.

“Had a scar. Right here.”

Clint felt the faintest pull in his chest.

Yeah.

That was you.

“Leather jacket. Boots. Classy kinda woman.”

He added and glanced over his shoulder at the wall behind him.

A couple old movie posters were pinned there.

“More like… movie-star.”

Clint followed his gaze to the posters.

“Sounds like her.”

He exhaled quietly.

“You got any idea where she was headed? Mention anything?”

The clerk’s patience snapped.

“Listen, homie—”

He jabbed a finger toward Clint.

“I want my car back a hell of a lot more than you do.”

His voice rose.

“Cops already dragged me into this mess because that damn Camaro got mixed up in some crime.”

“I can’t even get the car back from impound right now, alright?”

Clint didn’t react.

The man huffed and pointed toward the back of the shop.

“My kid was there that day too.”

Near the back door, a teenager stiffened.

“Lucid,” the man said. “My son.”

Lucid didn’t look up.

“Uh… yeah. I mean—I-I was there but d-don't know anything about t-that woman.”

Then he grabbed a broom leaning against the wall and started sweeping a perfectly clean floor.

Clint watched him.

Too fast. Too nervous.

Not lying.

Just not saying.

Clint’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Silence stretched for a second.

Then Clint tapped the counter twice with his fingers.

“Alright,” he said.

He stepped back.

Turned toward the door.

He already knew where to look next.

Later that day.

Grease-streaked glass between him and the diner. Clint watched from across the street.

Lucid sat in a booth near the front. Across from him sat a girl Clint didn’t recognize. Lucid slid a small box across the table.

The girl opened it. “Oh, shit—whoa.”

Even through the glass Clint saw metal catch the morning light.

Inside—dark metal. Spiked. Not subtle. “It’s fucking awesome.” She turned it in her hands, admiring it.“I love it. Thank you.”

Lucid shrugged, trying to look casual. “Of course.”

The girl slipped the bracelet onto her wrist and lifted her arm, watching the spikes glint.

Then Lucid froze. His eyes shifted toward the window. Toward Clint. “Wait,” he muttered. “You might wanna put that away.”

Across the street Clint opened the car door and stepped out. He crossed the street without rushing. Didn’t need to.

A moment later he pushed through the diner door. The bell above it jingled.

Lucid went rigid in the booth. The girl lowered her arm quickly, sliding the bracelet beneath the table.

Clint didn’t look at them. Not yet.

He walked past their booth like he hadn’t even noticed they were there and slid into an empty table a few feet away.

A waitress somewhere behind the counter called out a tired “Morning.”

Clint gave the smallest nod. Then his eyes drifted across the diner.

Coffee cups. Chrome napkin holders. A tired trucker at the counter. Then they stopped.

On the girl’s neck.

Black leather. Silver charm.

Clint’s jaw tightened. Yeah. He knew that.

He’d seen it before—against your throat. The detail had lodged somewhere in his mind without him realizing it.

Clint sat there for another second. Then he stood. Turned. And walked back toward their booth. He stopped beside the table. “Can I see it?”

They exchanged a glance. Lucid gave the smallest nod. The girl lifted the choker slightly so Clint could see it.

Clint studied it for a second. “Who’s it for?”

“Nazis.”

“Aim for the neck.”

They looked at each other and grinned.

Clint rested one hand on the back of a chair and leaned slightly toward them. “That necklace,” he said quietly. “Looks familiar.” His eyes shifted to the girl. Meaningfully. “Someone give it to you?” Silence hung over the table. Then Clint spoke again, softer now. “You saw her that night, didn’t you.” His eyes moved between them. “I need to find that woman before the cops do. Maybe you can help me out.”

“It was a crazy night,” the girl said. “Couple skinheads cornered us outside the rink. And this red Camaro pulled up.”

“She stepped out.” Lucid shook his head. “Man… it was like a fucking movie scene.”

Clint narrowed his eyes.

“She beat the hell out of them.” She touched the choker. “One of those idiots grabbed my necklace and ripped it off.” She shrugged. "After she finished with them…She gave me this.”

Clint’s eyes lingered on it. “She take them all down?” he asked. “By herself?”

They nodded.

Still a little amazed.

Lucid grinned. “She moved like Bruce Lee or something. Like she knew what she was doing.”

She laughed. “Yeah. Fuckin’ Nazis got what they deserved. She’s kinda my hero now.”

Clint straightened slowly. The smiles at the table faded. “Why’d she leave the car?” He asked. “And how’d she get out of there?”

She thought for a second. “I don’t know why. But we heard police sirens. She grabbed a bag from the car and just disappeared.”

Something clicked.

Cooper’s money.

For a brief second, something almost like a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Cooper humiliated. Nazis beaten. Not bad work. “Alright,” he said, turning toward the door.“Thanks, kids.”

The girl hesitated. “You’re not gonna hurt her… right?”

Clint didn’t answer.

He just gave them a small nod over his shoulder. “Stay safe.” Then he walked out.

They watched him go.

Neither of them spoke until the door closed.

Clint found the Camaro two days later.

Parked three blocks from where it had been abandoned. The cops had already gone through it. There was nothing useful inside.

No name. No address. No paper trail.

Just the faint smell of your perfume in the upholstery. Still there.

And a cigarette pack in the glove compartment. One cigarette missing.

Another one crushed in the ashtray. A faint smear of lipstick on the filter.

Clint stared at it. Too long. That was all you left behind.

That—and questions. He’d spent enough time thinking about who you were. Now— what you were doing.

Not random. Pool hall. Small money. Protection.

Cooper. Mid-level. Distribution.

Next step wasn’t smaller.

It was bigger.

And it all landed somewhere.

Usually the same place.

Rico?

Clint wrote the name beneath the others.

POOL HALL COOPER RICO

He tapped the pen once against the table. “Red Lagoon,” he murmured. Rico’s nightclub. “Working her way up.” Clint stood and grabbed his jacket from the chair. “She’s going straight for the vault.”

YOU

Red Lagoon.

The bass hit before you even stepped inside.

Low. Heavy. Mechanical.

By the time the door shut behind you, the music had already climbed into your ribs.

Smoke hung under the ceiling lights like fog trapped indoors.

Red neon bled across sweating bodies on the dance floor.

Laughter echoed somewhere in the dark.

A glass shattered near the bar.

The sharp chemical smell of cheap cocaine floated above everything else.

Perfect.

Exactly the kind of place where people stopped paying attention.

You walked toward the bar without rushing.

Slow steps.

Confident.

The dark-red dress hugged your body just enough to turn heads, the slit high along your thigh revealing a flash of skin every time you moved.

Damn.

You looked devastating tonight.

And you knew it.

Heads turned as you passed—

a drink paused mid-air, someone whistled under their breath.

You ignored it.

They weren’t the target.

You reached the bar and slid onto a stool, leaning one elbow lazily on the counter.

“Whiskey… please,” you said softly, letting just a hint of playful sweetness slip into your voice.

The bartender looked up immediately.

Of course he did.

He poured.

Your eyes moved casually around the room while he worked.

Security by the door.

Two of them.

Armed.

Three more stood scattered near the dance floor pretending to enjoy the music.

And above it all—

The office.

Frosted glass overlooked the club floor like a watchtower. That was where the safe would be. You felt the weight of the revolver strapped against your garter. Comforting. Hidden. Exactly where it needed to be.

You took the glass when it slid toward you and brought it slowly to your lips.

The whiskey burned as it went down. Strong. Clean. You let the warmth settle in your chest. A little courage never hurt. Alright. You glanced up again. There.

Rico.

At the top of the stairs like the place belonged to him.

And it did.

Silk shirt open at the chest, gold chain catching the light.

Cigarette between his fingers.

Whiskey in the other hand.

Two men trailed behind him like shadows.

He leaned against the railing, looking down over the crowd—not watching.

Owning.

Your eyes narrowed slightly.

So that was him.

Everyone in Oakland knew the name Red Rico.

Nobody seemed to know his real one.

His attention drifted lazily across the floor, lingering too long on the women below.

One laughed when he whistled.

That told you enough.

You suppressed a small grimace.

Not your type.

But tonight, that didn’t matter.

Rico moved product for The Guy.

Which meant upstairs—cash.

And the list.

Your gaze stayed on him just a second longer.

Get him alone. Find the safe. Take what you came for.

Simple. In theory.

You exhaled quietly.

Men like Rico noticed two kinds of women— the ones begging for attention, and the ones who didn’t need it. The second kind drove them crazy.

You rested your elbow on the bar and slowly circled the rim of your glass with a finger tipped in dark red polish.

Come on. Notice.

You took another slow sip of whiskey.

Let him come to you. Except he didn’t.

He was too busy eyeing the women around the dance floor, his gaze shameless and hungry.

One of them leaned against the bar laughing too loudly, swaying slightly as she talked to someone.

Her makeup was heavy, mascara smudged under her eyes, lipstick bleeding at the edges.

Rico whistled at her.

She threw her head back dramatically.

He watched her for a moment, then took a long drink of whiskey without even trying to hide it.

You studied him quietly.

Ah.

So maybe you had overestimated him. Simple man. Simple tastes.

Your lips twitched slightly.

Sexy and dumb it was.

Just then one of his men stepped closer and leaned in, whispering something in Rico’s ear.

Rico nodded once and started heading down the stairs toward the floor, saying something to his men as they moved toward the hallway.

Damn.

If he walked away—game over.

You didn’t let that happen. You moved. Fast. New plan.

You slid off the stool, taking a quick breath as you adjusted the neckline of your dress—just enough.

Then you moved.

Straight toward him. Head tilted. Eyes soft. Locked. Halfway there, you let your step falter—just enough.

“Careful there, sweetheart— you alright?”

You barely looked at the man.

And then—

You stumbled into Rico. His drink sloshed as his hands caught your arms. For a split second, he froze.

“Hey—”

“’S fine,” Rico said, lifting a hand without looking away from you.

Good.

Your lips parted softly.

“Oh—I’m so sorry,” you murmured, leaning in just enough for him to hear you. “I was trying to find the restroom.” You shifted slightly. Just enough. Then you pulled back.Your fingers smoothed your dress over your hips, slow and deliberate. Your eyes never left his. Five seconds. That was all it took. Then you turned—and walked.

You felt it immediately.

His gaze on you. Heavy. Tracking. Perfect. Just before the restroom door, you glanced back over your shoulder—and gave him a slow, teasing wink.

Then you disappeared inside.

The music dulled behind the door.

You exhaled slowly.

“God… he looked like a hyena in a silk shirt,” you muttered. “Fucking sleazeball.” You reapplied your lipstick in the mirror, steady. The bait was in the water. Now it just had to bite.

A quick check—the revolver still sat snug against your thigh.

You looked at your reflection. “I look like a damn hooker.” A small smile. “Come on, girl… you’ve got this.”

Back on the floor— his eyes found you instantly. Still on you.

Nice.

The bartender leaned in with a lazy grin. “Another whiskey, pretty thing? A face like yours could make a man forget his own name.”

You laughed lightly. “Well, thank you,” you said, lifting the glass. “That’s very kind of you.”

Halfway through your drink— “Hey lady. Boss wants a word.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Does he?”

“Yeah, doll. Looks like it’s your lucky day.”

Slowly, you turned your head.

Rico.

Watching. Waiting.

You smiled sweetly. “Oh… you have no idea.” You slid off the stool.

Perfect.

Exactly how you wanted this to go.

You walked toward the VIP section without rushing, the slit of your dress shifting with each step.

A few heads turned.

You didn’t look.

Rico didn’t move when you reached him.

He leaned back instead, taking his time looking you over—slow. Appraising. Then he grinned. “Well damn,” he said. “Didn’t think you’d actually accept my invitation, sweetheart.”

You slid onto the couch beside him.

Close enough.

“Invitation?” you said lightly. “Your guy made it sound more like a command.”

That made him laugh.

His arm stretched along the back of the couch behind you, settling like it belonged there. “You gave me a hard time earlier,” he said, voice lower now. “Walking away like that.”

You tilted your head.“Did I?”

“Yeah,” he said with a crooked grin. “Most girls around here try a lot harder.”

Your lips curved slightly. “Maybe I’m not most girls.”

He liked that. You saw it. His hand slid down to your thigh. Your stomach turned. You didn’t show it. “You know,” you murmured near his ear, “this place is a little loud for conversation.” Your fingers brushed the rim of his glass—then slipped away. “Why don’t we find somewhere quieter?” A glance. Upstairs.

He followed it.

Then looked back at you— grinning. “Well hell…” he muttered. “Now that’s the best idea I’ve heard all night.” He finished his drink in one swallow. “C’mon, baby.”

Perfect.

Upstairs, his arm draped around your shoulders as he talked— money, the club, himself.

You barely listened.

The office door shut behind you. The bass dulled to a distant pulse.

Cologne. Smoke. Coke.

Your eyes moved once— and landed on it. The safe. There.

Rico didn’t notice. He was too busy watching you. “Drink, angel?” he asked.

“Sure.” You moved deeper into the room, fingers trailing along the back of the couch. The glass slid toward you. You took it. Didn’t break eye contact. That, he liked.

Rico leaned against the desk, studying you. Your mind ran through it—

door closed. noise covered. guards outside. time limited.

“Nice office,” you said.

He spread his arms. “Like it?”

You glanced around once. “Big. So is your ego.”

He grinned. “Oh yeah?” he chuckled. “Baby, my ego ain’t the only thing around here that’s big.”

Of course.

His hand found your waist. Then your hip. Pulling you down— on the couch. On top of you. Your stomach twisted. You held steady.

“I think we’re done with the small talk,” he said. “C’mon, baby…”

His hand slid— testing.

Owning.

You smiled. Sweet. Your hand moved slowly down your thigh. Found the grip. Cold metal. Ready.

Too close now.

His breath—sour. His mouth at your neck—Ugh. Enough.

You moved. Fast.

CRACK.

The butt of the gun slammed into his temple. His eyes rolled back. He collapsed forward into you. You shoved him off. He hit the carpet hard. You stepped back, straightening your dress.

“Sweet dreams,” you murmured.

You grabbed the roll of tape from the desk drawer, quickly wrapping his wrists and ankles before dragging him up into the leather chair and securing him there.

You searched his pockets quickly.

Wallet. Lighter. But no key. Of course it wasn’t that easy.

You glanced back at the safe. Combination. You tried the handle.

Locked.

Which meant you needed him awake. You turned and slapped Rico across the face. Once. Twice. A third time harder.

His eyelids fluttered. He groaned, blinking up at you in confusion before recognition hit. The side of his face was already turning red where you struck him. “What the—”

You pressed the gun hard against his forehead.

“Tell me the code,” you said coldly. “Now. Or I blow your brains all over this nice carpet. Understand?”

Rico stared at you for a second. Then he started laughing. “So it’s you,” he muttered. “That bitch robbed Clint and Cooper?” He snorted. “Ah shit… you have no idea what you had just walked into.”

You rolled your eyes. “Blah blah blah. I didn’t have time for this. The code.”

“Fuck you,” he spat. “You thought you could walk in here, pull this shit and walk out? I’m gonna kill you.”

“The code,” you said, pressed the barrel harder into his skin. “Or you die first.”

Then his eyes narrowed. “You don’t have the balls, lady.”

You studied him for a second. Then you leaned closer.“Yeah,” you said quietly. “You’re right.” A beat. “But you have a pair I could work with.”

Your hand moved down suddenly.

Before he even realized what was happening, your fingers closed around him through the fabric of his pants, cupping his balls —and you squeezed.

Hard.

Rico’s entire body jolted against the chair. “What the—”

Your grip tightened. “The code, lover boy.”

Your fingers tightened again. “Say it.”

Rico gasped. “Jesus—! Stop, stop!” His face turned bright red.

You tilted your head slightly. “Oh.” A small smile curled on your lips. “So that’s why they called you Red Rico.”

“Fucking whore!” he snarled, spit flying. “I’m gonna carve that pretty face of yours up when I got loose, ya hear me?”

You squeezed harder.

“Alright! Alright!” he gasped. “Stop—ahh. Damn it.”

He panted sharply.

“Fifteen left— seventeen right— twenty-one left! Stop it—”

You held the pressure one second longer.

Just to be sure.

Then you released him.

Rico collapsed back into the chair, breathing like he had just run a mile.

You straightened slowly.

“See?” you said calmly. “That wasn’t so hard.”

You turned to the safe.

The lock turned with a heavy metallic click.

The door opened.

Stacks of cash.

Bundles wrapped in rubber bands.

Two handguns.

And a black ledger notebook.

Names. Numbers. Routes. Police payoffs.

Jackpot.

You shoved the ledger into your bag and swept several bundles of cash into the duffel you found near the desk.

Behind you Rico growled through clenched teeth. “You crazy fuckin’ bitch,” he snarled. “You really think you can walk into my club, hit my safe, and just walk the hell out?” The chair scraped across the floor. “That’s The Guy’s money you just touched.” A sharp, ugly grin. “You’re dead the second he hears about this.”

You slung the duffel over your shoulder. “Your boss is about to have much bigger things to worry about.”

“The hell was that supposed to mean?” He leaned forward in the chair, straining against the tape. “You think you’re walking outta here with that?” he snarled. “My boys’ll tear this whole city apart looking for you. They’ll find you. Drag you back here piece by piece.”

You sighed, stepping in and pressing the tape firmly over his mouth. “Ugh… you’re cuter when you’re quiet.”

Rico jerked against the chair immediately. “Mmmph—! Mmff—!”

You gave him a sweet smile. “Much better.”

Then you turned and walked toward the door. His muffled curse followed you.

You tucked the revolver back into the garter beneath the slit of your dress and opened the door.

Time to disappear. You stepped toward the door—

And froze.

From the narrow crack of the door you looked down over the club floor, past the railing and the stairwell below and you saw him.

Clint.

Your pulse jumped.

You went still.

The music from the club throbbed through the walls, bass shaking the floor beneath your feet, bodies moving in red neon below—but underneath it, cutting clean through the noise—

His voice.

Low. Calm. Dangerous.

Rico’s men shifted uneasily near the stairwell.

One of them paused halfway up the steps, frowning when he saw who had just entered the hallway.

“Flood?” he said, surprised. “The hell you doin’ here? It ain’t collection night.”

A couple of the other guards exchanged looks, half-grinning like idiots who had just realized the board had changed and nobody told them.

Clint didn’t smile. He stepped forward slowly. The hallway felt smaller. “Where’s Rico?”

“Boss is… um… busy.”

Clint tilted his head slightly.

“Busy how?”

Another guard snorted. “With a chick.”

Something tightened in Clint’s expression. “Which chick?”

His eyes lifted toward the balcony above just as the office door shifted—barely a movement.

But he caught it.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You eased the door shut again and shoved a chair beneath the handle—just enough to slow someone down if they tried to push it open.

A few seconds.

That was all you needed.

You grabbed the duffel and slung it under your arm.

Rico jerked violently in the chair behind you, muffled rage bursting through the tape across his mouth as he struggled against the bindings.

You gave him a light pat on the shoulder. “Enjoy the afterglow.”

Then you slipped through the side door behind the desk.

The back passage twisted through the building like a narrow artery—dim lights, damp walls, the smell of spilled beer and old cigarette smoke clinging to everything.

You moved quickly but carefully. No alarms. No mistakes. Behind you the muffled chaos of the club continued—music pounding, voices shouting—until another sound slipped through it.

Bootsteps. Heavy. Fast.

You reached the alley exit just as two guards stepped in front of the door, blocking your path.

Instinct took over.

Your first movement was light, almost graceful.

The nearest guard swung an arm at you— too slow.

You slipped under it. Your elbow drove hard into his ribs. The air blasted out of him in a strangled grunt as he staggered sideways. The second guard lunged. You pivoted on the ball of your foot, sweeping your leg low. Your heel hooked behind his ankle and twisted sharply.

His balance vanished. He crashed into the brick wall beside the door. Behind you the first guard scrambled toward the revolver that had slipped from his hand during the struggle. You stepped down hard. Your heel crushed onto his wrist.

Bone smacked against concrete with a dull crack.

The gun slipped uselessly from his fingers.

You kicked it away and drove your shoulder into his chest, sending him collapsing against the alley wall.

Smooth.

Years of training distilled into a few seconds of movement. Then you were running again. Back through the corridor. Down the stairs.

The club floor exploded into view—lights flashing, music roaring, bodies packed together on the dance floor.

You pushed through the crowd, someone shouted, you turned—then your eyes caught him.

Clint.

His jaw was set, eyes scanning the dance floor from the balcony above with sharp, controlled focus.

Rico’s men were already moving — rushing down the stairs, tense, on edge.

But you didn’t notice them. Your eyes locked on him. Then he saw you.

Everything slowed. Just for a second. Just him.

What the hell?

You knew you should look away. You should run. Instead you held his gaze. And he held yours.

Since when did a man’s eyes do that to you?

That was new. You didn’t like it. Then—

You turned and ran.

His voice cut through the chaos behind you. “Stop.”

Boots thundered down the steps behind you as he dropped into the crowd like a predator moving through water, shoving people aside as he came.

You didn’t look back. But you heard the reaction ripple through the room. Someone swore loudly as Clint barreled past them. Then you were through the door and out into the alley. The night air hit sharp.

Cold.

For a second the street felt almost peaceful. Music from the club thumped faintly through the walls behind you. A couple leaned against the far wall, making out beneath a flickering streetlight, oblivious to everything else.

A gunshot cracked.

The bullet slammed into the metal dumpster beside you. The impact screamed through the alley. The couple yelped and bolted in opposite directions.

You froze.

“Slowly turn around.” Clint’s voice came from behind you. “Now.”

God.

Even when he was threatening you, his voice did something dangerous to your nerves.

For half a second you almost listened. Almost obeyed.

Then instinct beat everything else. Your hand slid down your thigh. The revolver slipped smoothly into your grip. You turned, raising the gun and aiming it straight at Clint.

He stood about five meters away, his own gun trained directly on you.

For a moment, you were both perfectly still.

Two guns. Two triggers. Neither of you blinking.

Under the alley light he looked even more dangerous than before.

Red neon from the club sign streaked across the leather of his jacket while moonlight caught the edge of his jaw.

His finger rested tight against the trigger. Ready.

Your lips curved slightly. “Clint. Long time no see.”

His expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker. “You’re gonna drop the bag.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Sweetheart… no, I ain’t.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the duffel on your shoulder.

“You really think you’re walkin’ outta here with that?”

You shrugged lightly. “That was the plan.”

“Bad plan.”

“Oh?”

Clint drew in a slow breath, eyes narrowing. “You got any idea what happens to people who steal from The Guy?”

You made a thoughtful face, tapping your lip like you were trying to remember. “Yeah… I think I heard that one before.”

His jaw tightened. “This ain’t a game.”

You shifted the bag slightly on your shoulder. “Maybe not.” A faint smile tugged at your lips. “But it’s been a very profitable evening.”

Clint studied you for a long moment. “So that’s it?” he said. “You’re just a thief who can fight?”

“And you?” you said. “Calling it ‘collecting’ makes it cleaner?”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Look… I don’t wanna shoot you.”

“I know,” you said with a small smirk.

“Put the bag down,” he said. “End this right here.”

You tapped your fingers lightly against the strap of the duffel, pretending to think. “Hm… Okay.” For half a second something like relief crossed Clint’s face. Then your smile widened. “I’ll give you the bag… if you pay me more than what’s inside.”

Clint’s eyes darkened.

You shrugged sweetly. “Fair deal.”

For a moment he hesitated. Just long enough. You took one slow step back. “Don’t.” His voice cracked through the alley like a whip. “Not one more step.”

Behind him voices echoed deeper in the alley.

Your pulse jumped. Your grip tightened around the revolver. “Let me go, Clint.”

He shook his head slowly. “No.”

You exhaled. “I will shoot, you know.”

Clint lowered the revolver just a fraction. “Nah. You won’t.” A beat. “I know you won’t.”

Your chest tightened. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Then tell me,” he said quietly. Something almost pleading in his voice now. “C’mon… before those idiots get here.” His eyes flicked toward the duffel. “Give me the bag.”

Footsteps thundered closer. Too close.

You met his gaze one last time. “Sorry.” You raised the gun— and fired.

The shot cracked through the alley.

The bullet hit his shoulder.

Clean. Muscle, not bone.

Clint spun violently into the brick wall with a grunt.

He caught himself against the wall, one hand clamping down over the wound as he sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth.

Your hand tightened on the gun.

“Fuck. I warned you,” you said, your voice cracking just a little as your eyes caught the dark blood spreading through the leather on his shoulder.

“Why’d you have to get in my way, Clint?”

For a second he just stared at you. Then slowly, through the pain, Clint raised the revolver again.

His arm was shaking slightly now. Blood ran between his fingers where he held his shoulder. But the gun still found you. Steady, aimed straight at your chest.

His finger tightened on the trigger—

You swallowed. But he couldn’t.

Footsteps echoed.

“They’re in the alley!” “Go! Go!”

Your head snapped toward the sound. Without another word you turned and ran.

Gunfire exploded behind you as Rico’s men poured into the alley shouting.

A bullet sparked off the pavement beside you—another whining past your ear close enough to make your heart jump into your throat.

You disappeared into the darkness at the end of the street.

Behind you one of the men dropped beside Clint. “Hey homie— you good?”

Clint shoved him off with a rough grunt, pressing his hand harder against the bleeding shoulder.

His eyes lifted toward the mouth of the alley where you had vanished.

He shook his head once, breathing hard.

“…goddamn. Hell of a woman.”

A week later.

The Guy’s office smelled like expensive cigars and old money. Clint sat across from the desk, his fingers drifting back to the wound in his shoulder, still burning.

Across from him, The Guy struck a match. The small flame flared bright in the dim office. He leaned forward, lighting Clint’s cigarette.

“Does it hurt?” he asked casually.

“No.” Clint took a slow drag. “Appreciate it.”

The Guy leaned back in his chair, studying him through the smoke. “That girl… robbed you… shot you.” A small smile crept across his face. “But you didn’t shoot her.”

Clint took another drag from the cigarette, eyes drifting toward the window. “Didn’t line up.”

“Bullshit.” He rested his elbows on the desk. “You had the chance.” His eyes sharpened. “So tell me something, Clint. You got a weakness for her?”

Clint’s jaw tightened slightly. Then he flicked ash into the tray. “She got lucky.”

“Hm, yeah.” The Guy watched him for another moment. Then he reached to the side of the desk and tossed a thin file across the wood. It slid to a stop in front of Clint.

“Her luck’s about to run out. We found her.”

Clint picked up the folder. Notes. Photos. Names. Everything. Clint’s eyes moved slowly across the pages. When he looked up again, The Guy was smiling.

“Contacts,” he said. “Connections. Very useful things to have.”

Clint closed the file.

The Guy reached into his jacket and flicked something else across the desk. A motel card.

“She’s stayin’ there.”

Clint’s eyes settled on the card.

The Guy leaned back in his chair again. “I’ll send Tuck and Cooper,” he said, like he was talking about lunch. “They’ll bring the girl in.” A faint smile. “We’ll have ourselves a nice little conversation.”

Clint’s chest tightened. He knew exactly how Tuck and Cooper handled “conversations.” The scar across his face twitched faintly at the memory.

He crushed his cigarette slowly into the ashtray. “I’ll handle it.”

The Guy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You sure ‘bout that?”

Clint stood. “Debt’s mine, ain’t it? I got it.”

The Guy studied him for a long moment. Then he hummed softly. “Alright.”

Clint gave a small nod and turned toward the door.

“Flood.” Clint paused. “Bring her in.” The Guy’s voice stayed calm. “I’ll deal with her myself.”

Clint gave another nod without looking back and walked out.

Outside, the hallway felt colder. Clint stopped under the dim light and looked down at the card.

SUNDOWN MOTEL.

Now.

The metal staircase groaned softly under Clint’s weight. He took the steps slow, measured. The neon from the parking lot bled through the railing, painting everything in a sick red glow. Somewhere below, a car radio crackled through blown speakers. Laughter spilled from one of the rooms down the hall.

Clint barely heard any of it. He reached the top of the stairs. Second floor.

The hallway smelled like old carpet, cheap detergent, and cigarette smoke baked into the walls sometime around 1978.

Clint’s eyes moved once down the corridor.

Room numbers. 20, 21…

22

Third door from the stairs. Light spilled faintly from beneath the door.

He stopped. For a moment he just stood there watching it. Thinking. Then his hand moved. The revolver slid free from the back of his waistband with the soft scrape of metal leaving leather.

He held it low. Not raised. Not yet.

Clint stepped closer to the door. Leant slightly toward it. Listened. Too quiet. His jaw tightened. He knocked once. Not loud. Not polite either.

Just enough to say—I know you're in there.

Clint’s hand closed around the handle. He pushed the door open slowly.

Dim light spilled out—cheap yellow, tired. A bed that had seen better decades. He stepped inside, gun lifting instinctively, eyes sweeping.

Motel soap. Faint. And something else—perfume. Familiar now.

And then—click.

Cold steel pressed into his back, right between his shoulder blades. Clint didn’t flinch. He stepped fully inside. Then turned—slow, controlled, eyes already on you. Now he was facing you.

For a second—nothing moved.

Then you tilted your head slightly. “Well… that’s the best looking room service I’ve ever had.”

Clint pushed the door the rest of the way closed with his free hand. His eyes never left yours. “Flattered.” A beat. “Try ‘debt collector.’”

You smiled. “That’s adorable.” The revolver in your hand stayed perfectly steady.

Clint took one slow step toward you. “Put it down.”

“No.”

Another step. “You’re out of options.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’d be surprised.”

Clint moved forward again. You adjusted instinctively, stepping sideways, the two of you circled each other slowly, guns still raised, a quiet half-circle forming between you as the room seemed to shrink around the tension.

Clint’s gaze flicked briefly to your gun, his mouth twitched. Then he moved. Fast.

His hand shot forward, grabbing the barrel and twisting the revolver aside just enough that the shot couldn’t land clean. The gun shifted in your grip. He ripped it free in one sharp motion.

Clint glanced down at it briefly. A quiet huff of amusement escaped him. “Safety’s still on.”

You blinked. For half a second you genuinely hadn’t noticed. Your surprise lasted exactly one heartbeat. Then you exhaled. “Well.” You rolled your shoulders slightly. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

Clint tossed your revolver onto the motel bed behind him without looking.

The second his attention shifted, you lunged. Your hand shot toward his wrist. Clint reacted instantly, stepping into your space and blocking the grab with his forearm.

You pivoted fast. Your leg snapped upward in a sharp kick aimed at his ribs. Clint caught it against his hip and shoved it aside. “Easy,” he muttered.

You spun again, elbow driving toward his jaw. Clint caught that too. His hand closed around your wrist and pulled you forward.

For a second you were chest to chest. Breathing harder now. Too close.

You tried to twist free. Clint tightened his grip and shoved you back against the wall.

His hand slid up, closing around your throat—not hard enough to choke, but enough to remind you he could.

His voice dropped. “You done?”

“For now.”

“I could kill you.”

“Then why wait?” you shot back. “Planning to do it while we’re naked or something?”

“Cut the shit. Listen to me,” he said, voice low, soft even. “This ain’t a game. There’s a price on your head. A real one. Tell me why you took the money. Maybe I can help you.”

“Well,” you sighed lightly, “this is getting old, don’t you think?”

“I don’t have time for this. Where is the damn money?”

“Depends what you’re offering in return, handsome.”

He leaned in closer, leather brushing your lace. His jacket was warm from his body — thick, broken-in, the surface creased where it bent at the shoulders. You could smell it now: worn leather, gun oil, smoke. Solid. Heavy. Like armor.

His grip tightened at your throat. Your pulse jumped beneath his fingers. His gaze dropped. “You want me to check?”

“Come on, Clint. We both know you’re not going to kill me.”

“You’ve given me plenty of damn reasons.”

“Well,” you breathed, eyes steady on his, “that’s a fair argument. But you don’t want to.”

Your other hand slid up, curling into the collar of his jacket. The leather was thick beneath your fingers. You tightened your grip, pulling him half an inch closer.

“You have no idea what I want, sweetheart,” he said, his breath hot against your mouth. His lips hovered there—close enough to steal your air. But his voice wasn’t steady anymore.

“Oh, I think I do,” you whispered.

Something in him snapped. His mouth slammed into yours—hungry, rough, weeks of restraint breaking in a single, reckless second.

Your back hit the wall harder. His hand slid from your throat to your waist without him realizing. As he leaned into you, the zipper of his jacket dragged lightly against the lace at your neckline, catching for the briefest second. A faint metallic sound cut through the air between you—sharp, intimate.

The rough edge of it skimmed your skin as your bodies shifted closer, fabric against fabric, heat against heat.

You felt it. He felt it.

And that was your opening. Even as the kiss deepened, your hand slipped lower—beneath the hem of your skirt.

A small breath escaped you. He broke the kiss first.

“You just don’t quit.” he muttered, irritation rough in his voice.

Too late.

The barrel of his gun dipped, lifting the edge of your skirt just enough.

His other hand caught your wrist again.

There it was.

Strapped high against your thigh.

A slim throwing knife secured in a garter band.

You shrugged slightly. “A girl should always be prepared.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

He pulled the blade free, feeling its weight in his palm.

Then he slipped it inside the inner pocket of his leather jacket, the thick material swallowing the metal with a muted slide.

Now you were standing there, stripped of steel.

The barrel of his gun never lowered. It stayed hooked beneath the hem of your skirt, lifting it just enough.

He stepped back half an inch—not to give you space, but to look.

His eyes dragged slowly over the line of your garter straps against your thighs.

You caught it again. That subtle darkening in his eyes. The tension in his jaw. The way his fingers flexed once around the grip of his gun.

He was working very hard not to react.

“See something you like, trigger boy?”

His gaze snapped back to your chest, lingering on the swell of your breasts beneath the fabric, before he gestured with the gun toward your burgundy leather jacket.

“What else are you hiding under there, huh?” he asked quietly. “Take it off.”

“Oh… you want the full tour?” you whispered, your voice dipping lower, slower. “I didn’t realize you were that desperate.”

“Take. It. Off.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth curved upward. As you unzipped it inch by inch, you didn’t take your eyes off him. "Alright, but... Careful… try not to cum in your pants, big guy.”

Clint’s jaw tightened as his manhood twitched in his pants at your words.

The room suddenly felt warmer. Too warm. Like the motel’s cheap air conditioner had decided to give up all at once. You noticed it immediately. “Getting hard already?” you teased softly. “I haven’t even finished yet.”

Clint exhaled through his nose. “You don’t have to take everything off.”

You tilted your head, a slow smile forming. “Oh?” you murmured. “Would you rather do it yourself?”

His eyes flashed with irritation. “The hell am I supposed to do with you?” he muttered.

You stepped a little closer, voice lowering. “Well,” you said lightly, “you can’t kill me.” A beat. “And you can’t take me to him.” Your gaze held his. “So that leaves one alternative. You can just say it.”

He swallowed, his gun was still aimed at you. Steady. But not quite as steady as before.

“I know you didn’t come all this way just to drag me back,” you continued. “They could’ve sent someone else. Or maybe they did, but...You wanted to come yourself.”

For a second Clint didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

The memory of the kiss from minutes earlier flickered through his mind whether he wanted it to or not.

Your fingers pressed lightly against his shoulder. You leaned closer, deliberately pressing the muzzle of his gun into the soft space between your breasts.

His eyes flicked down instantly, drawn to where the barrel rested against the lace. Your voice dropped to a whisper.

“You know,” you whispered, “we could stop pretending. You want me just as much as I want you.”

“That’s not what this is,” Clint snapped.

Cute.

It was a lie, and you could hear it in the slight roughness of his voice, see it in the way his brown eyes flickered for just a second before hardening again.

If anything, it only made you want him more.

You’d never really needed a man before. Not like this.

You took what you wanted when you wanted it—and walked away just as easily.

But Clint was different.

There was something about him — the weight he carried in those dark eyes, the quiet anger under his skin, the way he looked at you like he was trying very hard not to want you.

His stupidly handsome face. The stubborn line of his jaw. And that scar.

Your eyes kept drifting back to it—the thin, pale line cutting across his skin, sharp and imperfect against everything else that was unfairly beautiful about him.

You wondered how it felt beneath your lips.

The thought slipped into your mind before you could stop it—slowly tracing it with your mouth, following the length of it, tasting the rough edge of it just to see if he’d let you.

And of course, his eyes.

Those dark brown, wounded eyes watched you like he was already losing the fight.

It made you impossibly horny, made you want him.

Yes—you wanted him to fuck you senseless until you were so ruined and you could barely walk. You could already picture the look on his face—brows drawn tight, jaw set, muttering something under his breath as he pounded you mercilessly.

You almost came just from the thought.

And you were sure he was close too.

Yes… he was almost there. Just a little push.

“You can lie to yourself all you want,” you murmured, “I can smell it on you, Clint,” your lips almost brushing his as you guided his hand under your skirt. “You want to fuck me.”

Clint swore quietly under his breath as his fingers brushed against your damp panties. His throat was too dry, apparently, for anything but a strangled noise to escape.

“Feel how wet I am for you,” you teased. Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging just enough to make him grunt. “You should take this chance to get your frustration out.”

“God damn you, woman,” he growled — his mouth was on yours again, hard and unforgiving. Once again, your back struck the wall hard as his body pressed into yours, solid and immovable, like a storm finally breaking against stone.

A breathless mix of laughter and pain escaped your throat. His hand slid down your side and closed around your waist, firm enough to steal the air from your lungs.

You moved before you could stop yourself. Your hips shifted against him, the contact immediate.

The bulge in his pants was impossible to ignore now. Through the rough denim of his jeans you felt the hard line of him, the heat of his body pressing back against yours.

But even then, he still wasn’t giving you his full weight.

You could feel it in the tension of his body, in the way his muscles held tight—as if some last thread of restraint still kept him from collapsing into you completely.

Like a wild animal caught in a trap, he seemed to be fighting his own instincts, straining against something invisible.

And yet you were determined to tame him.

You lifted your hips, pressing against his groin. A soft breath slipped from your lips as you felt him through the thin fabric of your panties, heat pooling low in your stomach — slow, hungry, like the first spark catching dry wood.

Clint went still.

Only for a heartbeat — the last remnants of his restraint.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you, all over you.

He saw your nipples were hard, making small tents in the fabric of your dress, nearly driving him out of his mind.

His heart was racing, breathing seemed to stop entirely.

Your fingers had already tangled in the front of his jacket, clutching the worn leather like it was the only thing holding you upright. Your chest rose and fell against his, each breath brushing his mouth.

Your eyes met his.

And whatever he saw there made something dark flicker in his.

The kind that lived somewhere deeper than reason.

His cock throbbed painfully against his jeans, he was tremendously aroused, his balls felt impossibly full and heavy.

He hadn't come in what felt like forever, so long since he had buried himself balls-deep inside a tight, warm, wet pussy that he had almost forgotten what it felt like.

The desire burned through him now, fierce and relentless. All he wanted was to push deep inside you, to feel you take him completely.

“You’re practically shaking,” you murmured, almost begging. “All that anger.” A slow breath. “Go on, baby. Take it out on me.”

Clint’s jaw tightened. “Christ…” he breathed.

You were damn right. Of course you were.

Because he could feel it now — not just his own body betraying him, but yours too.

The subtle tension in the way you held him, the way you leaned closer instead of stepping back, the way your breathing had grown slower, heavier.

Like both of you were standing too close to something dangerous.

Something already burning.

Carnal.

Beneath it something far more primal had begun to rise.

Anger still lived there, yes — sharp and restless.

Raw.

He hadn’t thought about a woman that way in a long time.

Not since everything had gone to hell.

For months he’d convinced himself that part of him was gone, buried somewhere under anger, grief, and the kind of quiet loneliness that followed him everywhere.

A week ago he might have even believed it.

But you had started showing up in his thoughts anyway.

At first it had just been irritation.

The way you talked. The way you looked at him like you could see straight through him.

Damn.

By the end of the week he’d found himself lying awake more than once, trying to get the image of you out of his head. It hadn’t worked.

Nothing about it felt right. Nothing about it felt fair.

Because whatever had woken up inside him again wasn’t the quiet, controlled thing he used to know.

Primal.

A deep, physical hunger he hadn’t felt in a long damn time.

And now here you were. Standing right in front of him. Saying things like that. Looking like that. Pushing him further than anyone had dared in years.

He was furious with you. And somehow that only made it worse.He felt dangerously close to losing his damn mind.

Even Clint Flood was just a man, after all.

Frankly, the fact that he’d lasted this long around you was a miracle.

Someone should probably give him a damn medal.

And just like that, his revolver left his hand, clattering across the motel floor — neither of you caring where it landed.

His nostrils flared as he grabbed the back of your neck and dragged your mouth back to his, crashing his lips against yours again, the back of your head bumping against the wall a little rough — but you didn’t care.

He wasn’t kissing you, he was devouring you.

Your breaths tangled together as his mouth moved against yours with reckless urgency. A quiet sound escaped your throat before you could stop it, swallowed instantly as he pulled you closer, his hand tightened in your hair.

You couldn’t help the stray thought — did he eat like this too when he was starving?

There was nothing restrained about it now.

Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped, sending everything spiraling with no brakes.

You felt it in the way his body pressed into yours — no space left between you, no hesitation in the way his hands gripped you.

The fight was over.

And the realization sent a sharp thrill through you.

Your heart was racing now, pounding hard against your ribs as the weight of what came next settled in.

The wild thing that had resisted you moments ago had finally given in.

He was all yours now.

You had no idea how long he had been kissing you. Clint drank from your mouth like a starving man, like something feral had finally been let loose after being caged far too long.

Teeth, breath, heat—nothing controlled about it anymore. His grip tightened at your waist as he pressed you against the wall, his body crowding into yours like he needed to feel every inch of you pressed against him.

His hand slipped from your shoulder, sliding down your side before disappearing beneath the hem of your skirt. He pushed aside your panties and ran a finger along your folds. A desperate whine escaped your throat, only urging him on. He repeated the motion a few more times before sliding a finger into your tight pussy, making you shiver and moan. His other hand was busy undressing you, yanking the straps of your dress down and letting it pool around your feet.

His mouth kept devouring yours, swallowing your breath and every broken sound that escaped you.

The rough scrape of his stubble grazed your cheeks as his thumb found your clit, circling it roughly until you were panting helplessly into his mouth.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You had no idea how, but he seemed to know the ins and outs of your body, making you fall apart in his hands.

He was so good at it—better than you expected.

Fucking sexy bastard, you thought, a smile tugging at your lips beneath his.

Butterflies swirled wildly in your stomach, the feeling rising until it tightened into a small knot in your throat. Your nails dug into his shoulders, the leather jacket creaking under your grip.

He pushed a second finger inside you, making you jerk slightly against his palm, your eyes rolling back.

When his lips finally detached from yours, he moved to your neck, leaving small bites along your pulse point and jaw before soothing them with his tongue. It didn’t take long before you felt your orgasm approaching. Then you realized how madly you were grinding against his palm—only for his fingers to suddenly leave you. You let out a pathetic whine as he hoisted you up with one arm, carried you a few steps, and threw you onto the bed.

Hasty and a little rough, he turned you over, hauled your hips up and forced you onto your hands and knees, his strength almost inhuman as he dragged you to the edge of the bed.

“Yeah. Do it,” you said, managing to keep it from sounding like a beg.

The sound of the impatient, almost animal grunt he let out as he grabbed his belt and unzipped his denim sent a rush of hot lust straight to your core.

Impatiently, you looked over your shoulder, giving him a smoldering look—only to see his pants and boxers drop to the floor with a heavy thud.

His cock sprang free, slapping heavily against his stomach.

Your mouth fell open in awe as you realized how big he was, biting your lower lip hard at the sight. Your mind reeling. Almost instinctively, like a cat in heat raising its tail, your ass lifted invitingly into the air, your legs spreading apart and opening the folds of your pussy.

“Fuck,” he growled as he grabbed your ass, his thick fingers hooking, yanking your panties down your legs.

He sank onto his knees behind you, the mattress dipping beneath his weight and pulling your body back toward him. For a moment he simply watched, admiring the curve of your ass before his hand closed around it, squeezing the flesh hard enough to leave a bruise as he stroked himself. Then you felt him pressing right up against your core, the contact pulled a breath from you. You needed this—fuck, how badly you needed it, you had never been this aroused.

You could feel your pussy growing wetter, almost dripping, aching with need—so ready for him, so desperate to be fucked. You pushed your hips back, grinding your ass against his throbbing, rock-hard cock, your body tightening and trembling, your pussy clenching and contracting as the thick shaft pressed insistently against you.

He was painfully hard, veins standing out and straining along his length, the tip slick with precum as it dragged slowly between your thighs — teasing, claiming, making your breath catch in your throat.

Your eyes rolled back, the room seemed to tilt around you.

His knee tucked under yours to spread your folds before he finally thrust into you from behind. He pushed his raging cock forward, the head forcing your wet, swollen lips apart until they felt like they might tear. Your head fell back with a sharp cry as he filled you, stretching you open—almost too much—your walls tightening around him, your slick heat taking him inch by inch, clinging like it refusing to let him go. He grunted, eyes shutting as he threw his head back. You barely caught your breath before he pulled back, his cock almost slipping out of you before he pushed it back inside again. His grip on you tightened before his palm came down in a sharp spank and another. You were damn sure red handprints were already blooming across your ass. But you didn’t even care. If anything, it only made your stomach flutter.

All you could think about was how good it felt—how badly you wanted those chubby fingers on you again. There was an equal mix of anger and desire in the way he fucked you from behind, rocking you forward on your hands and knees. His big palms locked around your hips as he drove into you faster and faster. Then his hand came down again—harder this time—the sharp crack drawing a helpless moan from your lips and pushing you closer to your orgasm. And then it hit suddenly—your walls tightening and trembling as you came hard around him, squeezing him just right. Your nails dug into the sheets, scratching down the fabric with a sharp sound. He grunted but didn’t stop. You were still shivering in the aftershocks when he remained buried deep inside you, leaning close to whisper into your ear. “Easy. Fuck… Thought you could handle it.” Wait… Was he chuckling?

Before you could say a word, he fisted your hair and yanked you back against his chest, your bare back colliding with the hard plane of his still-clothed torso, the rough fabric of his shirt and jacket scraping against your skin. The metal zipper of his jacket grazed against your ass as he thrust into you, the contact sharp enough to drive you crazy. “You asked for it,” he muttered, thrusting into you harder. “C’mon… take it.” His breath was hot against your ear. “Yeah… you can do that again, right, tough girl? Take it— fuck…Just like that."

You weren’t sure if he was angry anymore. If you could see his face, maybe you could tell, but right now he was fucking you like he hated you—yet deep down you felt something else. The way he kissed your neck, his hands finding your breasts over the bra, thumbs brushing your nipples through the fabric, his arms wrapped tight around you—possessive—his teeth grazing your earlobe… all of it told a different story. Well, you didn’t give a fuck. You just wanted to come all over him again, because the first one had been so delicious yet so sudden—and the second one would be even better. His cock just felt amazing inside you. Anger was swallowed up by lust—and something else. You pushed your hips back, taking every inch of him, groaning with pleasure when he grabbed your hips even tighter and fucked you harder.

Your ass smacked hard against his stomach with every thrust— no rhythm, just force. You could feel the deep pulse of his head banging against your cervix. A helpless sound broke from you as he drove into you again—deeper, rougher—your inner muscles tightening around him, pulling him in like it needed more. Clint too, low sounds escaping him at the slick heat of you wrapped tightly around his cock. Your sounds mingled together, pleasure driving him wild. He continued to pound you hard, slamming the full length of that glorious cock right inside you, slapping his heavy balls hard against your cunt every time he went fully deep, savoring the heat of your insides squeezing around him.  The headboard slammed against the wall, the room filled with the loud, sinful sounds of your hard fucking—noise loud enough to wake the dead. Soon, Clint felt like he was burning from the inside out as he drove forward with relentless force, heat flooding his body until it was almost unbearable. A rough growl left his throat, his brows drawn tight with focus as sweat dampened his skin. He snarled against your skin as he shrugged off his jacket, dragging it down his shoulders with his mouth still at your neck before tossing it to the floor without slowing down. The sudden movement sent you pitching forward, catching yourself on your forearms against the mattress. The flannel followed seconds later. Then he grabbed you again, sliding his arm around your neck from behind and pulling you tightly back against him, hauling you flush against his body. Your nails dug into his bicep as you clung to him, eyes squeezed shut, feeling the rough brush of hair along his arms and the solid press of his thighs against your bare ones, sending delicious vibrations through your core. He kept moving. Driving into you with hard, relentless thrusts. Your warmth tightened around him, gripping him with every movement. The pressure kept building, higher and tighter with each stroke. Your moans grew louder, breath breaking as the sound of skin slapping against skin kept filling the room. Your head felt hazy, overwhelmed by the heat and the delicious fullness of him moving inside you. You only realized he’d torn off his gray T-shirt too when his bare chest pressed against your back—warm, damp with sweat. Clint groaned low in his throat as you clenched and pulsed around him, the heat rushing straight through him. “Fuck… Clint—oh God,” you gasped as you came for the second time. Fucking hell. You were perfect.  The last of his control snapped. He buried himself deeper and came hard, the force of it ripping a rough sound from his chest. You glanced back, wanting to see his face when he cums. He looked wrecked in the best way—brows drawn tight, jaw tense as he groaned against your collarbone. Your head fell back against his shoulder, breathing hard, your eyes fixed on him. On his lashes. On the tight line of his jaw. He didn’t notice. He was so lost in the wave crashing through him, eyes shut as the last of the tension drained from his body. Your walls tightened once more, pulling a final shudder from him as you milked him dry, and he poured every last drop deep inside you. For a moment neither of you moved. You stayed pressed together, the slick warmth between you almost gluing your bodies together, breathing hard as the pounding in your ears slowly faded.  His arms were still around you when his eyes finally opened. There was no regret there.

Just heavy-lidded exhaustion and something softer—like he wasn’t sure if the moment had really happened. Then his half-hard cock slipped from you as he fell back onto the mattress. He dragged the back of his hand across his forehead, his perfect torso rising and falling with heavy breaths. You watched him for a moment.

Then you reached for the edge of the sheet and wiped the warm mixture of your combined release that had spilled between your thighs onto the mattress. Your eyes never left the wound on his shoulder. Curious, you crawled toward him across the bed. With one hand you brushed a damp lock of hair away from your forehead and tucked it behind your ear before leaning closer, studying the wound. Clint opened his eyes. For a moment neither of you spoke. You simply looked at each other. You smiled first. “Hey.” His gaze softened. A quiet breath left him and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Hey,” he replied. Your smile widened. You leaned across the other side of the bed toward the nightstand, grabbing a pack of cigarettes. You slid one between your lips, flicked the lighter, and took a slow drag before exhaling. For a moment you simply enjoyed it. Then you leaned back against the pillows.

Clint’s eyes had dropped to your bare ass as you moved across the bed. Slowly his gaze lifted to your face again. He still looked like he wasn’t entirely convinced this was real. You pulled the cigarette from your lips and held it out toward him. “Want one?” He shook his head once. You ignored him. Reaching over the nightstand again, you pulled another cigarette from the pack and placed it between his lips. You cupped the lighter with your hand and lit it for him. Clint inhaled slowly, his eyes lifting to yours through the flame for a brief second before the lighter clicked shut. Smoke drifted lazily from his mouth as he leaned back. God, he looked unfairly good like this. Bare chest, rumpled sheets, cigarette between his meaty lips. He rested his hand over his knee while watching the smoke curl upward. You leaned closer, resting the hand holding your cigarette on his shoulder, your pinky finger tracing gently around the scar. “Does it hurt?” He turned his head toward you. Then he shook it once. “Not anymore,” he said simply, taking another drag. You did the same and moved closer beside him, propping yourself up on your elbow. “You know I should’ve shot you,” you said smugly. “They would’ve gotten suspicious otherwise.” Clint barked out a rough laugh. “Ah,” he said, shaking his head. “So you’re not completely heartless after all. Guess I should be grateful. For shooting me.” You shrugged. “I barely grazed you. And yeah… you should.” You both laughed quietly. God. He looked even more handsome when he laughed. Especially lying there beside you, naked in the aftermath of the best sex you’d had in your life, smoke curling lazily from his cigarette. Then Clint’s expression shifted.

He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the cigarette before taking another drag. He studied your face more carefully now, like he was trying to memorize every detail. His gaze drifted briefly to the scar at your neck. He hesitated. “I don’t get you,” he said finally. “Why risk your life like this?” You took another drag from your cigarette, tapping the ash off with your finger. Then you shrugged. “Got bored.” Clint didn’t buy it. “Be straight with me for once,” he said, giving you a hard look. You took a long pull from the cigarette and exhaled slowly, smoke drifting between you as your eyes stayed locked on his. This time you were sincere. You trusted him enough for that. “Revenge,” you said quietly. “Settling a score. And I need the money.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s a hell of a combination. Now maybe try being a little more specific.” You smirked faintly, took one last drag, and crushed the cigarette into the ashtray. “You know my story.” He said softly. “What’s yours?”  You looked away. “For a long time,” you said quietly, “I didn’t get to choose anything.” A beat. “Now I do.” You reached for the cigarette pack again. Clint watched you quietly, the cigarette burning low between his fingers. The ashtray sat on your side of the bed. Without a word, you held it out toward him. Clint leaned closer and crushed his cigarette into it. For a moment he stayed there, close enough that you could still smell the smoke on him. Then his eyes lifted. “So that’s what this is about,” he said quietly. A small pause. “The Guy.” His gaze sharpened slightly. “Is that why you left me the notes?” You shrugged. “Your file didn’t say much. Just dates. Places. Jobs.” He said your name for the first time, you glanced at him. “That stepfather of yours…” he tried again. His eyes flicked briefly to the scar on your neck. “That where this started?” “Yeah,” you said quietly. "Everything started with him.” A slow drag. “My mom married him when I was nine.” A humorless smile touched your lips. “That’s when hell started.” Clint reached out, his fingers gently brushing against your scar. "Did he do that to you?" “That?” you said. “No.” You leaned back slightly and pointed to another faint scar near your stomach. “This one was the first. I was ten.” Another drag of the cigarette. “There are more. Some healed. Some didn’t.” You exhaled slowly. “My mom loved him too much to see it. Or maybe she did. She just never did a damn thing about it.” Clint said nothing. Listening. “The worst part wasn’t the beatings, ” you continued quietly. “Not even when he hit her while she was pregnant… or when he hit me every night. The worst part was the act.” You stared at the cigarette between your fingers. “She played the perfect wife. The perfect mom. When teachers asked about the bruises…” You exhaled smoke slowly. “She told them I was clumsy.” Your voice tightened. “I didn’t understand why she hated me. Not until I was sixteen.” A pause settled between you. Your eyes dropped slightly. “That was the first night he walked into my room.” The words hung in the air. Your hand moved quickly, brushing the corner of your eye before the tear could fall. Clint lowered his head for a moment. None of this had been in the file. Not a word. When he looked back up, his voice was quiet. “He was a cop. And connected to The Guy.”

You leaned back against the headboard, smoke curling slowly toward the ceiling. “Friendly neighborhood cop,” you said. “The kind people trusted. Perfect husband. Perfect father.” A faint, humorless smile touched your lips. “But inside that house… he was a monster.” You leaned back against the headboard and said, “I ran away when I turned eighteen.” Your tone had steadied now as you talked about the years that followed—training and learning to fight. You wanted to ensure that no man would ever touch you like that again or hurt you in the same way. Clint listened without interrupting. Finally he said quietly, recalling the file, “He died two years ago. House fire.” His eyes flickered slightly as he remembered the name in the file — and the same name in a news report he’d seen back then. “I remember seeing that one.” You looked at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I did it.” Clint froze.

You exhaled slowly, flicking ash into the tray. “Mom was already dead by the time I got the call. I went back to Oakland for the funeral. That’s when I found out my sister wasn’t even living there anymore.” Your jaw tightened slightly. “They’d locked her in a care facility.” Clint frowned. “She has cerebral palsy,” you said, your voice steady. “She was just a baby when I left.” You took another drag of your cigarette. “Something in me snapped right there.” Your gaze drifted, distant now.“I stayed the night.” A bitter smile. “He was real happy to see me.” Your mouth twisted in disgust. “Drunk. Same as always. Hands everywhere…  Like my mother hadn’t just died.” Your eyes darkened. “Called my sister a burden. Said she barely counted as human. That she didn’t deserve to live in a house.”

Clint closed his eyes and muttered a quiet curse under his breath. You watched the smoke curl upward. “And just like that… I decided it was time.” Your voice stayed calm. “I opened the gas. Walked outside. Then tossed my lighter through the window.” You snapped your fingers softly. “Boom.” A dark smile crossed your face. “The whole damn house lit up. Like fireworks.” Your fingers brushed the scar on your neck. “Only problem was… I didn’t duck fast enough.”  Clint exhaled slowly. Something clicked.  Now it made sense. The Guy had known exactly who you were. “You were right,” he said quietly. “He sent the others after you.” A pause. “He wants you.” His jaw tightened. “Listen… You don’t move alone anymore.” You tilted your head slightly. “What is this, Clint?” you asked. “You pitying me?” A faint smile tugged at your lips.

“Or are you falling for me?” Clint studied you for a long moment. “Don’t know what it is,” he said quietly. “But I know one thing.” His eyes held yours. “He had this coming.” He leaned in slightly. “So yeah. Let me help you finish it.” You raised an eyebrow. “Why? Because you think I can’t do it alone?” “I didn’t say you can’t.” You sighed, long and tired. “I’m not stupid, Clint,” you said quietly. “Of course I can’t keep doing this alone. But I’m done. Rico was my last stop.” A faint smirk crossed your face. “Finish The Guy, you said? He’s already finished.” Clint frowned. “What are you talking about?” “The list.” You leaned back slightly. “My stepdad kept records.” “Records?” “Old ones. Names. Accounts. Years of it. Rico’s shipments filled in the rest. I gave the whole thing to the FBI.”  Clint leaned back slightly, processing. “Jesus…” “The Guy’s empire is about to get audited.” Clint narrowed his eyes. “You left me those notes… If I’d listened, I’d be clear of this.” His gaze sharpened. “…you trying to keep me out of it?” You slipped the cigarette between your lips. “Maybe.” Clint reached forward, taking the cigarette from your lips. His eyes locked onto yours. “Well,” he muttered, a faint smirk pulling at his mouth, “That’ll do it.” “You’re falling for the woman who shot you?” Clint’s gaze flicked to your lips. “Worth the bullet.” Then he leaned in and kissed you. This time it wasn’t rough like before. Not angry. Not desperate. Different. His mouth parted over yours and you answered instantly, letting him in, the kiss deepening as if both of you had been holding your breath for too long.

His hands slid around you, drawing you closer, warm and steady at your back. Your fingers curled into his shoulders as the kiss lingered. There was something slower in the way he touched you now. Careful. Almost curious. “For the record… I’m still a little sorry I shot you,” you murmured, breaking the kiss. Clint’s mouth twitched. “Yeah? Didn’t feel that sorry.” You rolled your eyes, your fingers drifting to the scar on his shoulder. Lightly, you traced the edge of it. “Oh, I felt it,” you said softly. Clint’s gaze darkened. “Hm..” His hand moved along your back, finding the clasp there with an ease that made your breath hitch. When the fabric loosened, his fingers traced slowly over your skin, the contrast between his earlier roughness and this quiet patience sending a strange, electric warmth through your chest. He cupped your breasts, his thumbs brushing across your nipples until they hardened beneath his touch. You bit your lip, trying to steady your breathing. “Feel this too?” he murmured. His mouth followed a second later, warm and slow. You sighed and nodded. He trailed kisses downward, slow and teasing, his tongue flicking over your nipples until they tightened into hard points. His hands slid lower, spreading across your hips before curling beneath your ass, pulling you closer against him. Then he shifted. Rising slightly, He got up and climbed in between your legs. His cock waved in front of him, slapping his right leg and then swinging and getting even bigger.  Your breath caught. Almost without thinking, your hand drifted down between your legs. You touched yourself, fingers sliding over your pussy, and felt just how wet you already were—slick and dripping with need for him. Clint lowered his head, pressing a line of soft kisses along your neck, your shoulder, the place where your pulse fluttered beneath his lips. His cock felt heavy and solid against your belly, pressing into you with weight and heat. Then he lifted himself above you, his body hovering over yours as he guided himself down, positioning himself between your thighs. Slowly, he rubbed against you, the head of his cock sliding over your mound before drifting lower, brushing against your slick folds. A shiver ran through you. He pushed forward slightly, the tip easing against your entrance before slipping in just a little. You whimpered, watching his length disappear inside you inch by inch. He was big—so much that even the smallest movement stretched you, filling you with a firm, steady pressure. His mouth closed around your nipple again, tongue warm and wet as he sucked hungrily. You moaned, lifting your hips and pushing forward. That small movement was enough. Clint’s cock slid fully into you. Your walls tightened around him immediately and he let out a low grunt at the sudden heat. “Look at me.” You did. His hand tightened around your waist. “Yeah… feel that?” A smirk tugged at his mouth. “She squeezin’ me tight like she already know she mine now.” You panted softly, teasing, “Yours, huh?” “Damn right you are.” Then he began to move, pulling back slowly before pressing into you again in a steady rhythm. Each thrust sent another wave of heat through your body as the tension built higher and higher. You cried out, your hands clutching at his neck. He lowered himself toward you, and you began kissing him madly, passionately, while that solid length kept plunging into your sloppy-wet pussy. It didn’t take long after that.

The tension that had been building between you finally snapped, and the two of you reached the edge together, breathless and shaking. For a while neither of you moved. Eventually Clint rolled onto his back, pulling you with him. The room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing as you both tried to calm down. A moment later you reached for another cigarette, lighting it before passing it to him. You lay there beside him, the dim glow of the ember flickering in the darkness. Somewhere between quiet laughs, lingering touches, and half-whispered confessions, the walls between you started to fall away. The anger that had sparked everything earlier felt distant now, replaced by something warmer—something real. At some point you ended up kissing again. Slowly at first. Then faster, deeper. Like neither of you had just spent hours fucking. One thing led to another, and you explored every inch of each other’s bodies—every curve, every shiver—until soon you were wrapped up in each other again, the night stretching on around you. Again and again, you came together, sometimes at the same time, sometimes one after the other, talking, laughing, touching—until eventually the darkness outside the window began to fade.

Pale morning light slipped through the thin motel curtains. You woke slowly, warm and tangled in unfamiliar sheets. Clint’s arm was draped loosely around your back, heavy with sleep. Your cheek rested against his chest, rising and falling with each slow breath. His skin was warm. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat hummed beneath your ear. One of his hands still rested on your hip, like even in sleep he hadn’t quite let you go. The room smelled faintly of last night — sex, cigarette smoke, and something new neither of you had quite figured out yet. A sharp knock broke the quiet. Clint woke instantly. Knock. Knock.  “Housekeeping!” Clint groaned, voice rough with sleep. “Go away.” You smiled against his chest. “Charming.” He cracked one eye open. “What time is it?” You shifted slightly, still half draped over him.

“Late enough that someone’s trying to clean up our bad decisions.” Clint snorted softly. “Too late for that.” You lifted your head and kissed him. Slow at first. Then not so slow. When you pulled back, you studied his face in the morning light. “Hmm,” you murmured. “You’re even more handsome in daylight.” Clint squinted at you. “Don’t spread that around. Got a reputation to keep.” That made you giggle. Knock. Knock. Knock. This time louder. Clint exhaled sharply. “I said-” He stopped suddenly. And there was no answer this time. You both looked at each other. That was wrong. Your smile disappeared. In one smooth motion you reached for the nightstand, fingers closing around your gun. You slid out of bed and raised it toward the door. Clint was already moving. Boxers, then his jeans — pulled on fast, belt buckled in one sharp motion.

He straightened and lifted a hand toward you. A silent wait.  Then he stepped slowly toward the door. Another knock. Closer now. From the other side came a calm voice. “Mr. Flood.” Clint stopped. Your grip tightened on the gun. Then the man outside continued. “Got a call for you. Asked me to pass along a message.” Clint’s jaw tightened. “What message?” Silence for a beat. “Payment’s due.” The room went still. Clint slowly turned his head toward you. You already knew what that meant. Outside, somewhere in the parking lot, a car door slammed. Clint grabbed his shirt from the chair. “Get dressed.” You were already halfway there. You stepped into your underwear and pulled your dress over your head, fingers quickly combing through your hair to tame the worst of it. Clint moved to the window and lifted the curtain just enough to look out. “Fuck.They’re here.” He pulled on his shirt, then reached for his leather jacket, checking the revolver before sliding it into the back of his waistband. You snapped open the cylinder of your own gun and fed fresh rounds into it.  Click. Click. Click.  Then you closed it and grabbed your jacket from the floor. You stepped beside him and peeked through the curtain. One sedan. And a van pulling into the lot behind it. Doors opened. Men climbing out. Your brows lifted slightly. “Well… that escalated fast.” Clint didn’t smile. “Almost ten.” You watched them spread out across the parking lot. “So,” you said quietly, slipping into that calm, operational tone, “how are we playing this?” Clint shook his head immediately. “We’re not.” He let the curtain fall. You glanced at him. “Excuse me?” He didn't reply, he just sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots.

You slipped into your heels and started toward the door. Clint’s hand shot out, grabbing your arm before you could reach it. “What are you doing?” You looked at him like the answer was obvious. “We take them out.” He shook his head immediately. “Too many. We don’t win that fight.” You scoffed. “Since when do you scare easy, Flood?” “Since the day you robbed me.” He zipped up his jacket and glanced toward your bag. “Take the money. Go.” He nodded toward the back of the room. “Fire escape.” You stared at him. “Clint, don’t be stupid. What do you think you’re doing?” “Buying you time.” “They’ll kill you.” A small, humorless smile crossed his face. “No. They won’t. Not right away.” Your expression hardened. “Damn it Clint. That supposed to make me feel better?” Clint shook his head. “They’re after you. And the money.” You swore under your breath. “Fuck… fuck. I can’t believe this.” You shoved the rest of your things into the bag and slung it over your shoulder. For a second you just looked at him. “You expect me to just walk away?” Clint’s gaze softened for half a second. “I expect you to survive.” You stepped closer and grabbed the collar of his leather jacket, pulling him down into a hard kiss. His arm wrapped around your waist instantly, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened for one brief reckless moment. Then he pulled back first. “Go.” You held his gaze. “Don’t die, Clint Flood. I still need that perfect ass in one piece, got it?” Clint let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “I’ll try.” He opened the window and pushed it toward the metal fire escape. You climbed out onto the narrow landing, the cold metal railing biting into your hands.

Behind you, Clint was already moving toward the door as voices and footsteps spilling across the motel lot below.

The music reached you before anything else. Low. Muffled. Bleeding through walls like a distant pulse. Voices layered over it—indistinct, blurred together. Your head throbbed. For a second, it almost felt like you’d passed out at some crowded party, left somewhere you didn’t belong. Heavy-limbed, warm, disoriented. Then the pain settled in. Sharp. Real. Anchoring. You inhaled slowly, blinking against the dim light as your vision struggled to focus. Memory didn’t come back all at once. It crept in—fragment by fragment. The care center. Fluorescent lights. The smell of antiseptic. Your sister’s hand in yours. The envelope of cash pressed across the desk. The administrator’s careful nod. The rest of the money—hidden. Safe.

Tucked away where no one would think to look. Then the parking lot. Cool air. The quiet hum of the night. A sound behind you. Too many footsteps. You had turned. Instinct. One of them went down fast—your body moving before your mind could catch up, a clean strike that sent him collapsing onto the pavement. But there had been another. A flash of movement. Then— impact. Blunt. Brutal. Right at the base of your skull. Darkness rushed in before you even hit the ground. You remembered hands catching you. Rough. Impersonal. Voices. Laughter. Someone swearing as you kicked blindly. Being dragged. Then nothing. Your eyes opened fully. Your wrists burned. The sensation hit first—tight, unforgiving pressure biting into your skin. Tied to the chair, your hands bound behind your back. You didn’t move immediately. Just breathed. Listened. Measured. Then, slowly, you tested the ropes.

They held. Tight, but not so tight. “Amateurs,” you murmured under your breath, voice dry despite the copper taste still lingering in your mouth. Your gaze drifted toward the window. Dark outside. Not just evening—night. Three hours, at least. Maybe more. Your pulse steadied. Panic would get you killed. You shifted slightly in the chair, subtle, controlled. Your shoulders rolled back just enough to give your wrists space to move. The rope didn’t loosen—but it gave. A fraction. That was enough. Under the sleeve of your leather jacket, tight against your wrist, the small blade was still there — a faint, familiar pressure against your skin. If you could just work your wrist lower— angle your hand— slide it free— “Look who finally decided to wake up.” Your head snapped up. The Guy stood in the doorway, a glass of whiskey in his hand,

the amber liquid catching the low light as he stepped inside. He moved without urgency. Without tension. Like this—all of this—was already under control. Suspenders stretched clean over a crisp shirt. Sleeves rolled just enough. Every detail deliberate. Composed. He set the glass down on his desk with a soft clink. Your eyes tracked the room again. Desk. Door behind him. Voices below—clearer now. Multiple men. Armed.No easy exits. And Clint— Your chest tightened before you could stop it. Where was he? Alive? The thought hit hard enough to sting.You shoved it down immediately. Not now. The Guy said your name. You looked at him. He didn’t move right away—just stood there, watching you like he had all the time in the world. He stepped closer, slow and unhurried, his shoes barely making a sound. “I was wondering how long you’d last.” His gaze dipped—brief, precise—to the restraints at your wrists, then back to your face. Nothing rushed. Nothing wasted. “You’ve had quite the night.” You tilted your head slightly, studying him right back. “Didn’t hear you complaining earlier.” That earned the faintest shift in his mouth. A smile—but not warm. Not kind. Just… amused. “Oh, I’m not complaining.” A beat. “I’m impressed.” He moved then, circling you slowly, measured—like he was inspecting something rare. Something dangerous. “You hit one of my men. Emptied Rico’s safe. And found things you weren’t supposed to find.”He stepped behind you, close enough that you could feel him without seeing him. “Old records. My records. And somehow…” Another beat. “…you managed to turn my best collector into a liability.” His voice dropped. “All that…” A soft chuckle. “…brought down by a woman. That’s almost embarrassing.” You held his gaze. “Sounds like poor management.” His eyes settled on you. “So now I have a problem.” A slight tilt of his head. Almost curious. “And you are either going to solve it for me—” a brief pause, controlled— “or become an example.” He moved, slower now, more deliberate, and sat on the edge of the desk across from you. Close enough that you could see the tension in his jaw. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said. No raised voice. No anger. Worse. Control. “You tell me where the money is. You give me the list. And I don’t kill you.” You let out a quiet breath, almost thoughtful.“Mm. No.” His eyes darkened. “Spent it,” you added lightly. “As for the list…” You leaned back as much as the ropes allowed, expression calm. “Let’s just say it’s in very interested hands.” A faint smile.

“Hands that love digging into things like yours.” The shift was instant. His hand came fast. The crack echoed in the room as your head snapped to the side. Pain bloomed sharp and bright. Blood filled your mouth. You spat it onto the floor. “Wow,” you muttered, voice rough. “That’s how you treat a lady?” His fingers fisted into your collar, dragging you forward. “I don’t make distinctions,” he said coldly, inches from your face. “Men. Women. Doesn’t matter. I’m very progressive like that.” Behind your back, your fingers finally closed around the knife. Relief flickered—brief, controlled. You angled the blade against the rope. Started cutting. Slow. Careful. He let you go, stepping back. “You deserve worse.” You looked up at him, blood trailing from your lip. “Funny,” you breathed. “Guess we don’t always get what we deserve.” The fibers began to give. Almost there. He reached for the shotgun leaning beside the desk and brought it up, setting it down with deliberate weight. Metal against wood. Final. “Well,” he said, sliding a shell in with a sharp click. “There’s something you should understand about me.” Another click. “I always win.” The sound made something in your chest tighten— The door opened. One of his men leaned in, eyes flicking over you with a crude kind of amusement. “She’s awake, huh? Cooper’s been waiting,” he added, grin widening. “Figured maybe you let him have a little fun, y’know… do it in front of Flood.” A low chuckle. “Looks like he’s got a thing for this one.” The name hit you like a jolt. Your eyes snapped toward the other side of the room. Toward the door. The way they looked— he was there? The Guy’s eyes flicked toward the man—sharp.

“Tell him to sit the hell down.” A beat. “I’ll deal with her myself.” His gaze shifted to you. The man only smirked. “Alright.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, glancing back toward the corner of the room. “Maybe we let him wake up first, yeah? Might make things more interesting.” A crooked grin. “Fuck, man… you should see him.” He nodded again, this time slower. “Tuck’s crew worked him over pretty good in the van.” A shrug. “He’s not waking up anytime soon.” Your head tilted—just slightly. Not enough to give it away. But enough to follow his gaze. There. A shape in the shadows. Still. Too still. Your chest tightened. Clint. The Guy didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. “Travis,” he said, flat. "Shut your mouth and get out of my office.” The grin faded—just a little. “Yeah, yeah…” Travis turned toward the door— just as it opened.

Another man rushed in, breath short, eyes wide. “Boss— we got a problem. FBI’s here. They’re moving in—taking our men in, front and back.” “Oops,” you murmured lightly. Every eye in the room snapped to you. The Guy didn’t move at first. Then slowly— he looked at the man. “Could you repeat that? 'Cause it sounded to me like you said FBI' in my house and taking my people?" "Yes, sir, that's what I said." Then his gaze turned to you. Sharp. Calculating. You met it. And smiled. “You don’t look like you’re winning right now.” The Guy’s jaw clenched. “Handle it,” he said sharply. “Don’t let them inside.” Boots thundered out of the room. The door slammed. And your rope gave. You didn’t hesitate. You lunged. The chair crashed backward as you drove into him, both of you hitting the ground hard. The shotgun slid off the desk.

You went for his throat— He drove his elbow into your ribs. Air exploded from your lungs. Outside— “FBI! DOWN! DOWN!” Gunfire. Chaos ripping through the building. He kicked you—hard. Chest. Then your jaw. White light burst across your vision. The knife flew from your hand, skidding across the floor. He grabbed the shotgun. Turned it on you. “Fucking bitch—” his voice shook now, raw with rage. “You ruined everything!” His finger tightened. “If I’m going down—” The barrel leveled at your chest. “You’re coming with me.” The shot rang out. You flinched— Waited— Nothing. The Guy’s expression changed. Confusion. Then— absence. A dark hole opened in his forehead. The shotgun slipped from his hands. His body dropped. Dead before it hit the floor. Silence swallowed the room. You looked up. And saw him. Clint. In the doorway. Barely standing.

Blood everywhere.Gun still raised.Smoke curling from the barrel. He swayed. You were moving before you realized it. “Clint—” You caught him as he stumbled, your hands coming up to his face, holding him there. Bruised. Split lip. Cuts across his face, his brow. His eyes found yours. “You okay?” he rasped. His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Your face…” You huffed out a breath, almost a laugh, even as your eyes moved over him—taking in the bruises, the blood, the way he was holding himself. “You’re one to talk.” Clint barely reacted. Just glanced down at the blood on his shirt, then back at you. “I’ve seen worse,” he said. His eyes lingered on your lip again. You pulled him into you, holding him tighter than you meant to. Then— The door burst open. “FBI!” Agents flooded in, weapons raised, voices sharp. One of them stopped when he saw you. Recognition.

You rolled your eyes. “About damn time, Jefferson.” He sighed, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Oakland traffic.” Clint glanced between you, confused. “Friends of yours?” You shifted his arm more securely around your shoulders, taking his weight. “Long story.” Behind you— “Alright, move!” Jefferson snapped, his tone shifting instantly. “Spread out—secure the room. Bag everything.” Agents moved fast, voices overlapping, metal drawers opening, evidence bags snapping shut. Jefferson stepped further in, eyes sweeping once—then landing on The Guy. He nodded toward the body. “You do that?” he asked, casual. You didn’t even look back.“No,” you said, steady. A small pause. “His own man did.” Jefferson exhaled through his nose, almost amused. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That tracks.” A quick glance at Clint. Then back to you. “Guess we’re even now.” You nodded. Then he turned away. “Lock it down!” You started toward the door. “Come on, big guy.” Agents spread through the room, shouting, securing, cataloging. You and Clint moved through it all— down the hallway. Down the stairs. He leaned into you more now. You adjusted, steady. “Careful,” you muttered. “I’d rather you pin me to a bed than crush me on a staircase.” A breath of a laugh left him. “Noted.” You glanced up at him, eyes flicking over the bruises. “Someone’s gonna pay for that face.” He looked at you, tired but sharp. “Thought I was the one falling for you.”You smirked. “Don’t push it.” Outside— The Guy’s men lined up in cuffs. Chaos settling into order. You walked past it. Together. Toward his car. Red and blue lights washed over the street behind you. Agents moved through the house, voices sharp,

controlled—pulling men out in cuffs, stacking them against the flashing cruisers. The Guy’s world, unraveling piece by piece. You glanced at him. “Guess that makes you officially retired now, Clint.” A beat. “Now what?” Clint didn’t answer right away. Still watching as the last of them were dragged out. “Haven’t figured that out yet.” Then he looked at you. A small smile. “Guess I’ll see where you go.” “That’s cute.” You patted the roof of the car—once, twice. "Then try not to fall behind, tough guy.”

Two weeks later. Santa Cruz.

The air smelled like salt and clean sunlight. You stood just outside the fenced garden, one hand resting lightly against the railing, watching. They were helping her walk. Slow steps. Careful. Supported on both sides by staff. Your chest tightened anyway. But she was standing. That was enough. More than enough.

You reached into your pocket, pulling out a cigarette, rolling it between your fingers— A lighter clicked before you could. You glanced sideways. Clint. You leaned in slightly, letting him light it. “Thanks.” Your eyes dropped briefly to the duffel at his feet. You smirked faintly. “Someone finally decided to leave Oakland.” Clint exhaled, gaze drifting toward the horizon. “Yeah. Shoulda done it sooner.” Silence settled easy between you. Then— “Offer still good?” he asked. You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes found her again. She was laughing now. Weak, uneven—but real. One of the staff said something. She tried to wave them off. Almost stumbled. They caught her. You smiled, softer this time. Then took a drag from your cigarette. “Can’t,” you said. "Got someone to take care of.” Clint followed your gaze. Saw her.

Something shifted in his expression—small, but there. Your sister looked up suddenly. Like she felt it. Her eyes landed on you. Then drifted. To him. A slow, unsteady smile. She lifted her hand. A weak wave. Clint hesitated— Then raised his hand back. “Hey,” he muttered under his breath. You huffed a quiet laugh. “They’re letting her out this weekend,” you said, softer now. “I’m taking her home.” Clint nodded once. Then, casually, “There room for anyone else?” A slight tilt of his head. Almost teasing. You looked at him. Really looked. Then smiled. “Don’t have another room. But my bed’s pretty big.” Clint huffed a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah? Good. ‘Cause I’m outta work.” His gaze flicked to you. “Gonna take me a while to pay rent.” You shrugged lightly. “I got a job. I’ll keep us afloat for a while.” His brow lifted slightly.

“Yeah? What, you rob people full-time now?” You snorted. “Relax. I teach.” He glanced at you. “Teach what?” You took a drag from your cigarette, then looked back at him. “How to hit people properly." A faint smirk. "Less chaos. More technique.” Clint let out a low chuckle. “Sounds like a hell of a class.” You tilted your head. “It pays.” A beat. Then softer— “So… we got a deal?” Your eyes held his. “Or you need it in writing? Could always seal it with a—” He didn’t let you finish. He stepped in—and kissed you. Firm. Certain. Like he’d been thinking about it for longer than he’d admit. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his hand still in your hair. You stayed like that, watching as your sister’s session ended. Neither of you said anything. You didn’t need to. This time—you both stayed.

And for the first time in a long time—it didn’t feel like you were on your own.

hope you enjoyed reading ❤️ feel free to leave your thoughts if you’d like — i’d love to hear them 💋

“Baby—please,” he muttered hoarsely, voice splintering as he staggered inside. “Please don’t do this to me.”

His footing was uneven, breath ragged, panic burning through him as he kicked the ruined door shut behind him. The wind howled once — then silence.

Too quiet.

He crossed the room in broken strides, boots thudding against the floor, and lowered you onto the couch closest to the fireplace, hands shaking as he eased you down. Not gentle — careful. Like he was afraid you might shatter if he was.

Your body barely reacted.

Your hands. Your face.

Still ice-cold.

Harry swallowed hard.

What do I do—what do I do—

No. Don’t panic.

Think. Remember. You’ve done this before.

Years ago. First aid training. Mandatory. Tedious. Half-forgotten lectures he’d barely paid attention to. He’d never imagined needing any of it like this. Not with you. Not here.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself, forcing the word past the knot in his throat as his hands started moving despite the tremor in them. “Okay. Core first. Chest. Abdomen. Slow. No sudden heat.”

He crouched in front of you, fingers brushing your neck, searching—counting. There.

A pulse.

Weak, uneven—but there.

Relief slammed into his chest so hard it stole his breath. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, steadying himself.

Too low.

“Shit,” he breathed. “Okay. Still okay. Stay with me.”

He turned you gently onto your side, one arm braced behind your back, careful with every movement.

“Aspiration risk,” he murmured, the words tumbling out half English, half muscle memory. “Side position. Just in case.”

Your lips parted slightly. A faint sound slipped out—more breath than voice.

Harry’s chest tightened.

“I know,” he whispered, brushing your hair back with shaking fingers. “I know you’re cold. I’m here.”

He layered blankets over you—one, two, three—focused only on your torso. Your back. Your stomach. Not your arms yet. Not your legs.

Core first.

His hands hovered for a second before he pulled his phone from his pocket.

Eloise’s nurse.

Of course.

He didn’t hesitate.

The line rang once. Twice.

“Hello?” a calm female voice answered—the same one he’d spoken to a dozen times before during Eloise’s night shifts and blood pressure scares.

“I’m sorry—” Harry rushed in immediately, words uneven. “I’m so sorry to call this late. This is Harry. I—I have someone here. H-hypothermia. I couldn’t get her to a clinic. There’s a storm.”

No panic on the other end. Just focus.

“Okay,” the nurse said firmly. “Harry, listen to me. Is she conscious?”

“Barely. She’s responding, but—slow. Her hands and face are freezing.”

“Is she shivering?”

“She was. It’s slowing down.” Harry swallowed hard.

“All right. You did the right thing bringing her inside,” she continued. “Keep her on her side. Warm her gradually—chest and abdomen first. No hot shower. No alcohol. And don’t let her lose responsiveness. Keep monitoring her.”

“I will,” Harry said instantly. “I won’t let her.”

“Do you have a way to check her vitals?”

His eyes flicked toward the hallway closet.

The digital blood pressure monitor. He’d used something similar countless times before, when measuring Eloise’s blood pressure. "Yes," he said. "I do."

“Good. Check her pulse and blood pressure every thirty minutes. Call back if her responsiveness drops or her pulse weakens further.”

He repeated every instruction back to her like a mantra, committing them to memory. Only when she was satisfied did he end the call.

The room fell quiet again.

Just the crackle of the fire. And your shallow breaths.

Harry dropped to the floor beside the couch, close enough that his knee touched the edge. He pulled it nearer with one hand, refusing to put any space between you, then wrapped his hands around yours despite the cold biting into his skin.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, pressing your fingers between his palms, trying to give you what warmth he could. “I’m right here.”

His thumb brushed your knuckles. Your hair. Your temple.

The tears came before he noticed them.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, forehead dropping to your hair as he kissed the top of your head again and again. “Please forgive me. Please don’t leave me.”

While he waited, his mind betrayed him.

Images flooding in uninvited.

How strong you’d been. How quiet about it. How you’d walked back into his life smiling—showing up to work, standing tall, pretending everything was fine.

And the things he’d said.

The cruel ones. The careless ones.

His heart clenched violently, like something inside him cracked apart. Like regret had hands now, tightening around his chest.

Every thirty minutes, he forced himself to move.

Blood pressure cuff. Pulse. Numbers too low, but steady.

Again. And again.

He leaned his head against the couch, nose brushing your hair, eyes fixed on the rise and fall of your breathing.

Don’t sleep, he warned himself fiercely. Not until she opens her eyes.

His own eyelids burned with exhaustion, but he forced them open every time they fluttered.

“Stay with me,” he whispered. “Just a little longer.”

Hours blurred.

And then—

Movement.

Small. Fragile.

A shiver.

You stirred beneath the blankets, a faint sound leaving your throat as you shifted.

Harry’s head snapped up.

“Hey,” he breathed, hands coming up to cradle your face. “Baby. Look at me. Are you okay?”

Your eyes fluttered open—unfocused at first. Then you frowned.

A good sign.

Relief hit him so hard he let out a broken laugh as he pressed kisses to your forehead, your temple, your cheek.

“Oh thank God,” he whispered. “You scared the hell out of me.”

You tried to move, groaning softly, the weight of the blankets making it feel like you were trapped.

“What—” you muttered hoarsely. “Wasn’t it enough that your words hurt me, or are you trying to suffocate me with blankets now?”

A shaky huff left him—almost a laugh.

“You were freezing,” he said quickly. “Careful—don’t move too fast.”

Fragments rushed back to you—the car, the snow, the endless cold. You hugged yourself instinctively, a sharp ache blooming behind your eyes.

You pushed upright anyway—and nearly collapsed.

Harry caught you instantly.

“Don’t,” he pleaded. “Please.”

“Don’t touch me,” you snapped weakly, still shivering as you pulled away.

He froze.

Morning light filtered through the window now. The storm had softened—snow still falling, but slower. Pines and hills finally visible again through the white.

You were still trembling.

“I'll make you something warm,” he said quietly, voice cracking. “Please. Sit. Rest.”

You turned on him, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion.

“Oh,” you said bitterly. “So now you care?”

The words cut deep.

He flinched—pain flashing openly across his face.

Without another word, he turned and went to the kitchen.

As he moved, your gaze drifted back to the couch. The blankets. The warmth. The undeniable proof that he’d saved you—despite everything.

Harry stood in the kitchen for a moment longer than necessary, hands braced against the counter as he forced his breathing to slow.

Coffee. No.

Alcohol. Absolutely not.

The words surfaced unbidden — first aid training, again. Avoid stimulants. Avoid vasodilation.

He closed his eyes briefly, grounding himself.

Hot chocolate.

Warm. Sweet. Safe.

He filled a small pot with milk and set it over low heat — deliberately low. No boiling. No rushing. He stirred slowly, watching thin curls of steam rise as the cocoa melted in, the scent soft and sweet in the quiet house.

“I know you’re angry,” he said quietly, more to the room than to you. “You can yell at me later. Right now you need to warm up.”

He carried the mug back with care, crossed the room, and draped a blanket over your shoulders before you could protest — tucking it in around you like he’d done a hundred times before.

Then he sat down beside you.

Close. Not touching more than necessary.

The mug hovered in his hands for a second before he offered it to you, like it was something fragile.

“Small sips,” he murmured.

The ceramic was warm against your palms — not hot, just enough to sink into your skin. You hesitated for a second, then lifted it to your lips.

The first sip was tentative.

Chocolate. Milk. A gentle sweetness.

You swallowed — and felt it travel downward, warmth spreading through your chest, your stomach. You exhaled without realizing you’d been holding your breath.

Another sip.

Your fingers loosened slightly around the mug.

The shaking eased — not gone, but softer now. Manageable. Like your body was remembering how to be warm again.

Harry stayed where he was, watching you intently, like any sudden movement might break the moment.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded once, then took another slow sip.

It helped.

More than you wanted to admit.

By the time the mug was half empty, the fog in your head had thinned. Sensation returned in little pieces — your hands, your feet, the weight of the blankets around you.

Your breathing steadied.

Harry let out a breath of his own, shoulders sagging just a fraction.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “You’re doing great.”

You leaned back against the couch, still sipping, letting the warmth replace the ache bit by bit — and for the first time since the snow, since the car, since the endless cold —you didn’t feel like you were disappearing anymore.

“Do you want another one?” Harry asked quietly after a moment. “I can make more.”

You shook your head slightly. “No… thank you,” you murmured, voice still rough.

You took one last sip, then set the mug down and stood. The movement felt easier now. Steadier. Heat rushed through you all at once, almost too much — like your body had finally caught up, like warmth was overtaking everything at once.

Too warm, even.

You walked toward the windows, the tall glass panes stretching from floor to ceiling. Outside, the storm had broken completely. Snow lay heavy and untouched across the hills, pine trees standing sharp and clear against a pale sky.

Behind you, Harry set the mug down on the counter. You could feel his eyes on you — slow, careful — but he didn’t say anything.

The silence stretched.

You mistook it.

To you, it felt like restraint. Distance. Like he was still angry. Still holding something back.

You didn’t see the way his jaw tightened. The way he couldn’t quite look at you.

Not because he was angry.

Because only hours ago, he’d been holding you in his arms, convinced you were slipping away. Because he hadn’t put himself back together yet. Because if he spoke now, his voice might give him away.

You drew in a slow breath, shoulders stiffening.

“Well,” you said finally, not turning around. “Looks like the storm’s passed.”

Harry looked up.

And something in his expression cracked.

“Look… if you can drop me in town, I can figure it out from there,” you said, eyes fixed on the window like it could save you. “I’m not exactly dying to stay here. And you said you needed time—so I don’t want to—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

Because suddenly—

Harry was behind you.

His arms wrapped around you so fast, so tight, it stole the breath from your lungs. He pulled you against him like he was afraid you’d vanish if he loosened his grip even a fraction.

Your cheek pressed into his chest.

You could feel his heart.

It wasn’t calm. It was frantic—hammering like it didn’t know how to survive this either.

“Harry,” you breathed, startled, hands hovering awkwardly in the air for a second as your body tried to catch up to what was happening.

His mouth found the top of your head—one kiss, then another, then another—each one desperate, clumsy, like he was trying to stitch you back into the world with nothing but his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, voice breaking on the words. “I’m so sorry, baby. Please—please forgive me.”

You froze.

Because his voice didn’t sound like guilt.

It sounded like fear.

And when you turned in his arms, when you finally looked up at him—

you saw the tears.

Not a few.

Not something he could hide with a blink.

They were pouring down his face, relentless, catching in his lashes, slipping over his cheekbones and into the corners of his mouth as if he couldn’t even breathe without tasting them.

For a second you honestly didn’t know what to do with it.

It was too much.

“Harry…” you whispered, your own throat tightening. “Hey. Hey—don’t… don’t cry.”

You forced a faint smile—something small, something meant to lighten the air.

“I’m fine,” you said, gentle but firm. “I was cold. I was terrified, yes. But I didn’t—” you swallowed, trying to make it sound almost like a joke, “—I didn’t die.”

The smile lasted one second.

Because Harry didn’t smile back.

He didn’t even look at you.

He kept staring somewhere past your shoulder like he couldn’t stand to see your face. Like your eyes were too heavy to carry.

Your heart pinched.

“Hey,” you said again, softer now. “Why are you crying like this?”

You tried to tease it into something lighter—into something you could both survive.

“Yes, you were an idiot,” you murmured, voice rough with exhaustion. “And yes, you were cruel. But you can’t just cry your way into forgiveness, you know. You’re going to have to—” you huffed, attempting a shaky little laugh, “—try a little harder than that.”

You waited.

For his lips to twitch like they used to.

For that familiar corner of his mouth to lift.

For his eyes to soften.

Nothing.

He only cried harder.

And that was the moment something in you shifted.

Because men like Harry didn’t fall apart like this over a bad argument.

They didn’t cry like children just because they felt guilty.

This wasn’t guilt.

This was something else...

A cold warning went down your spine.

You stopped speaking.

Harry dragged in a breath through his nose, sharp and wet, trying to pull himself together. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand like he was angry at the tears for daring to exist—like he was furious at his own weakness.

Then he looked at you.

Not fully.

Not the way he used to.

His gaze kept dropping, flicking away, like meeting your eyes might be the thing that finally breaks him.

You lifted your hand anyway.

Slowly.

A careful gesture—offering comfort even while you were still bruised from him.

Your fingers hovered near his cheek.

And right before you touched him—

his lips moved.

“W-We…” he tried.

The word caught.

His mouth trembled. His throat worked like he was swallowing something too big to fit inside him.

He shook his head once, like he could physically shake the sentence into place.

“We…” he whispered again, and the sound of it was awful—thin and cracked and terrified.

He inhaled, shaky. Exhaled, shakier.

Then he forced himself to look straight at you.

And you felt it—your body reacting before your mind did, like instinct had been screaming at you for a reason.

“Did we…” His voice collapsed. “Did we lose our baby?”

The last word barely made it out.

It wasn’t even a question.

It was a prayer that had already been answered.

It hit you like a slap.

No—like something heavier.

Like the floor dropping out from under you.

Your hand flew to your mouth, not graceful, not pretty—pure reflex, as if you could stop the sound trying to tear out of you by physically holding it in.

But you couldn’t.

A sob burst free anyway—raw and ugly and unstoppable.

The second it escaped, it unlocked everything.

All the years you’d buried. All the nights you’d survived. All the silence you’d carried like a second spine.

Your entire body began to shake.

Not from the cold this time.

From the memory of it.

Harry moved before you could even crumble—arms wrapping around you again, tighter now, protective and desperate, like he was trying to hold you together with sheer force.

“It’s okay,” he choked, even though it wasn’t. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You couldn’t breathe.

You tried to inhale and it turned into another sob.

Your knees buckled like your body had finally decided it couldn’t pretend to be strong anymore.

Harry followed you down without letting go.

You sank together onto the floor—wood beneath your knees, hard and unforgiving, the kind of pain you wouldn’t even remember later because your chest was doing all the breaking for you.

You clutched at him, fingers twisting into his sweater, gripping him like an anchor even while you hated him for not being there when it happened.

You cried into him until the fabric of his sweater went damp and heavy—until your throat burned, until your head ached, until your lungs felt too small.

Harry wasn’t crying anymore.

Not like before.

Now he was quiet—terrifyingly quiet—because all of him had gone into you.

His hands in your hair.

His palm smoothing down your back in slow, steady strokes.

His mouth pressing kiss after kiss into your temple, your forehead, the crown of your head—each one trembling like he couldn’t stop himself.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your hair, over and over. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t ask what happened.

He didn’t push.

He didn’t demand details like he had any right to them.

He just held you.

And in the way he held you—like time didn’t matter, he would still stay right here on the floor with you…

He would wait. However long it took. Even if it destroyed him. Even if you never forgave him.

He would still wait.

For a long while, neither of you moved.

Snowflakes drifted lazily against the windows, tapping soft and slow against the glass. The fire murmured behind you, steady and alive, filling the room with warmth and a sound that almost felt like breathing.

You stayed there on the floor, curled into Harry’s chest, crying until time lost all meaning.

He didn’t shift.

Didn’t speak.

He just held you.

Your sobs came hard at first—ragged, sharp—but little by little they softened, until they turned into quiet, shaking breaths.

Somewhere in the middle of it, something shifted.

It wasn’t that the pain was new—it had always been there. But this was different.

For the first time, you weren’t forcing it down, weren’t folding it neatly away and pretending it hadn’t split you open. You were letting it exist. Letting it take space.

And somehow, that hurt and relieved you.

Like something lodged deep in your chest was finally loosening—burning on the way out, yes—but finally moving. Finally breathing.

When you stirred, shifting slightly in his arms, Harry reacted immediately—not pulling away, not tightening his hold. Just lifting his head, looking down at you with quiet attention.

His eyes were red. Wet.

He’d been crying too.

You swallowed, throat raw, like you were trying to reclaim your voice from somewhere far away.

“H-Harry,” you started. Your voice cracked, so you stopped, took a breath, and tried again. “How much… how much do you know?” You hesitated. Then, quieter—almost afraid of the answer: “Did you… did you find out everything?”

Something changed in his face.

Not shock.

Not anger.

Pain. Mixed with something heavier. His jaw tightened, brows drawing together as if holding himself together took effort. He nodded once.

Both of you looked away at the same time.

“How much do you know?” you asked again, not looking at him.

“I don’t know who did it,” Harry said. His voice was barely more than a whisper. “If you’re not ready to tell me—”

You looked up at him. “No,” you said softly. “I can tell you. I… I want to. I was going to. I just—” You faltered. “But how did you find out? Or did you—?”

He didn’t let you finish. Harry gently took your hands and helped you up. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s sit on the couch.”

You wiped your faces, the both of you, and moved together to the couch. You sat side by side, knees almost touching. When you looked at each other now, there was nowhere left to hide.

Harry cleared his throat.

“I… I couldn’t stop thinking after the divorce,” he began, eyes fixed on your hands instead of your face. “Something always felt wrong. Like something was missing. Or twisted." You listened without interrupting.

“What you said that day on the courthouse steps, hurt,” he continued, swallowing hard. “But I couldn’t accept it. Not really. I kept replaying Switzerland. Over and over.” He paused, breathing carefully. “When my mom got a little better… when the company stabilized and I finally had space to think,” he went on, voice low, “I realized how obvious the absence was. You. It felt like... It was like... Something had been ripped out of my life. And it hadn’t been my choice.” He let out a small, bitter smile. “I tried to move on. I really did. But you were everywhere. In everything. It was a brutal year.”

His voice softened. “I see now it was worse for you. I blamed you back then. I tied your leaving to Switzerland. I thought it was all connected.”

He looked up at you then, nervous suddenly, hands tightening around yours. “So I hired a private investigator,” he admitted. “I didn’t know what else to do. You’d left New York. I didn’t have the courage to call you. I just… needed something. Anything.”

He shook his head. “I never imagined this. Please don’t hate me. Or hate me—if that helps. I just… I wish I’d known sooner.”

You reached up, touching his cheek gently.

“Harry,” you said quietly. “Investigating me wasn’t right. But you weren’t entirely wrong either.” You took a breath, steadying yourself. “Even if you had tried to reach me… I wasn’t in a place where I could talk. The shock. The trauma. Leaving you. None of it was something I could heal from quickly.” Your voice softened. “I needed time. A lot of it. Just to survive — before I could even begin to explain." He nodded. "So… the detective you hired. He learned I was in the hospital. What else?” The question was soft. Almost careful. “What else did you find out?”

He hesitated. “The detective said—” He stopped himself, struggling to find the right words about the file he had read and the pictures he'd seen “He said you may have been assaulted.”

His voice broke.

You held yourself together, jaw tight, gaze drifting away. You’d prepared for this moment—but it still hurt. Tears welled again, surprising you after everything you’d already cried that much.

Harry cupped your face carefully in his hands. “Who could do this?” he pleaded. “Who could hurt you? Who made us lose our baby?” His breath hitched. “Please tell me. I can’t think anymore. I feel like I’m losing my mind. I need to know. I’m terrified—but I need to know.” His forehead touched yours. “If you still have the strength… please tell me.”

You nodded slowly.

“I will,” you said. “I was already preparing myself to tell you. Just… not like this.”

You dragged your hands down your face, grounding yourself, then took his hand in yours, looked at your intertwined fingers.

You took a deep breath.

“Um,” you said carefully. “I never thought I’d say his name again, but… do you remember Ilan?”

Harry stiffened. His brows furrowed instantly. He remembered. “The photographer?” he asked quietly.

You closed your eyes. The name. The word. Both cut deeper than you expected.

You nodded once.

“Yes,” you said. “Him.”

And with that, the door you’d rehearsed opening in your mind for years finally creaked open—for real this time.

January, 2020.

Two months before Eduardo left.

That evening, you were upstairs in your room, phone pressed to your ear, half-laughing as you talked to Emily about nothing and everything at once. You were sprawled across the bed, one leg hooked over a pillow.

Downstairs, the penthouse door opened.

“Ma’am,” Yuliana’s voice carried up the stairs, warm and familiar. “Mr. Castillo is home.”

You smiled instinctively and ended the call. “I’ll call you later,” you said, already moving. You stepped out of your bedroom and started down the stairs just as Harry came into view below.

He looked exhausted.

His jacket was already off, tossed somewhere unseen. He loosened his tie as he walked, fingers yanking it free with a sharp, irritated motion before he dragged a hand through his hair. “Baby?” he called up, glancing toward the staircase. His face softened the moment he saw you.

“You’re home!” you breathed, already crossing the space between you.

A tired smile curved his lips despite everything weighing on him. “Hey, baby,” he said.

You reached the bottom step just in time for him to pull you into his arms. He kissed you quickly—forehead, cheek, lips—holding on a second longer than usual. “At least when I come home, you’re here,” he murmured against your hair. “Otherwise the company would be completely unbearable.” He dropped onto the couch with a groan, spreading his arms out like he’d surrendered to gravity.

You sat beside him, turning slightly toward him. “Your dad again?”

He let out a humorless laugh. “Don’t even get me started. One day he’s going to run that company into the ground. I’m so tired, baby. Truly.”

You studied him for a moment, then smiled faintly. “So… you’re finally coming around to my idea?”

He glanced at you. “I am,” he admitted. “Today made that painfully clear. I just—” He hesitated. “I don’t know if I have the guts yet. If I’m being honest.”

You reached for his hand, squeezing it. “You do,” you said calmly. “You’re smart. Strategic. You know exactly what you’re doing—your father just refuses to see it.”

He watched you closely.

“And,” you added, voice lighter now, “you won’t be doing it alone. I’m right here. So buckle up.” You grinned. “Guess who’s officially starting her dream job as of tomorrow?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Don’t tell me—”

“Yes!” you laughed. “I’m meeting with the company I told you about. Fashion editorial. And—I found my photographer.”

His expression sharpened with interest. “Oh?”

“Remember that guy I mentioned? The one from Nina’s party? Big name in the elite circles—eighty thousand followers on Instagram?” You hesitated, then smiled. “Ilan. I talked to him. He was really nice. We’re meeting.”

Harry’s face broke into a proud smile. He stood and pulled you into his arms again. “That’s incredible,” he said. “I’m so proud of you.”

You hugged him back tightly. “Thank you. I’m terrified,” you admitted. “But it feels right. I’m finally stepping out from under my mother’s control. I’m leaving Queen Financial and building something that’s mine.”

Something shifted in his expression then—resolve settling in.

“You know what?” he said slowly. “You’ve convinced me. I’ll start taking this company idea seriously too. I’ll talk to the right people. Set things in motion.”

You laughed and kissed his cheek. “That’s my husband.” Then, almost shyly, you pulled back. “I have one more thing,” you said. “I already came up with a name.”

You lifted your hands into the air like you were writing it there, invisible letters forming between your fingers.

“Castillo Capital.”

Harry considered it, then nodded. “It sounds solid, timeless,” he said. “I like it. You really believe in this,” he added quietly.

“I believe in you, Harry.”

Then he looked at you — really looked at you.

“I’m lucky,” he said, voice low and sincere. “Unbelievably lucky. To have a wife this brilliant. This driven.”

You lifted a brow, lips curving into that familiar, effortless smile.

“Well,” you said lightly, already stepping into him, “of course you are.”

You tilted your head, eyes sparkling. “Men don’t marry women like me by accident, Castillo.” He laughed softly, forehead resting against yours. “No,” he murmured. “They don’t.”

“I met Ilan the next day,” you said quietly, eyes fixed somewhere past Harry’s shoulder. “He was… kind. Polite. Professional.”

You paused, gathering yourself.

“At first, everything was exactly what it was supposed to be.”

You told him how that first meeting turned into momentum.

How within days, things started moving fast—in a good way.

You talked about fashion editorial work the way you’d always dreamed it:

Mood boards spread across tables.

Color palettes refined and revised.

References pulled from old European magazines, modern silhouettes, textures, contrasts.

You coordinated test shoots, reached out to models and agencies, discussed styling concepts, lighting, framing. You planned editorial narratives, not just outfits—stories told through fabric and posture and space.

“There was progress every day,” you said. “Real progress. Contacts. Samples. Casting. Locations.”

Emily had been with you through all of it—texts flying back and forth at all hours, voice notes full of excitement.

“She kept saying, ‘This is it, Queen. This is really happening.’ And I believed her, believed in me.”

You smiled faintly at the memory, then let it fade.

“We hadn’t told the elite circle yet. Not officially. But we were preparing. Quietly. Carefully.”

You took a breath.

“We spent almost a week working nonstop. Ilan was… enthusiastic. Supportive. He kept saying how much potential the project had.”

Then your voice shifted—just slightly.

“One day,” you continued, “I invited him to our place. I don’t even remember why I decided that. Maybe it was convenience. Maybe I was just exhausted.”

You shrugged, small and helpless.

“We were supposed to do a simple shoot. Just shoes. Accessories. Clean editorial frames.”

There had been a problem with the model.

Scheduling. Availability. Something mundane.

“He said we could improvise,” you said. “That I could step in. That it would just be a test.”

You hesitated.

“He told me I had the right proportions. That I carried clothes well. That I should trust my body.”

You looked down at your hands.

“I didn’t think twice. I thought—what’s the harm? It was work. Just trying.”

Your voice softened further.

“Around that time, you were barely home,” you added. “You were focused on the company. On breaking away from your father. On setting things up.”

You swallowed. Your eyes finally lifted to Harry’s.

“I was so happy,” you said simply. “For the first time in my life, I was building something on my own. The thing I’d always wanted.”

“I remember,” he murmured. “You were happy. And somehow… that made me brave enough to start building my own way out, too.”

"Yeah."

Silence stretched between you.

“And then,” you whispered, “that day came.”

You stopped there.

Not because you couldn’t continue.

But because this was the edge—the place where memory stopped being a story and became something else entirely.

You drew a slow breath.

Harry didn’t rush you.

He didn’t speak.

He just tightened his grip on your hands, anchoring you to the present while you stood at the threshold of what came next.

You studied Harry’s face carefully, as if memorizing every line, every shadow. “Ilan disappeared for about a week,” you began. “No calls. No messages. Nothing. I was angry—so angry. I thought he was punishing me, or playing some kind of game.”

You exhaled slowly.

“It was February. The day after I found out I was... pregnant.” Harry’s eyes darkened with quiet sorrow. “That was the day you called me,” you added. “You told me your father had left. You were at the hospital, with your mother.”

He frowned, searching his memory. “That day?”

“Yes,” you said.

Harry’s breath caught. “So… that’s when you found out,” he said slowly. “And you couldn’t tell me.”

You shook your head.

“You were dealing with your mother,” you said quietly. “With your family. With the company— and the one you were trying to build from the ground up. You didn’t come home for a week. You were staying with her."

Your voice softened, almost apologetic.

“And then everything else. I thought— I’ll tell him when things calm down.” Your voice faltered. “But they never did.” You looked away. “I never got to tell you.”

When the memory aligned for both of you, silence settled heavily between you, one more time.

“It was that Tuesday,” you continued. “Ilan suddenly answered my calls again. As if nothing had happened. I panicked—because the work was unfinished. I couldn’t find another photographer in time.” You hesitated, then admitted quietly, “So I agreed to see him. I invited him to the house.”

Harry didn’t interrupt. He didn’t move. But his shoulders tightened.

“We did the shoot,” you said. “Yuliana had gone out shopping. It felt… normal. Too normal. I even put on a dress. Just joking around, like I used to during catalog shoots.”

Harry nodded once. “And I never liked that.”

“Yeah, I know,” you said softly. “I offered him a drink. Then I went to the bedroom to change.”

Your voice slowed.

“I don’t remember lying down. I don’t remember feeling tired. I only remember waking up and knowing—instinctively—that time was missing.”

You closed your eyes. Your hands trembled.

Harry leaned forward. “Did he—”

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “Not like that. Not then....”

You swallowed hard. “He took photos of me. While I was unconscious. Naked. Vulnerable.”

Harry’s breath left him in a broken curse.

“He threatened me,” you went on. “He said if I didn’t pay him, he’d send them everywhere.”

Harry looked at you, fighting to stay composed.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked quietly. “I know I wasn’t really present… but I was there.”

Your breath hitched. You shook your head, almost helpless.

“I didn’t know how,” you whispered. Your fingers twisted together in your lap. “I was so ashamed,” you said again, the word heavier this time. “Ashamed that I trusted him. Ashamed that I didn’t see it coming. Ashamed that I let it happen at all.” Your voice cracked. “And every time I looked at you… you were already breaking. Your family, the scandals, the pressure, the company— you were barely holding yourself together.” You swallowed hard, eyes glossy. “I kept telling myself, don’t add this. Don’t become another problem he has to carry. Another mess he has to clean up.” Your shoulders slumped. “So I stayed quiet. I convinced myself I could handle it alone.”

Harry’s jaw clenched.

“He wanted money,” you said. “At first I paid. I thought it would end. It didn’t. So I told my mother.”

“And Scarlet handled it?”

“She warned him,” you said quietly. “At first.” Your voice remained steady, but something darker lived beneath it. “When that didn’t work… she dismantled him.” Harry’s gaze lifted to you. “My mother didn’t scream. She didn’t threaten. She moved. You know her already,” you continued. “She made calls. Quiet ones. The kind that close doors without anyone knowing who shut them.”

You swallowed.

“Galleries stopped returning his emails. Brands pulled out. Editors suddenly ‘went in another direction.’ Invitations dried up. His name became… inconvenient.” A bitter breath left you. “She ruined him socially. Professionally. He went from being in demand to being radioactive. And when even that wasn’t enough,” you added softly, “she made sure the photos were taken back.” You hesitated—then forced yourself to say it. “She didn’t do it cleanly. She hired people. Men who know how to get things without leaving fingerprints. They broke in. Took everything. Not just the originals—every copy. Hard drives. Backups. Cloud access. All of it.” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “She erased him and every trace of what could have ruined me, our family.”

Silence fell heavy between you.

Harry finally spoke, his voice raw now. “I would’ve done the same,” he said quietly. His eyes lifted to yours—dark, unwavering. “Or I would’ve done worse.”

You looked at him. You knew he meant it. You knew he would have done it — without hesitation — and that the fact he hadn’t been there, that he hadn’t been able to, was something he would carry like a quiet wound for the rest of his life.

You took a slow, steady breath. And you went on.

“I thought it was over,” you said quietly. “I thought I could finally breathe. That I could pick my life back up where it had broken.”

Your fingers tightened slightly in his.

“But I was exhausted. Hiding the pregnancy. Living in constant fear. And you…” Your voice softened. “You were building Castillo Capital for real. Finding investors. Also saving your father’s company after he walked away. Trying to stand on your own two feet.”

You swallowed.

“I didn’t want to add my chaos to yours.”

You took a breath — one that shook despite your effort to steady it.

“Then you told me you were going to London. Just for a few weeks,” you said. “You said it was the last step. That once this investor said yes, the company would finally exist.”

Harry nodded, tears gathering in his eyes.

“You begged me not to go,” he whispered.

“I did,” you said, meeting his gaze at last. “Not because I didn’t believe in you — but because I needed you. And I didn’t know how to say that without falling apart.” A pause. “And you still went,” you finished softly.

The silence that followed was raw.

“When you were gone,” you continued, “Ilan came back.”

Your voice dropped, almost hollow.

“At the worst possible moment. When I least expected it. When I was completely unguarded.”

You swallowed.

“He’d been missing for weeks. And then he showed up at our house — disguised.”

Harry went completely still.

“I had stepped away from work by then,” you went on quietly. “After everything that happened… I’d almost given it up. I had devoted myself to being a mother. That’s all I was thinking about.”

Your breath trembled.

“I thought… if I turned one room into a nursery,” you said, your voice cracking, “if I showed you when you came home… maybe everything would change.”

Tears slid down your cheeks.

“I decided to have the walls painted. I ordered the furniture. I didn’t care about my career anymore. I didn’t even think about the photos. I only thought about our baby.”

You shook your head faintly.

“I believed that baby would save us. That our marriage would be better. That you would forget your father, and I forget Ilan. That we’d finally have peaceful days.”

Your voice broke.

“When you came back from London, I was going to take you straight into that room and surprise you. Tell you everything. I was decorating it every day — it was supposed to be finished before you came home. You still had a week.”

Your shoulders shook as you breathed in.

“I didn’t notice him hiding among the delivery men,” you whispered. “I was too happy. My head was in the clouds — that stupid, hopeful, expectant joy.”

Harry wrapped an arm around you instinctively.

“You don’t have to keep going,” he said softly.

“I do,” you whispered. “Please.”

He nodded, jaw tight, and let you continue.

“I was in the kitchen,” you said. “I was four months pregnant then. Always hungry. I heard Yuliana scream.”

Your breathing became shallow.

“When I stepped into the hallway… everything was quiet. Too quiet.”

You swallowed.

“I saw him in the hallway."

Harry’s fist tightened.

“Yuliana was on the floor,” you continued. “She wasn’t moving. I didn’t know if she was alive.”

Your voice dropped.

“He looked at me and started yelling.”

You closed your eyes.

“He said I had destroyed his life. That we had taken everything from him. He was swearing, screaming… saying he would kill me. That I wouldn’t get away this time.”

Harry’s jaw clenched hard.

“He walked toward me,” you whispered, “still shouting, still furious. I couldn’t even understand all the words—only the rage.”

For a moment, the present fell away.

Your thoughts blurred—escape routes, the stairs, your phone upstairs.

 A glass vase sat nearby.

You grabbed it and ran.

Halfway up the stairs, you turned just long enough to throw it at him.

The vase shattered against the steps, glass exploding across the staircase. He raised his arm to shield his face. It slowed him—but it didn’t stop him.

You reached the bedroom.

 Your phone.

Your hands were shaking so badly you almost dropped it. Your fingers slipped on the screen as you dialed, breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

"Help-"

He was suddenly behind you.

In one violent motion, Ilan slapped the phone out of your hand and hurled it into the hallway. It skidded across the floor, disappearing around the corner.

The operator’s voice echoed faintly from far away.

 “Ma’am? Are you there?”

You couldn’t answer.

His hand closed around your throat. The air was ripped from your lungs as your back slammed into the wall. Dots exploded in your vision.

“You bitch! You ruined my fucking life,” he snarled. “You think you can just walk away, you stupid whore? I’ll destroy you. I’ll kill you.”

His face changed then.

The rage twisted into something darker. His eyes dropped, slow and deliberate, and panic surged through you.

“Stop—please, please—don’t,” you gasped. “Let go of me. Get your hands off me, you sick bastard.”

He didn’t listen.

His grip tore at your dress, fabric ripping under his hands. You screamed as he shoved you backward, throwing you onto the bed.

The bed you shared with Harry.

You were left in nothing but your underwear, chest heaving, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

Fear burned away into pure instinct.

You fought.

You kicked wildly—and drove your knee up hard, straight into his groin.

He shouted in pain, staggering back just enough.

You reached for the lamp on the nightstand and threw it with everything you had. It struck his face, cutting his skin.

It wasn’t enough to stop him.

But it was enough to give you a second.

You ran again.

You snatched the phone from the floor and turned toward the stairs, thinking only of distance, of escape—your eyes glued to the screen as your fingers fumbled to dial.

You didn’t see him close the gap.

At the stairs, his hand caught your hair.

He yanked you back hard, pain ripping through your scalp as you cried out, your body jerking violently off balance.

Then—

 Yuliana appeared.

She was swaying, blood running down the side of her head, her face pale—but her eyes were focused. Determined. She had been hiding. Waiting.

She struck him with something you never saw.

Everything after that happened too fast.

His grip loosened.

Your foot slipped—just for a second—right at the edge of the step. The heel of your shoe missed solid ground, and the world tilted violently beneath you.

You fell.

The staircase seemed endless. Your body hit step after step, twisting, tumbling, breath tearing from your chest. Sharp pain exploded everywhere as broken glass from the shattered vase caught and cut as you rolled, biting into you with every impact.

You hit your head. Hard.

You screamed until no sound came out anymore.

When you finally stopped moving, you lay face-down at the bottom of the stairs, completely still.

Blood spread beneath you.

Yuliana was screaming—panicked, hysterical, unable to move, unable to think, her voice breaking the air again and again.

Your body was on fire with pain—but the deepest pain came from inside you.

From your womb.

You knew.

You were so close to death you could feel it pulling at you, heavy and quiet.

With the last strength you had, you rolled slightly onto your side. Your hand went instinctively to your stomach—to the place where you had felt your baby for the first time.

A broken shard pressed there.

“No… no… no,” you whispered, your voice breaking into raw, animal sounds as you pulled it away.

Warmth flooded your hands.

Your vision blurred, darkened at the edges.

You couldn’t move anymore.

Your hand slipped from your stomach and fell against the cold marble floor. Blood crept outward, thin streams spreading across the surface, reaching toward the phone still ringing nearby.

The sound was muffled now. Everything was muffled.

The smell of iron filled the air. Your body felt heavy. So heavy.

Heavy footsteps rushed down the hallway.

Voices shouted—urgent, sharp, unmistakable.

“Security!”

 “Emergency—break the door!”

The sound of wood cracking echoed through the floor as the door was forced open. Boots pounded forward, fast and uncoordinated.

They saw you on the ground.

“Here—on the floor!” someone yelled.

 “She’s bleeding—oh my God—get an ambulance now!”

Yuliana’s voice broke apart in panicked sobs as she tried to speak, pointing, shaking, unable to form full sentences.

Hands hovered over you, afraid to touch, afraid to make it worse.

But the sounds were already drifting, stretching, fading—like they were coming from very far away.

The world faded.

And the last thing you whispered—barely a breath, barely a sound—was:

“My baby…"

You both went still.

You weren’t sure how you had managed to say any of it out loud — how those memories had left your body in the form of words — and Harry was frozen somewhere between hearing you and trying, desperately, to feel what you had felt. The fact that he had been continents away tore at him from the inside. He cursed himself silently, again and again, reliving every moment alongside you now, too late. Even breathing seemed to hurt.

For a long while, neither of you spoke.

The silence became unbearable — especially the look on his face. You couldn’t stand watching him carry that much pain without relief.

“When I came back to myself,” you said softly, “I was already in Switzerland. My mother told me what happened. I remember flashes of the hospital… but not the flight. They’d sedated me.”

Harry’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles bleaching white as if he were holding himself together by force alone.

“Sedated… and taken there,” he whispered, each word scraping his throat raw. “No one told me. I came back from London… and you weren’t home.” His breath stuttered. “Your things—nothing was there. Nothing. I called you over and over, and then… Scarlet.” He swallowed hard. “She answered instead. I—I remember now.”

You reached for his hand, holding it like it might splinter if you didn’t anchor him to something real. Your fingers wrapped around his, steady, gentle.

“The doctor in New York said it was safer this way,” you said softly, choosing every word with care. “If the story had leaked… it would’ve turned into a media circus. The hospital in Switzerland—they had the right specialists. The best care for what I needed.” Your voice faltered, but you forced yourself to continue. “And being far away—away from the spotlight, away from the media—it gave me space. Space to survive. To heal. Without anyone watching. Without anyone trying to control me… without anyone trying to exploit me.”

Harry’s chest rose and fell unevenly, a broken breath tearing free.

“So… all this time,” he said, his voice cracking open, “you were there. And I didn’t even know.” His eyes shone, ruined. “And I wasn’t there. I should have been there.”

You shook your head slowly, tears spilling without resistance.

“You couldn’t be,” you whispered. “The night you came back from London… my mother and I were already on a plane to Switzerland.”

Harry’s gaze remained fixed on the fire, the flames dancing and blurring as fresh tears welled in his eyes. He looked hollow, utterly spent, as if even the simple act of crying had drained the last fragments of him. Every shuddering breath seemed to cost him something irreplaceable.

“The next day…” His voice faltered, catching on the weight of the memory. “I went to your parents’ house… it was empty. Mikey was there… he told me you’d been taken to Switzerland. I didn’t understand—why you left, why you were gone like that. And you weren’t answering my calls. Scarlet… she must have blocked me. I was furious with her. But now…” His words trailed off, thick with dawning comprehension. “…I understand now.”

“Yes,” you whispered, voice trembling, barely audible. “I understand, too… because I… I was in shock. It took me days just to speak properly.” You swallowed hard, throat tight, feeling the weight of your own words.

Harry’s eyes searched yours, desperate to reconstruct the puzzle of your suffering from the fragments you were offering. “You were… in the hospital…” he murmured, voice fragmented, like he was trying to piece together something he had been too afraid to see. “For… five months… all that time…” His words slowed, haunted. “…and in between, you… you messaged me…”

“Yes,” you admitted softly, voice breaking. “The first time we video-called… do you remember?”

He nodded, the edge in his voice bitter and raw. “Yeah… I thought you were on holiday. At the hotel… having fun. You said you needed to pull yourself together. I didn’t know… you were healing.”

“Yes,” you whispered again, almost inaudibly, your voice cracking. “Preparing for that call… it was… it was so hard. I had to act like nothing had happened.”

Tears ran freely now, warm and unstoppable, tracing lines down your cheeks. Harry’s hand rose, trembling slightly, and cupped the back of your cheek with careful reverence, as if you might shatter. You shared a long, weighted look, each second dripping with unspoken grief, each glance a silent acknowledgment of the pain you had carried alone.

“Mikey sent all the photos from Bern,” you continued, voice cracking, “everything but the hospital. The streets, the cafes, the tourist spots… little glimpses of life. He… he sent them from my phone, to you. I wanted you to see… to believe… that I was okay.”

Harry exhaled sharply. “All of it… convincing me… for five months.” His voice faltered. “Can I… can I ask why you decided to divorce me? Was it because you were so angry… or because you thought you couldn’t forgive me?”

You looked into his eyes… then quickly away.

 “Yes,” you admitted softly, voice breaking. “I was angry… yes. But that wasn’t the only reason. After the accident… after..." you bit your lip. "I developed Asherman’s syndrome. They told me… getting pregnant again would be nearly impossible. I couldn’t think clearly. I thought… you wouldn’t want to stay married to a woman who couldn’t give you children. So I said cruel things. I… I wanted to disappear. From you… from everything.”

Harry swallowed hard, his voice cracking. “I should’ve known… that’s what you do. You say the cruelest things so there’s no way back… and I didn’t realize. I was so focused on my own pain… so selfish…On proving myself. On building the company, closing the deal, saving my name… I told myself that if you didn’t care about me, then I wouldn’t care about you either.” His voice broke completely. “How blind was I? How did I not understand? I thought I was surviving… but I was just being selfish.”

Then, slowly, hope flickered in his gaze.

 “There has to be… a treatment. There must be some way. You can’t… you can’t give up like this,” he said, gripping your hands tightly, searching your eyes like he was trying to anchor your entire soul.

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “It’s been five years… every time I go to the gynecologist, it still hurts… still breaks me.”

“We’ll find another doctor,” he said firmly, gently. “The best. World-class. Whatever it takes.”

You hesitated, trembling. “I… I don’t know if I’m ready. I’m so tired. Can we… not talk about this right now?”

Harry nodded, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

 “As you wish.”

You exhaled slowly, the weight on your chest lightening just enough to breathe.

 “So… everything came out eventually… the truth. No matter how much it hurt.”

Harry didn't respond; he looked ruined, like someone who had been stripped of every smile he had ever known. You hated seeing him like that—it felt like layering pain on top of pain.

“Harry,” you whispered.

His voice cracked when he finally looked at you. “That… that bastard—”

You instantly grasped what he was asking. “He’s in prison,” you said softly, letting the words hang in the air. “Life sentence. No chance of parole. Richard… my mother… they didn’t wait for the system to stumble. Richard, with his team of lawyers, made sure the court acted immediately. The evidence was presented, and the man didn’t have a single opportunity to manipulate the law—he was locked up as soon as the case reached the judge. My family promised I’d never have to see him, hear his name, or know anything more. And I didn’t. Not beyond my memories.”

A bitter smile touched your lips, fragile as a cracked porcelain.

Harry wiped his face, only realizing too late that he was crying again. Your own face felt numb—like you’d passed the point of sensation.

“My love… corazón mío,” he whispered, the Spanish falling from his lips like a prayer. “You’re so brave… so strong. I don’t understand how you survived all of that. I’m falling apart just hearing it… and you…” His voice cracked. “How did you endure? Even telling me… it must have been impossible.”

You shrugged faintly. “I did what I do best.”

He frowned, as if the weight of your words alone wasn’t enough.

“Stubbornness,” you said, a faint twitch of a smile on your lips—not a full smile, not yet. “You know my stubborn streak, Castillo. That’s what kept me going. I couldn’t let a worthless man take my life from me. I couldn’t destroy myself. No one gets to do that to me. Because I’m… perfect.”

For the first time, you truly smiled—fragile, real, tears still slipping down your cheeks.

Harry’s eyes were wide, awe written all over his face. He leaned in, pressing his lips to your forehead, lingering, breathing you in. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, holding you as if he could never let go.

“My baby,” he whispered. “My reason for existing. I hope one day you can forgive me… because I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive myself. I’m in so much pain.”

You sniffed, pulling back just enough to look at him.

 “Pull yourself together, Harry. I forgave you a long time ago. And you don’t get to suffer without my permission—I won’t allow it.”

A weak smile flickered across his face, the pain still etched deep in his features. “Just tonight,” he said quietly, “just tonight, I need to grieve… for… for our baby. You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

Your tears returned—but this time, lighter. Shared.

“Our daughter,” you whispered, voice breaking. “She was a girl.”

Harry froze. His body went rigid. “A girl…?”

A raw, guttural sound tore from his chest as he collapsed into your arms, covering his face and sobbing openly—helplessly, like a child. “Oh God…” he whispered through ragged breaths.

This time, you held him. Pressed his head to your chest, rocking him gently as he cried—the strongest man you knew reduced to quiet, broken sounds. You kissed the top of his head again and again, murmuring nothing—because nothing was needed.

Time lost all meaning. No calls. No food. Only grief, shared memories, silent tears, whispered comforts, and the occasional trembling laugh through the sorrow.

Eventually—long after the fire had dimmed—you fell asleep together on the couch, tangled in each other, exhaustion finally winning.

Not healed.

 But no longer alone.

You woke up to the sound of the fireplace. For a few seconds, you didn’t open your eyes. The crackling filled the room, steady and alive, and something shifted inside your chest—something unfamiliar. It wasn’t the sharp, suffocating pain you’d learned to live with. It was softer. Like a breath you didn’t realize you were holding finally being released.

Your chest rose slowly.

When you finally opened your eyes, the couch felt… wrong. Too empty. You turned your head, searching instinctively, but he wasn’t there. You sat up with a quiet yawn, rubbing your face, then pressed your hand against your chest.

The pain was still there. Dull. Persistent. But different.

It didn’t feel as lonely. Maybe it was because you finally shared everything with Harry.

The thought lingered as you woke, warm and quiet, the low crackle of the fireplace pulling you gently back into the world. The sound settled into you, steady and alive. That morning felt different—lighter, somehow—as if something tight in your chest loosened overnight.

You felt it then, clearly—the bond between you, stronger, tighter, as if telling him the truth stitched something back together inside you. A heavy thought settled in your mind.

I should have told him sooner.

And then, almost cruelly, another followed. Or maybe… you should never have told him at all.

The memory of his face flashed behind your eyes. The way he looked when you spoke. The way his composure cracked. The way he broke—open, helpless, undone. The sound of his crying still echoed in you. Your body shivered at the memory, a tremor running through your chest.

Seeing him like that hurt more than you ever expected it would.

And yet… beneath the ache, there was warmth. Because you didn’t carry it alone anymore.

You remembered falling asleep together on the couch—his presence solid, grounding, real. The way your bodies had fit together without effort, exhaustion pulling you both under at once. You pushed yourself upright then, stretching, glancing around instinctively to find him.

But he wasn’t there.

You rose slowly, padding across the floor, drawn toward the fireplace. Half playfully, you bent and added another log to the embers. The coals flared brighter—deep orange, burning red—flames licking along the wood as heat bloomed outward. You stood there for a moment, watching the colors shift, letting the warmth sink into you, steadying you.

When you straightened, you brushed your hands together, dusting the ash from your fingers.

Then you turned toward the tall glass windows. And you froze.

There was a snowman outside. Not just any snowman.

It stood just beyond the glass, facing inward—as if it had been watching you wake. Fully formed. Thoughtful. Perfect in a way that made your breath catch. Its shape was unmistakable: rounded, soft, almost delicate. Twig whiskers fanned out like a cat’s, carefully placed. Small ears rose from the sides of its head. There was even a ribbon tied neatly at its neck.

A Hello Kitty snowman.

Your lips parted in a quiet, stunned smile.

When you were little, you’d always wished someone would make one for you. You’d loved Hello Kitty long before it was considered embarrassing—long before you learned how carefully you were supposed to curate softness. Richard had never really been that kind of father, not the one who knelt in the snow to build something whimsical just to make his child smile. And Mikey—sweet, earnest Mikey—had tried more than once, but his snowmen always leaned sideways, collapsed too early, or looked nothing like what you’d imagined. Still, he’d laughed, and somehow, that had always been enough to make you laugh too.

You never said it out loud—it felt too childish, too soft—but the want had lived in you anyway.

Years later, on that trip to Alaska with Harry—when you’d gone chasing the northern lights, back when you were newly engaged and still fearless with hope—he’d done it without you ever asking. He’d taken his time with it, careful and focused, shaping every detail like it mattered. Like you mattered. He’d even added the little touches—the bow, the proportions, the quiet pride in his eyes when he finally stepped back—wanting it to be perfect, just for you. You’d laughed then, breathless and surprised, snow in your hair, heart wide open.

Seeing it then felt like being gently pulled back into that memory.

Your eyes dropped to its face—and then you noticed what was missing. “The cheeks,” you murmured.

Without thinking, without pausing to plan, you grabbed your bag, fingers already searching. You found your blush, popped it open, and smiled to yourself. Then you slipped your boots on—no socks, no coat, no hesitation—and hurried outside.

The cold bit instantly, sharp and alive, snow crunching beneath your feet as you crossed the distance. You knelt in front of the snowman, pressing your fingers lightly into the powdery surface, feeling the chill seep into your skin. Carefully, reverently, you dusted soft pink circles onto its cheeks.

Perfect.

Only then did a shiver run through you—real, insistent. You inhaled sharply, realizing too late that you came out unprotected.

“Are you serious right now?”

You turned just as Harry stepped outside, two steaming coffee mugs abandoned on the counter behind him. His voice was laced with concern, his movements urgent as he closed the distance between you.

“What are you doing?” he asked, already wrapping his arms around you, pulling you against him. “You didn’t even put a coat on.”

You smiled up at him, unapologetic. “But look at it. It’s adorable. I wanted to see it up close.”

He exhaled, shaking his head, holding you tighter. “Were you not on the edge of hypothermia literally yesterday?”

“It was worth it,” you said softly.

He sighed, mock-scolding, and all but dragged you back inside, nudging the door open with his shoulder. Once you were in the warmth again, he cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly. “You’re not cold?”

“I’m fine,” you promised, smiling until the tension in his eyes eased.

And that was when you noticed it. Something new.

There was a look in his gaze you’d never seen before—protective, yes, but deeper than that. Tender. Worried. Love wrapped in vigilance. It unsettled you in the best way.

As he guided you toward the kitchen, you glanced back once more at the snowman. “When did you make the Hello Kitty–shaped snowman?”

“This morning,” he said. “First thing I did.”

He set a plate in front of you. The smell was incredible—your stomach growled. “Ohhh, I’m starving,” you said, already eating. Bacon, eggs—simple, perfect.

Harry sat beside you, watching.

“You should eat too,” you said, looking at him.

“I’m not hungry yet,” he replied, though there was hesitation in his voice.

You took a sip of your coffee and studied him. “Harry, you never skip breakfast.”

“I like watching you eat,” he said quietly.

And suddenly, you understood.

The pain didn’t leave him overnight. It settled into him. It was going to stay—just like the mark it left on you.

That day, he was quiet. Too quiet.

Your phone rang once. You told Mikey you were fine, that you’d be unreachable for a few days. Only Ron knew where you were. You made sure no one would call Harry—no interruptions, no outside voices. In that state, he wouldn’t care about anything else anyway.

At dinner, he barely ate. He sat across from you, shoulders tense, gaze unfocused, as if he was still somewhere else entirely. His eyes found yours only briefly—filled with pain, guilt, something unresolved—before he looked away again.

Your heart ached.

He kept his distance all evening. Not cold, not cruel—just careful. Like he was afraid that one wrong step, one wrong touch, might shatter something fragile between you. When he finally spoke, his voice was hesitant.

He said it might be more comfortable if you stayed in separate rooms that night.

The words hit harder than you expected. You didn’t argue, but it stung. It made your chest tighten, anger flashing hot and brief beneath the hurt. Still, you swallowed it. You nodded. You told yourself this wasn’t rejection—it was grief. You let him mourn. You let him sit in his pain without pushing, without demanding anything he couldn’t give.

Tomorrow would be better, you told yourself. He’d get through this. He had to.

But tomorrow came, and the heaviness was still there.

He was quieter than before. Still distant. Still wrapped in that same ache, like it had settled into his bones. And that time… it started to bother you. Not because you didn’t understand—but because you did, and you couldn’t watch him disappear into it.

So you pushed.

You tugged on his sleeve, teased, pleaded, begged him to come outside. To play in the snow. To breathe. He resisted at first, shaking his head, murmuring excuses—but eventually, he gave in.

And when he laughed—really laughed, just once—it almost broke you.

It was sudden and raw and startled, like it surprised him too. Your chest tightened, eyes burning, because hearing that sound again felt like proof that he was still there.

You made snow angels, arms and legs carving shapes into the white. You threw snowballs until your hands ached and burned, until your cheeks hurt from smiling. You promised yourself—quietly, fiercely—that you wouldn’t leave until he was better. Not that time.

That night, when the caretaker’s meals ran out, you decided to cook together.

It was chaos from the start. A curry chicken recipe from an old cookbook—too much spice, oil splattering, something definitely burning at the bottom of the pan. Harry coughed dramatically. You laughed too hard. He tried to fix it, added something random, made it worse.

But you laughed anyway.

Flour on the counter. Music playing softly. His shoulder brushing yours by accident—and then, maybe not so accidentally. For the first time since everything came out, the air between you felt lighter. Still fragile. Still bruised. But alive.

And for that night, that was enough.

The next day, he laughed at a movie. A real laugh. In the middle of it, you paused the film.

“Popcorn,” you said, pouting. “Please.”

He let out a low grumble, the kind that sounded like resistance but never really was. After a beat, he nodded. “Alright. Popcorn.”

You lit up instantly, bouncing on your feet before turning toward the kitchen, practically skipping your way there, excitement spilling out of you in a way you didn’t even try to hide.

He followed behind you more slowly. His steps were unhurried, careful. He watched you from a few paces back—how you moved, how your shoulders lifted with that barely contained joy. There was a small smile on his face. Tired. Soft. But there.

“But we don’t have a popcorn pot,” you said, opening cabinets one after another, crouching slightly as you searched.

“Are you serious?” Harry asked, disbelief slipping into his voice. “Look at that—another thing we’re missing. If there wasn’t a storm, we’d go shopping.”

You looked at him, eyes lighting up suddenly. “Hey,” you said, pointing vaguely, excitement creeping in, “I saw it in a movie once. They made popcorn in a regular pot. Same logic, right?”

As you spoke, you pulled a pot from one of the cupboards. Harry watched you for a second, then nodded slowly. “Yeah… I mean. That should work.”

“Right?”

“Okay. You deal with this,” he said, already moving toward the cabinet. “I’ll get the drinks.”

You set the pot on the stove, turning the heat on. The metal warmed quickly beneath your hands. You poured in some oil, watching it spread thinly across the bottom, trying to remember exactly how the character in that movie had done it.

You grabbed a handful of kernels and tossed them in.

Then you froze. “…The lid,” you muttered. “Oh. The lid.”

You opened drawers, checked cabinets, moved too fast, irritation bubbling up. “Where are these lids?” you grumbled under your breath.

“Bottom drawer,” Harry answered without looking up.

A second later— “Oh—!”

The sound slipped out of you instinctively.

Harry whipped around so fast he nearly knocked into the counter. He slammed the cabinet shut and crossed the kitchen in two strides. “What happened?” he asked, panic flaring instantly. “Are you okay?”

“They’re popping!” you laughed breathlessly. “Harry—the popcorns are popping!”

The kernels were exploding out of the uncovered pot, snapping and crackling, flying into the air, bouncing off the stove, the counter, the floor.

Harry grabbed the nearest thing—a couple of empty mugs—and started trying to catch them mid-air.

You did the same.

“Oh my God, this is so fun,” you laughed, holding out your mug, trying to catch them one by one. Every time one landed just right, you laughed harder—even when a hot kernel stung your fingers slightly.

“Ow—!” you hissed once, then laughed again anyway.

"Careful!" Harry was laughing too. Really laughing.

The sound filled the chalet, echoing off the wooden walls, the two of you standing there with mugs in your hands, like complete idiots, trying to catch flying popcorn.

You bumped into each other.

And for the first time in three days… You looked at him. He looked at you.

Something shifted in the space between you—quiet, charged, fragile.

Harry leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Alright,” he said gently. “At least let’s eat the ones we managed to save.”

You moved to the couch together.

There was still a little distance between you. Not much—but enough for you to feel it.

You missed the way he used to look at you. You needed him closer. Needed to feel his skin against yours again.

But he wasn’t looking at you with desire. Not yet.

And you knew— You were going to change that.

That night, alone in the other room, you couldn’t stop thinking.

It felt wrong. Absurd, even. This distance between you—after everything had already been dragged into the light—made no sense. The pain, the fear, the secrets, the grief… all of it was out in the open now. This should have been the part where you held each other tightly and healed together.

Instead, you lay there staring at the ceiling, hating the space between you.

You hated how careful he’d been. How gently he’d kept his hands to himself, like he was afraid even wanting you might hurt you somehow. You understood where it came from—his guilt, his grief, the way he was drowning in his own thoughts—but understanding didn’t make it easier.

You knew the truth, even if he wouldn’t say it out loud.

You’d seen it in his eyes the night before. That fleeting moment when his gaze had darkened, when something raw and unmistakable had flared there before he forced it back down again. Desire—real, aching, restrained. He wanted you. And you wanted him just as badly.

Not just physically.

You needed him. Needed the closeness, the reassurance, the reminder that you were still us. But you didn’t want to force anything. You didn’t want this to be about guilt, or obligation, or desperation. You didn’t want him to touch you because he felt like he owed you comfort.

You wanted him to choose you.

You wanted to move through this pain together—slowly, carefully—and come out the other side as something new. Something steadier. Something healed.

That was the hardest part: knowing he wanted you, and still watching him hold himself back out of fear.

So you made a plan.

Not to corner him. Not to pressure him. But to remind him—gently—of what already existed between you. To give him space to want without shame. To let him remember that desire didn’t have to be dangerous, and closeness didn’t have to hurt.

While Harry sat at the desk, focused on the urgent work Ron had sent over, eyes glued to his laptop screen, you slipped over to the bar. You poured yourself tequila. Took a few steady sips. Enough to feel warm, loose—but not enough to lose control. You poured half the bottle down the sink afterward, watching it disappear, making sure he wouldn’t suspect a thing.

You needed to stay sharp.

But you also needed to look convincingly drunk.

You climbed onto one of the bar stools, swinging your legs slightly as you finished the drink. The room was quiet except for the crackle of the fire and the soft tapping of Harry’s fingers on the keyboard. Your heart was beating fast—part nerves, part anticipation.

You nudged the glass toward the edge of the counter.

And let it fall.

It shattered loudly against the floor.

“Oh!” you exclaimed.

Harry was on his feet instantly. He crossed the room in a heartbeat, panic written all over his face, hands already hovering around you.

“What happened? Are you okay?” he asked, breathless.

You blinked down at the broken glass, then back up at him, frowning exaggeratedly. “How did that fall?” you said, confused. “It just… slipped. It broke. Weird.” You shrugged, then smiled. “But I’m fine. It didn’t hurt at all.”

Harry placed his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes at you. “…Are you drunk?”

“What?” you scoffed, dragging the word out. “Nooooo-what are you talking about? Where did you even get that from?”

Your performance was flawless—Oscar-worthy.

Okay, maybe you were a little tipsy. But it was just enough to sell it.

“Hm,” he murmured. “If you’re clumsy enough to drop a glass like that, you’re definitely drunk.”

You tilted your head, lips pressing into a small pout. “…Yeah. I guess I am.”

He sighed softly. “Alright. Then I’ll take you to your room.”

You raised your eyebrows like he’d just suggested something absurd.

“Oh?” You almost laughed. “Yeah, okay. That would be good. Thanks.”

He held out his hand. “Come on.”

You stared at it.

…That was it? He wasn’t going to carry you?

Clearly, you needed to exaggerate a bit more.

“Ah, but I’m very drunk,” you said, voice syrupy. “I don’t think I can walk.”

Harry lifted an eyebrow. “That drunk, huh?”

“Very,” you nodded seriously.

“Hm. Alright then.” He stepped closer. “Come here.”

Before you could say another word, he lifted you into his arms.

“I’ll carry you so you don’t fall.”

You smiled to yourself, biting your lower lip to keep from laughing.

“Such a gentleman,” you teased softly. “Handsome and polite.”

He chuckled, carrying you down the hall with surprising ease. When you reached your room, he nudged the door closed with his foot and carefully lowered you onto the bed.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Careful.”

The moment he straightened up, you sat up—and grabbed his hand, tugging him down so he landed beside you.

“Harry,” you said quietly.

He looked at you, attentive. “Yeah?”

“Why are we sleeping in separate rooms?” you asked.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second. “…What do you mean?”

You could tell he understood exactly what you meant. “I mean,” you continued, softer now, “don’t we… have something between us?”

“We do,” he said, smiling gently.

“Don’t you love me?” you asked, searching his eyes.

“So much,” he answered without hesitation.

“I love you too,” you said, voice warm, sincere. “Very much.”

You bit your lip, holding his gaze. You could feel it—him finally looking at you the way you wanted him to.

“Do you want me, Harry?” you asked quietly.

“I do.”

“Then why are we sleeping apart?”

He leaned closer. You closed your eyes, certain he was about to kiss you—

But he stopped. “You’re drunk,” he said softly.

You opened your eyes. “I lied,” you admitted, shrugging. “Well… not completely. But I broke the glass on purpose.”

He lifted his brows, fake-surprised. “Oh. Is that so.”

You sighed internally.

God, just kiss me already.

Frustration bubbled up. You stood abruptly, stubbornness taking over.

Harry looked genuinely startled this time. “Hey—”

You walked straight into the bathroom. He followed immediately.

You stepped into the shower, still fully dressed, and stood beneath the showerhead, turning to face him. You clasped your hands behind your back and looked up at him with the most innocent expression you could manage.

Harry stared at you, eyes wide. “…Are you serious?”

“Yes,” you said calmly. “I need a shower to sober up.”

“A cold shower?” he asked, brows lifting.

“Yes,” you said easily. “You know that’s the only thing that works for me. Did you forget?”

He hadn’t. And he hated cold showers. Every single time.

“You can’t be serious,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“I can,” you replied sweetly. “You said I was drunk, remember?”

He exhaled, then a slow smirk curved his lips. His gaze dropped pointedly to you, making a small gesture toward your clothes.

“In those?” he asked.

“Yes.” You tilted your head, innocent and smug all at once. “But you—” you added lightly, eyes flicking back up to his, “you hate cold water. You couldn’t handle it.”

You took a small step back, hands lifting as if in surrender, teasing. “So you can just stand there. Watch. Make sure I don’t fall, or something.”

Your fingers brushed the hem of your sweater, slow, deliberate. “While I take my clothes off.”

He stilled.

For half a second, you could see it—the exact moment the challenge landed.

Harry didn’t hesitate.

“Can’t I?” he said, already moving, voice low and dangerous with promise. “Watch me, princess.”

He shrugged off his cardigan—just a T-shirt underneath—and stepped into the shower, stopping directly in front of you. So close your noses nearly touched.

“I’m here,” he said, eyes locked on yours.

The corner of your mouth lifted, pure tease. “Yeah, I see you. Took you long enough,” you whispered, eyes flicking over him slowly.

He nodded toward the faucet, jaw tight. “Go on. Turn it on.”

Without breaking eye contact, you reached for the handle, fingers curling around the metal.

“I’m turning it on, Castillo.”

A sharp breath lodged in his chest. His gaze darkened instantly—focused, intent—tracking the slow movement of your hand, the way your lips parted around the words, the fragile stretch of silence hanging between you.

“Do it, Queen.”

You bit down on your lower lip, just once, then twisted the handle all the way.

The water hit.

Cold—brutal, immediate, unforgiving.

It slammed into your skin like a shockwave, stealing the air from your lungs. You gasped sharply, the sound torn from your chest as the icy spray soaked straight through fabric, clinging to you in seconds. Beside you, Harry sucked in a hissed breath through his teeth, his shoulders jerking instinctively as the cold struck him too.

For one suspended moment, neither of you moved.

Then—unexpectedly—you laughed.

A breathless, startled laugh bubbled out of you, half shock, half disbelief, your body shivering hard under the relentless stream. Harry let out a short, incredulous laugh of his own, head tipping back slightly as the cold water drenched his hair, darkening it, plastering strands to his forehead.

“You’re insane,” he said, teeth chattering just a little.

“Admit it,” you laughed back, arms crossing briefly over your chest as another shiver ran through you, “you’re alive now.”

He didn’t answer with words.

Harry stepped closer and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him without hesitation. The contact stole another breath from you—not from the cold, but from the sudden heat of him. His clothes were soaked too, fabric heavy and clinging, his body solid and unmistakably there against yours.

Yes, it was freezing.

But what burned between you was anything but.

Your hands lifted on instinct, brushing against his sides, then his arms. Your fingers slipped into his, tentative at first—then firmer. You laced them together, palms pressed, the connection slow and deliberate, like a dance finding its rhythm. The water continued to pour over you, rushing down your hair, your shoulders, dripping from his lashes, tracing the lines of his face.

He watched you—really watched you.

Water streamed down his jaw, his mouth slightly open, breath uneven. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, once, twice, grounding. He shifted, guiding you gently, turning you just enough that your bodies aligned better, still moving as if to unheard music. His head dipped closer, tilting slightly, his forehead brushing your temple.

You could feel his breath now. Warm. Unsteady.

Then he leaned in.

The kiss was soft. Careful. A question more than an answer.

His lips pressed to yours gently at first, testing, tasting, as if making sure you were really there. The cold faded into the background, replaced by the warmth of him, the familiar curve of his mouth, the way his grip tightened just a fraction when you kissed him back.

He pulled away slowly, reluctantly, resting his forehead against yours. Water still rushed around you, but the world had narrowed to this—your breathing, your closeness, the space between your lips.

“I love you,” he said softly. “so, so much.”

Then he kissed you again—this time deeper, more certain. His arms tightened around you as you wrapped yours around his neck. The water kept running, your breaths mingling.

You both trembled.

“Baby,” he murmured, breaking the kiss with a soft laugh, “if you’re sober now… maybe turn on the hot water?”

You laughed. “Unbelievable,” you said. “I’m miraculously cured.”

You turned the handle. Steam filled the bathroom, fogging the mirrors, the air growing warm as you stayed wrapped around each other—safe, close, finally together again.

Wet clothes made every movement harder. Your fingers fumbled, fabric sticking stubbornly to skin as you laughed breathlessly against his mouth, only for the sound to dissolve into something lower, needier. He helped, hands firm, tugging and pulling until damp material slid free at last.

You peeled the rest away, piece by piece, tossing everything aside without care. Wet fabric hit the tiles with dull slaps, forgotten the moment it left your hands. Nothing playful remained now—no teasing, no hesitation.

Only want.

Bare skin met bare skin beneath the spray, water tracing paths between you as the last barrier disappeared. Steam swallowed the room, the sound of the shower loud enough to drown out everything else. The air felt thick, charged, as if it couldn’t hold what was building between you.

And when there was finally nothing left to remove, nothing left to hide...

Gloriously naked, Harry stood under the spray, water cascading over him in silver sheets. Your stomach clenched with a sudden rush of desire, sharp and undeniable. You couldn’t tear your eyes away.

You stepped closer, bare feet slick against the tile, heat and steam wrapping around you both. Your hands found him without hesitation, palms gliding over warm skin, tracing lines you already knew but needed to relearn anyway. You watched your own fingers move—over his chest, along the planes of his stomach—memorizing the way he reacted, the way his breath shifted when you touched him.

Reaching past him, you grabbed the shampoo and squeezed a generous amount into your palm before pressing it to his hair. You worked it in slowly, deliberately, your fingers threading through damp curls as foam bloomed beneath your touch.

You watched as it flowed down his body, water catching it and pulling it lower, gently blurring his features as steam thickened the air. Muscles moved beneath the surface of his skin as he tilted his head back, rinsing shampoo from his hair. White lather traced lazy paths down his chest and stomach.

Your tongue slipped out to wet your lips as you followed its path—down his broad shoulders, shoulders that tapered into a narrow waist. Foam slid over his firm back, down strong thighs, disappearing beneath the falling water.

The shower roared around you, but all you could hear was his breathing—and your own, unsteady, wanting.

He returned the gesture without a word. His hands closed around the bottle, fingers slick as he tipped it over you, cool shampoo spilling against your skin before he spread it slowly, deliberately. You leaned into his touch as his hands moved—steady, attentive—guiding you beneath the spray.

He worked it into your hair first, fingers massaging your scalp with an ease that made your knees feel weak. Foam bloomed between his hands, sliding down your neck as he rinsed you, his thumbs brushing your jaw, tilting your head just slightly so the water could follow.

Then his hands moved lower.

Not rushed. Not careless.

He washed you with the same focus, palms gliding over your body, lingering just enough to make your breath hitch. Everywhere he touched, your skin reacted—oversensitive, alive—heat blooming beneath his hands. You shivered despite the warmth, a soft tremor you couldn’t stop as his fingers traced familiar paths, water and soap making everything feel amplified.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Your breasts ached, nipples tightening with want, and you slid your hands around him, needing the contact. Your body brushed against his, soft against solid, your skin sensitive where it met his chest. You kissed his wet shoulder, lips lingering there, tasting water, faint shampoo, and him—a mix that made your breath catch.

He leaned into you slightly, trusting, inviting. His hands found your hips, thumbs pressing in as if to anchor himself, before they drifted lower, tracing slow paths down your thighs.

Your legs parted instinctively as his slick hands moved between them, heat and water making every touch sharper. The inner skin of your thighs was brushed lightly, teasing and deliberate, and a sharp gasp escaped you. Your hands gripped his biceps, holding on as if they could steady the tremor running through you.

The other hand rose, fingers ghosting over your cheek. Soft—so tender—but there was unmistakable need in the press of his palm, the way his thumb brushed along your jaw. You tilted your head into his touch, heart racing, breath hitching, aware of every inch of skin that met his.

All the while, his fingers explored your sensitive mound. As his mouth covered yours, two fingers slipped into you. Your body jerked in pleasure, your moan lost under the wonderful feel of his mouth moving over yours. At his coaxing, you opened your mouth wider, letting his tongue slip in. His fingers moved within you, his thumb rubbing your clit over and over. You shattered into a million pieces under the magic of his mouth and fingers.

Your hands traced down from his back to his hips, embracing them close so you could feel his hardened manhood against you. An animalistic growl broke free from him, as he felt more aroused by your actions.

His mouth trailed kisses down your throat, over the swell of your breasts. Bending his head, he took first one then the other into his mouth. The heat of his mouth on your breasts sent nerve ends tingling. With exquisite care, he worshiped them, suckled them. Your hands gripped his head firmly, fingers twirling in his curls as you pulled him closer, the pleasure mounting to an almost overwhelming level.

You leaned your back against the tile and parked your hands in his wet hair and made yourself breathe, tried to because he had you by the hips now, kneeling under the warm fall of water, and you knew what he wanted, knew what he would do, and again, you were wishing for him to do that. Your womanhood was burning, aching.

He kissed across your belly, around your navel, and you were a little ticklish there, always, but this time you resisted it, helped by the firm grip of his hands on your hips, and you spread your legs and tilted up to him and let him do it.

He was so good -better than your memories- mouthing gently at your mound first, kissing firmly all around, circling slowly in. His last kiss landed right at the base of your clit, right where the folds separated, and he pressed with his tongue, extending it, parting the folds, and he did that over and over, slow intense laps. You let your head fall back against the tile, trusting his grip on your hips, letting him take you apart.

He gently, inexorably, worked you open, exploring all the folds and whirls, and finally, when he had you panting, melting, he nuzzled right in, nuzzled all the petaled skin aside, and sucked gently and then licked directly on your clit, and you cried aloud as you came, a blinding rush, and jerked in his hands. He waited you out, not taking his mouth away, remembering exactly how to handle you, what you liked and what you needed.

He pressed soft, lingering kisses along your thighs, trailing upward as he steadied you in his arms and entered you slowly, letting you adjust, filling you completely, you screamed in pleasure, your arms wrapping tightly around his neck. Your body trembled against his as he positioned himself for the better access, stretching you full, wide. Looking into your eyes, his gaze burned with an unspoken, almost unbearable desire. His brown eyes, dark and smoldering, taking your breathe away.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze—just the two of you, moving together as if the rest of the world had vanished. Every gasp, every shiver, every brush of skin was magnified, the closeness between you electric.

He quickly found his rhythm, moving strongly within you. Multiple sensations swamped you. The feel of cool tiles against your back, the hard beat of water pouring down on you, the feel of him thrusting into you, hands tight on your hips.

“You feel so good, baby,” he purred, his voice low and warm, vibrating against your skin.

“You too, Harry… Oh, yes,” you whispered back, your words soft and breathy, barely audible over the rush of water. Every syllable was soaked in need and affection, a delicate echo of what you felt.

You weren’t loud. There were no urgent cries—just the slow, intimate rhythm of your bodies pressed together under the warm spray. Every touch lingered, every sigh and whispered name carried weight, a promise exchanged in silence.

It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t frantic. It was tender. Lovely. You moved together with a soft urgency, giving and taking in equal measure, completely lost in each other. Even in motion, even as breaths hitched and small shivers ran down your spines, there was a softness to it—a shared understanding, a love threaded through each gentle touch, each careful movement, each whispered word.

Soon, you felt yourself reaching you climax and dug your nails into his shoulders. With a gasp, your orgasm arrived and you clenched the muscles of your womanhood to enhance it. You couldn't stop yourself from screaming Harry's name in wholesome ecstasy, slipping into pure euphoria. The sudden contraction tipped him over the edge and with a few more thrusts; he spilled himself inside you and groaned deeply at his release.

The water rippled eternally afterwards….

His muscular arms held you close as you breathed heavily, noticing that it was enough activity for the night and begun kissing your lips softly, at the same time placing his hands on your hips so you were sitting in his lap, savoring the moment.

Harry's hands traced against your breasts and you shivered slightly at his touch. You leaned forward a little to once again feel his soft lips against your own, if only for a few moments. Harry broke away from the kiss, but pulled you into an embrace, holding tightly as if never wanting to let go of your. You closed your eyes and let him hug you, fully enjoying the peaceful moment between you. 

After you both had savored the moment, letting the warmth and closeness wash over you, and your breathing finally slowed, Harry turned off the water for one last rinse. He stepped out and slipped into his own soft robe, then reached for yours, draping it around your shoulders and fastening it carefully.

He gently wrapped your hair in a towel, taking his time as if you were the most precious thing in the world, tucking stray strands with a tenderness that made your heart ache. Once your hair was secured, he held you close for a moment, his hands lingering on your back, before letting you both climb into bed.

Snuggled under the covers, robes still soft against your skin, you lay together in silence, only your breaths and the occasional soft glance filling the room. You held each other tight, the quiet intimacy of the moment wrapping around you like a blanket.

There was a serene certainty in that silence—a knowledge that a completely new chapter was beginning between you, all the barriers between you gone, old secrets and sorrows shared and laid to rest, and the simple joy of being together. And with that, you drifted into sleep, hearts tethered, completely at ease.

Scarlet was doing one of the rare things she allowed herself—drinking past midnight. Lara froze when she saw her. She had only done this twice before; this was the third.

Scarlet stood by the window, staring into the city below, her face sharp in the dim light. She didn’t turn when Lara approached. Instead, her gaze was fixed on the folder on the table.

Lara’s eyes fell on it.

This… oh god… is this real?

Scarlet didn’t respond. She didn’t move. Her fingers lingered on the edge of the folder. Inside, the heading read:

“The family of convict Ilan Kensley has formally petitioned this court, asserting that concerns regarding the petitioner’s mental health warrant reconsideration. The court will examine and assess the case in accordance with established legal protocols.”

Lara’s voice trembled. “Jesus… how dare they? What are we going to do?”

Scarlet finally turned, her eyes cold, measured. “The lawyers are handling it.”

Lara hesitated. “Eduardo… if you reached him—he could testify, right? Ilan threatened him before… Castillo’s name… everything he did to her—”

Her words faltered as Scarlet’s gaze cut through her like ice.

“Enough—” Scarlet’s voice was firm, unwavering. “My daughter will not know about this, Lara. I’ll handle it in my own way.”

With that, she walked toward her room, leaving Lara standing frozen. Lara stared at the folder, heart hammering. Her hand lingered over it, trembling, then slowly dropped.

She couldn’t help but glance at the photo inside—a booking photo of Ilan at the police station, his face cold and unrepentant.

My poor girl. Could she tell Harry everything and mention that the monster who assaulted her was his stepbrother? Could she even bear to say it? Lara’s chest tightened as a wave of helplessness crashed over her.

Her fingers closed the folder, pressing it to her chest. Her mind screamed, This is too much… my heart can’t take it.

And in that moment, in the silent weight of the midnight room, the truth hung there, heavy and unspoken, like a storm waiting to break.

Chapter Warnings: +18, SMUT, EXPLICIT CONTENT! MDNI, kissing, sexual tension, shower sex, oral sex (f receiving), tender sex, soft sex, possessive behaviour, emotional sex, piv, creampie, fingering.

Author’s Note: Writing this chapter was extremely hard for me, as someone who’s experienced something close to assault years ago. I hope it resonated with you. I’m sorry if it was upsetting—but the sweet moments and intimate scenes were meant to lift your spirits (and mine). Thank you for reading. and.... the little twist at the end isn’t enough to stop their love. I hope it still makes you happy! love you all!

thanks for reading, likes, comments, reblogs are appreciated ❤️

AND PLEASE SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS WITH ME ❤️ IT'S SOOOO IMPORTANT TO MEEEE 🥰

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Your break pads keep squeaking. They've always been squeaky but especially so as of late. You probably need to service your car at some point soon but you'll put it off a bit longer. Just until you've saved enough so the nine-hundred dollar bill it'll likely cost doesn't leave you eating ramen for a week. You jog up to your apartment, taking two steps at a time. You can hear Anika in her room, humming something under her breath. You slip into your room and change as quickly as you can. You need to leave in five if you want to make it to the boxing gym in time. Your lab meeting had run later then expected, your PI asking you one too many questions that you didn't have the answer to which means you'll need to spend the weekend reading up papers on statistical analysis methods.

You pull your hair into a loose braid before you slip off your shirt. Rummaging through your disorganized drawers, you find the tank top and sports bra you're looking for in one go and it feels like a victory. You slip into both before searching for a decent pair of sweats. It takes you longer than you'd like but three minutes later you're ready to leave which means you still might make it in time, granted there isn't too much traffic on the way. When you get to the living room, Anika is waiting for you.

"You're in a rush," she says, grinning. "Eager?"

So maybe you had told her about handsome Joel Miller and his big hands and even bigger biceps. How could you not, really?

"Just don't want to be late," you say, refilling your water bottle in the adjoining kitchen. It smells like curry and rice and your stomach grumbles.

"Oh I'm sure," Anika says and you groan. She hands you a granola bar as you pass her and you would kiss her really, if you had the time.

"You're the best," you say instead and she hums.

"I know," she says. "Have fun with your DILF-y instructor."

You give her a light shove and hear her tinkling laugh as you close the door behind. You jog back to your car and get in. The drive to the boxing gym is thankfully, smooth. All the traffic seems to be going in the direction opposite to you so you find yourself pulling into the strip mall a couple of minutes early. You chew on the last bite of the granola bar as you make your way inside, expecting Joel to be at the front desk just like last week.

He isn't but Sarah is, her brow furrowed as she reads something in a colourful binder. She looks up when she hears the door sweep shut behind you, her eyes lighting up.

"You again," she says. "M'glad my dad didn't scare you off with his hatred of Groupons."

You laugh. "Takes a lot more to scare me off."

"Good," she says, smiling in return. "He's just finishing up with Jesse and then he'll be with you."

"All good," you say and then your eye catches on her neat writing in her binder. "So algebra huh?"

Sarah groans, slumping in her chair. "I hate it. It's so boring and it doesn't make sense."

You give her a sympathetic smile. "Mind if I take a look?"

"Please," Sarah says. She rotates the binder and you take a look. Her answers are mostly correct, the confusion only seems to be when she has to simplify quadratics.

"I used to hate this stuff too," you say. You go over an example, showing her the easiest way to complete the square. She follows along, eyes sharp and nodding at your explanations.

"Dude," she says, sounding amazed. "You're a genius. So much better at explaining this than Mr. Walters."

"Thank you," you say, grinning at her. "I'm happy to help."

It's right then that you hear a grunt and you look to your right. Inside the ring, Joel and another man are circling each other. Joel's not facing you but you recognize the breadth of his back. The other man has straight black hair and sweat drips down his face. You watch as they spar, Joel dodging each attack and then swinging. It's so smooth it looks almost like a dance. The other guy dodges just as Joel's left arm swings up, the muscles of his bicep distinct in the low light of the gym. A few steps later, and Joel's facing you. He hasn't noticed you yet and you use the time to take in his face. He's sweating too but not as much. His face is flushed red and his hair falls against his forehead in damp waves. His chest heaves with the effort and you feel something low in your stomach, warm and buzzy. He dodges another jab and then they both stop, in sync.

"That was good but you need to be faster on your turns," Joel says and the other man nods. He says something in return but you realize you've been staring at look back at Sarah who's watching you with an amused smile.

"Anything else you need help with?" you ask and she shakes her head, eyes sparkling.

"I think I've got it," she says and you nod. "I'm going to the mall with my friend so I'm going to head out now actually."

"Sounds much better than doing pre-algebra," you say.

"Thanks again," she says and you shrug her off. Then she turns to the ring where Joel and the other man are still dodging each other's punches.

"Christy just texted and her mom's outside. I'll see you at dinner Dad," Sarah says, louder than before to catch Joel's attention. He pauses, glancing your way and his eyes widen when they land on you. He says something to the other man and then they both stop, nodding at each other. He makes his way to you and Sarah.

"Seven p.m kiddo and not a moment later, alright?" he says and she nods. She gathers her things in a whirlwind of movement and then she's gone out the front door. Then, it's just you and Joel and the mystery man.

"Hey Joel," you greet. "I got here early and didn't want to interrupt so was just chatting with Sarah." You leave out the bit where you ogled him as he boxed.

"All good, we were just wrappin' up. I'm sorry to have kept you waitin', I lost track of time," Joel says. The man next to him smiles at you.

"You his newbie?" he asks and you smile, feeling like there's a spotlight on you. You shift slightly catching Joel's gaze. He turns to Jesse.

"Leave her alone, Jesse," Joel says, his tone firm. Jesse snorts.

"It was nice meeting you," he says as he heads out and you nod. When you look back at Joel, he's already looking at you. The collar of his shirt is damp with sweat and it sticks to his chest in a way that feels obscene. You swallow and look past him, at the wall clock that now reads 5:07 pm.

"We'll start with the jump rope and stretchin' again," Joel says. "Just to warm you up. And then I want to review what we did last week before we move onto jabs."

You nod and follow him to the same section of the gym you were in last week. He hands you the jump rope and you take it from him, just as a bead of sweat drips down his forehead. He catches it with a towel and you begin to move. The five minutes pass quicker this time but it might just be because you're trying to distract yourself from Joel. He watches you this time, as he takes gulps of water. When you're done with your last hip opener, you sit up. He hands you the wrappings from last week.

"Your turn to try," Joel instructs. "Remember. You want to protect your bones and support your wrist."

"Right," you agree. You slowly begin to wrap your left wrist, once, twice, thrice before you bring it over your knuckles. You're methodical about it. And maybe you had watched a tutorial the night before. You've always liked being a teachers pet and the need for academic validation has only intensified since you started grad school. Joel is patient as you unwind one of your loops, the material bulging against your middle knuckle, sitting incorrectly between your fingers. You look up at him, unsure of what you did wrong.

"You wrapped it twice," Joel says, reaching forward. He doesn't ask you if he can touch and you're glad, as he redoes the loop before handing it back to you. You think of how perfectly he had sparred with Jesse and wonder how long he's been doing this. Your curiosity gets the better of you and you find yourself saying it out loud.

"When did you start all this?" you ask, as you twist the bandage around your wrist. It seems secure and you flex your fingers, making sure you can still move them. You catch Joel's eye and he seems momentarily thrown by the question.

"Been boxin' since I was fourteen," he says. "My brother Tommy n' I opened this place up a year ago. Before that, I was workin' in construction."

A vision of Joel wearing a tool belt crosses your mind before you push it away.

"What made you switch?" you ask.

"You need to wrap your other hand too," Joel says. "Might be harder because your left is already wrapped but I can help if you need."

Right. Clearly he's not one for small talk. The fantasy of him in your mind, begins to wane. You tamp down the embarrassment inside of you. You're not the worst at flirting but you also don't talk to that many men. Joel clearly has no interest in speaking to you outside of telling you what to do.

"Okay," you say, breaking away from his gaze. You take the other wrapping and begin to twist it around your wrist. Joel wasn't kidding. It's a lot harder to do with the more limited movement of your already wrapped fingers.

"Here," Joel says, stepping towards you. He takes your right hand in his big ones, and slowly begins to wrap the cloth around your wrist.

"Thanks," you mutter. You can smell him. The musk of his sweat and the detergent that he probably uses for laundry. His body radiates heat, and you can feel the back of your neck flushing, both from the lingering embarrassment of your failed follow-up and from the proximity of him.

"Contractin' is long hours away from Sarah and it's tough when you're a single dad," Joel suddenly says and your mind latches onto the single dad bit and the fact that he's answering your question. "I wanted to be around a bit more and this gives me more flexibility. Plus, I've been doin' it long enough as a hobby so I thought I might as well try make some money off of it."

"That makes sense," you say, looking at how his hands deftly wrap the material around your knuckles. "Sarah seems sweet. It must be nice getting to spend time with her some more."

"Sweet is definitely one way to put it," he says but there's so much fondness in his voice. "She's goin' through her terrible teens."

"Hey, it's not easy being a teenage girl," you say, your tone teasing.

"I'll take your word for it," Joel says as he secures the wrapping around your wrist. "How's that?"

"Better than mine," you say because it is. Your right hand feels more secure compared to your left. Joel reaches for your left wrist and wraps the material around it tighter before he presses it down to the Velcro.

"You'll get the hang of it," he says, voice low. "Just takes some practice is all."

He tells you to get into the stance from last week and you practice moving, front and back first and then left to right. He circles you nodding.

"Show me how to form a fist," he says as you raise your hands and tuck your elbows towards your ribs. You nod, remembering how he had instructed you. You tuck your fingers into your palm and then curl your thumb over the knuckle of your index finger and Joel nods, a satisfied look on his face.

"Jabbin' is your most basic move. It distracts your opponent but it's not as strong as the other sorts of punches you've got," Joel says. "You gotta be quick."

"Okay," you agree. He shows you the motion of it, and you focus on how he holds himself. His right arm moves sharply and straight towards the space in front of him before he brings it back to his face.

"How should I move on my feet?" you ask.

"For now, you stay in place. No rockin' back and forth or side to side. Just keep your balance, right foot forward and left foot back and down. Keep your knees slightly bent and keep your hips still."

You nod, trying to keep track of all the muscles in your body and how you need them to cooperate. You steady your legs and bend your knees slightly. Your calf muscle twitches slightly but you ignore it in favour of getting into position. Joel nods.

"Alright," he says. "Push your right fist forward, straight ahead and then bring it back to where it is right now."

You follow his instruction but nearly clip the side of your face with the momentum of it. Joel shakes his head, coming to stand in front of you.

"You need to hold yourself steady. Try imagine there's somethin' holdin' your hips still. You don't want to swing your whole body." he says. "Again."

You try again and still you move slightly.

"Sorry," you say and Joel shakes his head.

"There's no need to be apologizin'," he says. "Do you mind if I help?"

You know now that means he's asking permission to touch you. You nod, feeling your heart rate pick up. He comes to stand on your left and then moves his large palms to your waist. He holds you there, steady and firm.

"Now try again," he instructs, and you do. This time you don't move and your right arm comes back without grazing your face.

"Good," Joel says, and he's so close that you can feel the warmth radiating off of him. "You need to engage your core. I know it sounds like bullshit but it'll help you stay in place."

"Okay," you say, voice breathy. You clear your throat. "I think I've got it. I'll just pretend there's something holding me there."

Joel nods and moves his hands away. You jab again and this time, you know it's perfect. You glance at Joel and he looks pleased.

"Good," he says. "Again."

And so it goes on like that for the next ten minutes. You take breaks every once in a while, stretching out the muscles of your fingers.

"So is it just this for this lesson?" you ask, when you've grown tired of jabbing at the air in front of you. Joel shakes his head.

"You ever head of a cross?" he asks and you shake your head. He comes to stand a foot away from you, directly in your line of sight. Then you watch him shift back and pivot on his rear leg, his left arm swinging in what looks like would be a real sucker punch. You can feel your pulse kick up in excitement.

"That looks like the real deal," you say and Joel's mouth twitches in a smile.

"You don't think jabbin' ain't?" he asks but his tone is light. He's joking again. It feels like an achievement.

You shrug and then try mimic his stance. You raise an eyebrow at him and wait for him to assess your pose. His eyes trace over your form and you will yourself not to flush at the attention. Finally, he nods.

"When you're throwin' this sort of punch you're usin' your back foot for power. You pivot on it to build up momentum so that it hurts when you land the punch. That make sense?" Joel asks and you consider the physics of it all before you nod.

"I think so," you say.

"Try it out," he says. "I'm right here."

You take a deep breath, and then move the way you think he had just a few moments ago. You can tell you've done it wrong just by how your torso moves. There's not enough force from your rear leg driving your body forward. Your movement is so awkward that the embarrassment quickly follows. You're not the most graceful person and you're also never the focus of someone's attention like this.

"Let your arms down for a sec," Joel instructs, voice gentle. "Let's just try the leg movement first."

"Okay," you say, feeling your cheeks grow hot. You clear your throat and Joel comes to stand in front of you.

"Watch me and then we can try together," he says and you focus on how his body pivots. He sort of looks like a statue with the way his muscles move under the thin material of his shorts. His calf looks so strong, the muscle rippling as he he cocks his hip forward.

"I think I get it," you say, because you do. Even with the momentary distraction. He nods, and you both mirror each other as you twist your left foot and swing your hip forward. It feels right and you smile before you can stop yourself. When you look at Joel's face, his expression mirrors yours too.

"Attagirl," he says, his accent seemingly stronger. You know he must say things like that to everyone he trains. Positive reinforcement is key in these types of things. Still, it settles somewhere low in your gut. "Now try it with your hands. Just like we practiced."

And you do. Your movements are a lot more fluid now and it feels more natural. You're not sure if your punches will knock someone out but you definitely have the momentum to make them hurt, even just a bit. You practice a few more rounds, switching hands and pivoting on either foot. You can feel your muscles beginning to protest all the new movement but it feels good too. You've always enjoyed the aches and pains after a good workout. Granted you haven't been going to the gym as of late because life has been far too hectic, but back when you did have the time, you used to relish the sore muscles of your glutes and biceps after a session of strength training. You had told Anika this once and she had diagnosed you with a pain kink which you had promptly denied. It's the feeling of achievement, the evidence of something tangible in the form of sore muscles, that you like.

"I want to switch gears a bit," Joel says, breaking you out of your thoughts. "We're goin' back to jabbin' but this time I want you to move with your feet. It's almost like a slow jog, but we're movin' in a circle."

"Okaaaay," you say, uncertainty creeping into your voice. Moving in a circle is easy enough but doing it while throwing a punch is a whole new ball game.

"S'alright if you make a mistake," Joel says, voice reassuring. "You're learnin'."

You nod and he comes to stand in front of you, an arms length away.

"I want you to follow me," he says. "Move so that I'm always in your line of sight and jab whenever it feels right. You're goin' to maintain your stance so your right foot's always in front of your left."

"Right," you say, still unconvinced. "What if I accidently hit you?"

Joel's mouth curls into an amused smile. "I think I can take it."

Okay then.

"Your funeral," you say and his smile grows into something lovely, his cheeks dimpling with it. You must be ovulating or something, with how it makes you feel.

"C'mon," he says. "We've only got ten minutes left."

So you move in a circle, bouncing off the front of each foot. It's almost like you're a rocking horse and a carousel all at once. Joel's eyes stay trained on you and you jab once, then a second time in quick succession. He moves slightly each time, avoiding your touch. There's a pleased smile on his face as he catalogues your movements and you can feel your uncertainty melt away. It feels natural, moving like this. Maybe you've been in the wrong field all this time. Maybe your real calling is boxing. That thought promptly disappears when you land on your rear foot and feel something catch. Your entire calf muscle twitches and then your left leg is freezing up in a terrible cramp.

When you were a kid, maybe eight or nine, you'd wake up in the middle of the night with a feeling like your leg was on fire. That was the only way you could describe the pain. You'd sit up and yell for your mom and she'd come rushing in, eyes bleary with sleep. It would take at least twenty minutes of soothing your tears and massaging away the sharp pain of it before you would settle. This is exactly that feeling except somehow it's worse. You falter and then you're crumpling towards the ground, the burning pain in your calf unbearable. Before you can land on the ground, Joel's arms catch you, holding you up against him. You can feel your eyes beginning to water as the sharp pain grows into something almost unbearable.

"Hey," Joel says. "It's alright. I've got you."

"It hurts," you say, hating how much of a child you sound like. You feel him wrap his arm around your shoulders and he somehow gets you to the bench even though you're a deadweight against him. He sits you down and then kneels in front of you, his large hands on your leg.

"Is it your left calf?" he asks, voice calm as he looks up at you. You nod, swiping at a stray tear. Joel takes your leg in his hand and slowly moves pushes your foot up so that your toes are pointing towards your shin. "Stretchin' it in the opposite direction to what's natural should help. How's that?"

"Better, I think," you say, voice wavering. "M'sorry about this. You don't have to do this."

You're embarrassed that this is happening and that you're reacting to it just like you did when you were a kid. You don't want Joel to think you're weak and this is doing just that. You start reaching for your foot, ignoring the twinge of pain in your calf as you move but Joel says your name, stopping you. His dark eyes are serious and there's a furrow between his brows.

"It's okay," he says, voice low and comforting. "I've got it."

You take a shaky breath and nod. He helps you hold the stretch for a few more seconds. His other hand moves to your calf and gently presses into the rigid muscle, trying to loosen the tightness of it. His hands are warm and comforting, and slowly, you begin to relax. Your calf still hurts but the stretching combined with Joel's gentle pressing helps begin to ease the discomfort. His hands move across the back of your leg, pressing evenly on each part of the tight muscle. You glance at his face. His brows are still furrowed in concentration and his mouth is pulled into a small pout. As if sensing your gaze, he looks up at you.

"How's that feelin'?" he asks and you nod.

"A lot better," you say. "Thank you."

You think he'll stop now, and go back to telling you to jab or punch or skip rope. Instead, he hums, pulling your foot into a stretch once more. You can feel the cramp loosen further, the muscle releasing, and you let out a relieved breath. Joel presses into your calf a few more times, his long fingers kneading into your flesh. The sharp pain has ebbed into something more manageable. Now that it has, you find yourself focusing on how his hands move over your skin. His palms are so broad, and you can feel his callouses as he presses into the tender muscle. Your breath catches and you shift. Joel looks up at you.

"Breathe through it," he instructs, voice firm. His tone is commanding even it's still gentle. You exhale slowly, as the pain fades.

"Good," he praises, pressing into the spot a few more times. You breathe through it each time and eventually his hand flattens so that his wide palm is rubbing across your whole calf, warming the skin. You can feel it heating up at his touch. Much to your disappointment, he soon stops. You stand up slowly, putting pressure on your left foot. To your relief, it doesn't buckle under your weight.

"Back to business," you say, hoping to distract him from the fact that you cried because of a leg cramp and then basically went docile when he massaged it away. Joel shakes his head, a small smile on his face.

"Think we should call it," he says. You tamp down the feeling of disappointment that pushes its way up.

"Right," you say. "I'm sorry, again. Didn't mean to freak out on you or anything."

"Crampin' is normal and expected if you're doin' it right," Joel says. "It means you're activatin' the right muscles. You've never done this before so it'll take a while for your body to get used to movin' the way it should. You don't need to apologize to me for that."

"I shouldn't have cried," you say, unable to stop yourself. Joel shakes his head, his dark eyes tracing over your face.

"The first time I got a cramp from boxin', I went into the changin' rooms and hid in a corner. I cried for twenty minutes. My coach came lookin' for me," Joel says. "S'perfectly normal, I can promise you that."

"Yeah but how old were you?" you ask, although you're smiling now. "I guarantee you weren't twenty-seven."

Joel shakes his head, an amused smile on his face.

"Were you in debate club or somethin' when you were younger?" he asks and you let out a laugh through your nose.

"Guilty," you say. Joel reaches for something on the bench and then he's handing you your water bottle. You raise a brow at him.

"You need to hydrate," he says. "It's half of what causes these things."

You take the bottle from him and drink. The whole time, he watches you, his gaze steady. You can feel your ears getting hot under his focused gaze. It's only when you're done that he nods, seemingly pleased. He insists on watching you walk to the front desk to make sure the cramp has really passed and you're good to drive. You oblige. When you successfully make it to the desk without falling over or crying, he seems satisfied.

"Same time, next week then," you say. "I'll try not to cry."

You mean it as a joke, really.

"I don't mind if you do," Joel says, his voice serious. You can feel your pulse quicken and you give him a quick wave before you're leaving to your car. It's only your second session and you're seemingly small crush on your instructor is growing into something you know you won't be able to control. You've never been good with moderating your feelings and a handsome man telling you to cry whenever you want is basically a dream scenario, really. Your drive back home is quick, the evening rush hour traffic now clear. Anika isn't home when you enter your apartment and you're grateful because verbalizing what you're feeling right now doesn't seem like a good idea, especially because she'll only egg you on.

You shower quickly, feeling your stomach beginning to grumble. When you come out, your hair wet and curling against the collar of your tee, you notice your phone screen light up. You reach for it, swiping it open. There's a notification from Instagram that you swipe away and then your heart stutters when you see another — a text message.

[Joel (Miller Boxing Club), 6:45 pm]: Hey, I just wanted to make sure you made it home alright and that your leg didn't give you any trouble after that. - Joel

You can feel yourself start to smile as you read the message over once more.

[You, 6:55 pm]: I did, thanks for checking in! No more tears from me, at least for now lol

Joel responds almost immediately.

[Joel (Miller Boxing Club), 6:55 pm]: I'm happy to hear it. - Joel

[You, 6:56 pm]: Thanks again for helping me through it.

[Joel (Miller Boxing Club), 6:56 pm]: Anytime. - Joel

You don't say anything back because you don't want to overdo it but you do spend the rest of the evening thinking about his hands on your leg and his deep voice telling you that he's got you. When Anika comes home, the look on your face must give it away because she grins.

"Oh, you have it bad, don't you?" she asks and you groan.

You straighten your skirt, looking down your own body.

A white blouse, a dark blue skirt that reaches to your knees, and feet clad in white knee-high socks and brown leather boots. Depicting sheer innocence.

If anyone looked at you right now, they would surmise that you're a well-behaved, polite young woman.

You swallow hard. You can't help but feel so incredibly ashamed about being nervous. It's not at all what you learned in Father Joel's preaching, the bible lessons and what your parents taught you growing up. Everyone sins, everyone does things they're not supposed to do, so instead of hiding from reality and burying the darkness deep inside your stomach, you should confess to it and work on preventing it from happening again.

This is precisely what Father Joel is there for. You should feel grateful that you have this amazing opportunity to personally talk to him about your problems, that a solution is offered to you on a silver platter.

And yet, here you are, knuckles turned white and face burning with embarrassment.

You are an idiot. You're a scared, foolish idiot who would rather run from her mistakes than face them proudly, boldly and with her chin held high like the other Christians in your community do. No, they probably don't even approach Father Joel about such… obscene things. So you were so much worse in not just one aspect but two.

Maybe all of this was a bad idea, and you should think it over again. At home, where you at least feel safe. Maybe there is another way out of it instead of speaking to Father Joel directly.

You turn around, slowly taking a step in the opposite direction of the church when you detect movement next to you.

"Oh sweet rose, is that you?"

You freeze mid-motion, hands uselessly dangling beside your body.

As a young girl, you hated that nickname some of the people in the community came up with, but nowadays you're so used to it, you answer to it as if it is the name you were given at birth.

Elizabeth, the church administrator, walks toward you as quickly as her ballet flats allow, the soles creating a squeaking noise against the damp grass.

"Elizabeth," you smile sweetly and lean in to give her a hug. "How are you?"

As always, she doesn't reply to that question, just pinches your cheek with so much force you flinch.

"You look pale around the nose, my sweet rose… You don't get enough sunlight. Where are you heading, hm?"

"I was…" you begin, only to remember that you just decided to head home and call it a day, when Elizabeth presses a hand over her brow as though she just remembered something.

"Oh, you're here for the consultation! Oh sweet girl, is there something bothering you? Is it still your cat's death? Or Georgina and Melvin's separation? I do miss her too… Such a nice woman, she always brought me the best pistachio cookies…"

You don't have a choice, Elizabeth practically drags you inside the church by your bicep and doesn't even seem to realize that it is not in your best interest.

"Elizabeth, I…" you try to start again, but she just keeps on babbling as if talking to herself.

"I'm so sorry, little rose… It must be a lot to go through all this. Georgina and you were close, weren't you? Oh no, oh no, my little girl… It's good that you're going to talk to Father Joel. He will know how to help, he will support you. I will too."

You don't have the strength to tell her that you barely knew Georgina and maybe exchanged two words with the woman who lived a few houses down the street before she moved away. And the fact that your cat was old when you first got her and even older when she died seems beside the point as well.

Also, Elizabeth is always kind to you, even now when you scarcely get a word out and would rather disappear into one of those cold stone walls next to you, the ones you nearly bump into while the older woman still yanks you through the corridor like she is bringing a criminal to her prison cell.

"Take your time, sweet rose… Talk to the Father, tell him about what makes you sad. I want to see our little girl smile again. I miss that smile."

She pinches your cheek again, a little softer this time, and you manage to give her a feeble grin that doesn't reach your eyes.

"Thank you, Elizabeth," you murmur before she is already gone as quickly as she appeared.

Now it's just you and the heavy oak door in front of you. And, of course, the man waiting behind it in his office.

You can still leave. If you sneak out through the backdoor, Elizabeth might not even notice your escape, and since you didn't make an appointment with Father Joel, he won't find out about it either.

But then again, Elizabeth would learn about your exit by the end of the evening at the latest when she asked the Father about his day. This woman likes to gossip, and even though the Father is not allowed to give away details, Elizabeth would ask him if he was able to help you.

So, there is only one way. And maybe it's for the best, right? After all, you initially came here to confess to something that has been weighing on your heart for weeks now. And Father Joel is a generous, empathetic man who might actually be able to help you. If you are to overcome your anxiousness, of course.

"Come in!" Father Joel's loud, slightly brassy voice comes through the door after you knock, which automatically makes you lift your hand to the handle.

You realize that you have never been to his office alone. Once, you were there with two friends to speak to the Father about the upcoming nativity play for Christmas that you were part of when you were nine. But now you are twenty-three, and you just know that his office will look foreign to you.

Still, you open the door as he asked and carefully poke your head in.

"Sweet rose…" Joel smiles with kind eyes and puts down the sheet of paper he had previously been reading.

Yes, he calls you that too. Even though you haven't really spent a lot of time alone with him before. Of course, he knows your name, knows that you show up at this church every Sunday, that you are part of the community and know everyone just like everyone knows you, but Father Joel… He is the priest. There is something intimidating, something reverent about him that makes you hold your breath when he is near.

He looks friendly, you have to admit, while he invites you in by pointing to the chair across from his desk. He has hair on his cheeks and around his mouth, wears his brown hair which has started to grey over the years a little messy, and is tall and broad. Not really scary, just… caring.

You don't know why you sometimes feel your heart thumping in your chest, but you assume it is normal. This is the man who preaches every Sunday, who you just know is so incredibly smart and wise, who is closer to God than any man you have ever met. Of course, you feel unsettled in his presence. Who wouldn't? Maybe you should feel honored by the fact that he doesn't just know your name but also calls you by your nickname.

"Good morning, Father," you smile and take your seat in front of him. It is definitely a tad forced, but you try your best to relax your shoulders while you get comfortable.

"How are you, sweet girl? I haven't seen you on Sunday… is that right?"

Your breath catches in your throat, eyes widening.

"No, I – I was there, of course. As always."

You can't help but feel a little hurt about him not noticing your presence. Well, maybe you just aren't that special at the end of the day. Just one of many eager guests waiting to be blessed by Father Joel's preaching.

"That's good, little rose… That's good. You're always one of my favorite people to come by, you know that? Because I always feel like what I'm saying really gets through to you. Like you actually come to learn something. Which isn't the case for most people."

Heat spreads in your cheeks, your lips curving into the first genuine smile you have given today.

"Oh – thank you," you whisper and drop your gaze to your tangled fingers. This is actually the best compliment Father Joel can give you since it is precisely what you strive for, absorbing his words like a dry sponge, listening carefully to every word coming out of his mouth and holding it close to your heart. Those Sunday services mean more to you than anything, which is why that day is also your favorite day of the week.

You briefly consider telling Father Joel that but then decide against it. You can't imagine him liking people who suck up.

"How can I help you, little rose?" he asks next, leaning back in his chair and watching you through warm eyes. A dark shadow crosses your face at once, your toes curling in your shoes as it all comes back to you.

Right… you are not here to make small talk with the priest, you are here to talk to him about quite literally the worst thing you have ever done in your life and hope that the Father will forgive you for it. Yes, that is all that you want. To go home with a lighter heart and the ability to breathe freely again after all those torturous months of guilt and shame.

"I…" you whisper, eyes glued to the edge of his desk as though the answer lay there in the wood.

"Are you nervous, little thing?"

Your eyes shift, but you feel too shy to meet his gaze. "A little."

"Is there something you want to confess to me?"

Oh no, how does he know that? Can he read it in your face? Can he trace your sin in the way you hold yourself? Is it that obvious?

Though it doesn't really align with what you want, you involuntarily raise your gaze only to find yourself staring into the brown eyes of Father Joel, who sits up straight now, hands braced on the armrests of his chair.

"Y-Yes," you answer truthfully, a part of you hoping he can already tell what you did so you don't have to spell it out.

"The Lord listens to you, darling."

You swallow hard, well aware of the thick lump in your throat as you close your eyes.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession."

Yes, you remember that day clearly, only that it didn't happen here but in the confessional. Somehow, you didn't feel like that dark, dusty place was appropriate for the heavy load you are carrying with you today. Back then, it was about lying to your friend about not being able to make it to her party even though in reality, you just felt too tired and not at all in the mood to go over to her house. Now, you wish such irrelevant things were your biggest problem. You were spoiled back then.

"Go ahead, little rose. Though I doubt a good girl like you has committed any sinful actions."

Oh, how very wrong he is.

You nervously chew on your bottom lip, then look at his face. Not particularly because you feel comfortable with it but because you were raised right and learned to look at the people you are talking to, especially when it is Father Joel sitting opposite you.

"I have," you mutter, faintly swinging your legs over the edge of your chair.

"What have you done, sweet thing? I'm here to listen and understand, you hear me? You know I will try to help you get rid of that burden."

"Yes. I know," you murmur, fighting the urge to avoid his eyes again, but no, you would stay strong. Act like a tough woman, not a miserable fool.

"So tell me. I'm sure the Lord, you and I will figure it out together."

You wet your dry lips, then gather enough courage to say what you are so afraid to say you can feel your heartbeat in every fiber of your body, starting at your fingertips.

"I… I have – I felt desires, Father. Terrible, horrible desires that – that shouldn't be there."

You can't fight it anymore. Your gaze drops to your own hands, feeling too pathetic, too disgusting to feel worthy of any of this. You don't deserve to be in this holy church, you don't deserve to talk to Father Joel and waste his time, and you don't deserve to look back into his forgiving eyes. All you are worthy of is the sight of your own hands.

"Is that all?" Father Joel asks, the sound of his voice making you jerk in your seat. Thus far, he doesn't sound angry or disappointed but rather curious… Soft-spoken. "You felt desires?"

"I… I did," you whisper and dip your head even lower. If only that were all. But no, you aren't even done with half of the sins you committed, and you are certain that once it is all out, Father Joel won't look at you either.

You are a disgrace, a failure, one that the Father probably won't welcome in his church again after today. But at least you would be cleansed of your sins and live with yourself knowing that you said it out loud. That you have faced the Father and put the words in your mouth of your very own will.

"But I did even more, Father."

Tears well on your waterline. You think about whether there is any option to keep this a secret a little longer, at least until you feel more comfortable with sharing it, but after noticing Father Joel's encouraging nod, you realize that there is no going back now. You have to say it out loud, no matter how much the pain in your stomach swells, how numb your legs feel, or how rapidly your head is spinning at the idea of putting such hideous words into the room.

Father Joel doesn't even deserve to be forced to listen to this.

"You felt desires, sweet rose? What desires? Was it greed? Jealousy? Was it… sexual lust?"

You shiver at those last two words, a crease appearing on your brow. You wish he could understand you regardless, that you could communicate with him without having to part your lips and put up any effort, but you just don't know how, and it drives you mad.

"Y-Yes. That last – one," you stammer, shifting in your seat as though to shake off some demon clinging to you, like you want to shrug the guilt loose without realizing that you can't do it without Joel's help.

"The last one? Say it, sweet thing."

"Do I… Do I have to?" you whine as a single tear rolls down your face, thinking back to that one night when you lay restless, thoughts occupied with things that would probably make Father Joel's composure falter.

"Yes, darling. To be able to receive God's mercy, you have to accept what you did. You have to humble yourself in front of the Lord, speak your sins, and only then shall He forgive you."

It sounds reasonable, which is why you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear and clear your throat, though you feel more miserable than ever.

"I… I felt desires. Sexual ones."

"I see," Father Joel says calmly, assessing you with his disarming gaze. "Is that all?"

You are going to throw up. "No, Father."

That's it. This is the end of it all. Keeping the secret inside you has been bad enough, but the second you form the words and push them out, it will be real. Suddenly, you don't crave being free of the burden at all and think it would be smarter to just bury the guilt within your brain, and hopefully take that secret to your grave.

"What else have you done, sweet girl?"

You don't deserve that name. You are not sweet, you are disgusting, feral, wild and evil. Weak, more than anything.

"I… I touched myself, Father."

Silence stretches over the room, and after two minutes, you can't even remember if you actually told him yet. Maybe it all happened in your mind, and he is still waiting for you to open your mouth. Or maybe he didn't hear you. But then a sigh falls from his lips, quietly and softly, like only Father Joel can do.

"You touched yourself, little rose… That's a shame."

"I – I know," you whimper, compressed lips trembling while more wetness pools in the corner of your eyes. "I know it's bad, I – I regret it. So much."

"How many times, sweet thing?"

You wonder why he still uses that name for you after what you just told him.

"I… Not often. Just – twice."

"Twice is bad enough," Father Joel replies, eliciting a soft cry from you.

"I know. I know, Father, I feel horrible about it. It's – the worst, it – I sinned, Father. I know that."

He hushes you with a single gesture of his hand, his chest heaving as he inhales deeply.

"I didn't expect something like that from you, pretty rose… You're so well-behaved in church. You always smile at people, always have a nice word for everyone. And how well you know the Bible at your age, it's remarkable. I can't believe you would do something like that."

You let the tears flow now, which clouds your view. It's probably a good thing. It hurts you more than anything to see Father Joel's disappointed features. The frustration and surprise swinging in his tone are already enough to bear.

"You understand why it is bad, right?"

Of course you do. If you didn't, you wouldn't be here, right?

"Yes, Father."

"Tell me."

"The Gospel of Matthew," the words spurt out of you automatically, like you are reading them off a chart. "It's a sin of the heart. Lust is supposed to exist between a man and his wife. Not in… in one's head."

"That's right." Father Joel nods, then places his elbows on the desk. "So why is what you did wrong?"

"Because I abused God's gift of sexuality, I… I was weak, I was ruled by desire. I damaged my relationship with God, and I – I was selfish."

"You were," Father Joel says, which is even worse than all the thoughts you had about your sinful act, though most of them were so much worse than what the priest says. Out of his mouth it's just so much more real and tangible.

"Where did you touch yourself, little rose?"

You freeze, your mouth falling slightly agape. To see his expression, you raise your gaze but can only find a neutral face in front of you.

"I… Do I have to…" you begin.

None of your friends have ever had this kind of conversation with Father Joel, or at least they haven't told you about it. Which is not a surprise, as there is no way you would tell any of your friends about this. But the great disadvantage is that you have no clue how those confessions work, how much detail you have to go into.

"Yes, sweet girl. God can only forgive what you are brave enough to confess in front of Him. As long as you keep it hidden within you, He won't know how much you regret it. So tell me. Where did you touch yourself?"

You swallow, throat working, while Father Joel's hooded eyes settle on your lips. Sometimes he looks a little tired, you find, especially after a long, extensive service on Sunday. He isn't the youngest anymore, is he? Actually, you have no idea how old he might be. Forty? Or fifty? But right now he doesn't look so tired, he has circles under his eyes, but his pupils look clear and even a little more intense than normal.

"Go on. I thought you were here to confess. I thought you felt guilty."

"I do," you quickly say in your raspy voice, sinking even deeper into your chair while you gather some moisture in your dry mouth. "I… I touched myself between my legs, Father Joel."

You draw a heavy breath. This is it. You did it, didn't you? Now he would tell you that you are relieved, that everything is going to be alright and the Lord forgives you for your sin.

"Where, sweet rose?"

"What – What do you mean where?" you breathe, your hair falling into your face, but you're too tense to care about it.

"Where between your legs? Touching the inside of your thighs is not a sin, for Christ's sake!" He looks nearly furious, which causes a shudder to ripple down your spine. But then he gets calmer, like a switch flipping, and dips his head a little to get to your level.

"You want this to be over, don't you? You want the Lord to forgive you. So tell me. Tell me where you touched yourself."

You're not even sure what all these places are called. You know that at twenty-three you are supposed to know your body, but no one has ever told you, so you just don't. What does Father Joel want to know? How are you going to tell him when you can't even say for sure yourself?

You start to panic, your breathing growing more shallow with every one of those thoughts that hit against the inside of your scalp sharply.

"I – I don't know, I – Just – "

He stops you, raising his large hands in a calming gesture. "Shh, little rose… Don't get ahead of yourself… I know this is hard, but I need to know. Do you know what these places are called? Do you even know where you touched yourself?"

He looks over the edge of his glasses like he already knows the answer, which is why you feel a little stupid as you whisper a quiet "No," feeling like you have just been caught doing something illegal.

"Oh Lord in heaven… I should tell you that it's a good thing. Because it means you genuinely haven't taken part in such obscenities before. That's true, isn't it? You remain a virgin, don't you?"

"Of course!" you exclaim, widening your eyes at the implication. As if there is any doubt about that! You feel disappointed, mad even, that Father Joel is having such thoughts just because you made one mistake. You can't imagine that he doubted your innocence a week ago when you were the perfect, polite girl that everyone knew you as.

"Good," he sighs, then points to your torso. "But we have to do something about that other thing. Take off your skirt."

Your breath hitches in your throat, nearly making you choke. Your eyes are so large that you feel like they are about to pop out of the sockets.

"What?" you pant, your limbs completely frozen into place. Even if you wanted to react to his command, you wouldn't be able to.

"I said take off your skirt," Father Joel says calmly, glaring at you expectantly. "If you don't know the names of the parts you ruined, you're going to show me and the Lord."

"But I don't – I can't," you stammer, eyebrows knit together. Sure, Father Joel knows more about the Bible, about what it's like being in God's service and what tasks there are, but you can't imagine that getting naked in front of the priest is what the Lord has in mind for you. It can't be, right?

"Why can't you?" he asks, sounding genuinely curious.

"It wouldn't be – appropriate… It's – I can't do it."

He chuckles gently, clearly amused by your nervous demeanor. "So you want to tell me what is appropriate and what isn't? You think you know more about what is appropriate than me, little rose?"

This is exactly what you feared a few seconds ago. He is right, isn't he? He has been studying the Bible and the will of the holy father for decades, compared to him, you're just a child.

You can't get the idea that any of this is right in your head, but at the same time, Father Joel wouldn't do something that isn't fitting for a servant of Jesus. Yes, you are convinced of that. He is the kindest, most merciful, wisest, and most loyal member of this community, so there is no way he doesn't know what he's doing.

Yes. He always knows what to do, so he must be certain that this is alright. That this isn't sinful.

Your shaky hands drop to the hem of your skirt, which you pull up slowly. A million thoughts are racing through your head. You have never thought about whether you were pretty down there before since you assumed it was still a long time until a man would first see the vulnerable nakedness between your legs.

Now you do, though. But then again, this isn't about being beautiful, it's about doing what's right, which is showing Father Joel where you touched yourself. So he can help you name the places.

"Now pull down your panties, sweet rose."

You're wearing white underwear today, very plain and unadorned.

"Okay," you whisper but avoid his gaze while you yank the piece of fabric down to your knees. He knows what to do, he knows what to do… is the mantra you stick to whenever you feel doubt or fear creep up your throat.

"Good girl," Father Joel says when you are done with the tasks he has given you.

It isn't his voice, though, that makes you snap back to reality but the cold breeze tingling on your lips down there. The hair rises on your arms as well as the back of your neck at it, though the reason could also be the priest's shrewd stance.

"Spread your legs a little."

Tears burn in your eyes the second those words leave his mouth. Spreading your legs? This isn't what good, well-behaved girls do. You only heard phrases like that in movies you are not supposed to watch or on the schoolyard back in high school. Dirty, ungodly, lost girls do stuff like that. They spread their legs, let any men touch them there, and end up pregnant without knowing who the father is. You are not that. You are faithful, you are good and pure –

"Do I have to repeat myself, little rose?"

You bite down on your bottom lip to stop yourself from whimpering. And yet, you obey. Because the words come from Father Joel, not from some vulgar, crude man who only wants to get under your skirt. He knows what to do, and he knows what you need.

"Has anyone ever seen this cunt before?"

You twitch at the word. You have only ever heard that word used as an insult, which only makes you feel more wretched. Maybe your woman parts deserve to be called that after what you did, after what they seduced you to do.

"No, Father Joel. Only as a little baby, of course, but I – I mean I don't –"

"I understand," he cuts you off. "Now show me. Show me where touching yourself felt so good that you did it even though you know how sinful it is."

That's the part you are most scared of, because what if you're going to flinch or gasp like you did back then? Or what if you're not going to find the place and not be able to give Father Joel the answer he wants?

You slouch down further in your chair to be able to have access to your sex and bring your index finger to the upper part. Your eyes are squeezed shut, focusing hard to think back to the first time you did it and remember where you put your finger back then.

There was this little nub, almost like a bead or a button, that made sparks fly in your head every time you swiped over it. Your limbs trembled and spasmed like you never experienced before, and after a while, your head was spinning in a way that made you think you wouldn't even be able to recognize your own mother right now.

Oh.

You release a breath, realizing that you just succeeded on your first try. It nearly feels as good as it did last time, even though you're not as relaxed with Father Joel eyeing up your body with an intensity that makes you think he can make your clothes disappear only with his pupils.

"Is that the place?" he asks gently and leans over the desk to get a better look at your woman parts.

"Y-Yes."

"Is that where you touched yourself, little rose?"

You nod once, your fingertip hovering a few inches away from that specific bud.

"What did you do to it? How did you touch it?" he wants to know next, which makes you exhale heavily as you work your brain very hard. It is all a blur now since everything has felt like a fever dream, but you don't want to disappoint the Father, so you put in all your best efforts.

"I… circled it."

"Do it."

"What?" you spit and drop your chin.

"Do it. Circle it like you did back then."

"I can't, Father, I can't do it again! I'm here to confess to it and – "

He moves even closer, his presence alone enough to make you stop in the middle of your sentence.

"You're here with me and the Lord. And as the Lord's most faithful and closest servant, I'm telling you to do it. Hey... Little rose."

Lips puckered, you refuse to meet his gaze until your bad conscience wins and prompts you to turn your head.

"It's okay. Don't be afraid."

His features are totally different now, much softer and more empathetic than they were before, which puts you at ease quite a bit. He isn't angry at you. He doesn't even seem too appalled by what you confessed, given that he asks you to do the same thing again.

"You're not scared of me, are you?"

"No, Father," you whisper, which is partly a lie. You're intimidated, maybe a little anxious, but you wouldn't call it fear.

"Alright. It's okay. You know I won't make you do anything bad… I would never ask something of you that the Lord frowns upon. I'm his most loyal follower, I talk to him when I can't sleep, and I feel his presence during our beautiful Sunday services. So he knows it too. He knows what a good girl you are. How eager you are to be a good servant like me. Isn't that right? You want to be good, don't you?"

"I do, Father," you speak lowly and then allow him to guide your right hand to your core.

"It's fine. Everything is in the Lord's best interest… I know so. And you know so too, deep down. I just have to do it to see what you did back then. I have to know how – bad the sin is you committed. So you have to show me, little rose. You just have to help me… And you're such a perfect, obedient girl… Always kind and sweet, even to the people who don't deserve it. You won't disappoint the Lord now, right? Not over something so… insignificant."

Your finger touches the bud again, only that this time, you don't pull back at once. Instead, you follow his instructions like you are hypnotized by his words, moving your index finger in slow circles.

"Good girl…" Father Joel praises you. You stare at the vein on his temple, his greying hairline, while his eyes linger on what he likes to call your cunt.

"You have a very pretty cunt, little rose… Very beautiful."

"Thank you, Father," you reply because you don't know what else to say to that.

"Stroke her nicely. Be kind to her, little one. Touch her where it aches the most."

It hurts most behind your forehead, but you are sure that is not what Father Joel wants to hear right now. So you continue rolling your finger around the bead until he suddenly snatches your wrist and pulls it away with little force.

"Do you know what this little bud is called, sweet rose?"

"No, Father," you answer mechanically, feeling a little drowsy from everything. Maybe it's the thin air, the way you have been touching yourself, or even Father Joel's proximity. Or maybe it's a combination of it all.

"It's called your clit, princess. Say it for me."

You do, although you are more distracted by the nickname he just used for you. Princess… you really like that, maybe even more than sweet rose or little one.

"Good girl. Your clit is very important, you hear? It exists to make you feel good, so you better be nice to it."

You stumble over the word good as the content of his words doesn't align with your worldview in the slightest. What you have done is horrible, right? It's a sin to make yourself feel good as you did it, so why is Father Joel talking about that part of your body so… fondly?

You are about to ask that very question when he is busy with your hand again, shoving it against your core.

"You know what I want you to do now, sweetheart?"

"What," you utter airily, eyes jumping between his face and his hand that is snaked around yours.

"I want you to move your hand down your cunt. No, wait until I am finished."

You pause, glaring at him with a swimming head.

"Listen to what I have to say, then act." He brings his other hand to your cheek, stroking along your cheekbone, which involuntarily makes you whine. Everything happens far too quickly to catch up on, you don't even know what's happening to you. A moment ago he was sitting casually across the desk, and now he is on the edge of his seat, one hand around your face and the other this close to your cunt.

"Move your hand down your cunt. You trail your index finger through your folds and you're going to feel wetness. I want you to keep moving your finger until you find your hole. It's going to be even wetter than the rest of your cunt."

You hesitate, waiting to see if there are more instructions to come.

"Have you understood everything?" he asks, making you nervously glance between your legs. With your hair covering most of your cunt, you have no idea if there is any wetness and if you are going to be able to spot it. What then? Would that be bad?

"You're going to do perfectly," Father Joel soothes you and drums his fingers on your wrist. "Just do as I said. It's gonna be fine, I promise. It's gonna feel good."

The moment your finger leaves your clit, moving south, you find out what he has been talking about. You are warm and damp, like someone poured honey over your woman parts.

"There—there is wetness," you whisper, in awe of how right Father Joel has been and how unfamiliar it is to touch yourself there. It doesn't feel as good as swiping across your clit, but it still prickles nicely, you have to admit.

"Yeah, I know there is…" he growls, a noise you have never heard spilling from his throat. It makes your chin lift abruptly, blood rushing to your cheeks, and you notice that your breath has quickened. Over the past minutes or just now, you don't know.

"Go on, little rose. Don't let yourself get distracted, alright? Do as I say, you can do it."

And so your finger drags through your slit like Father Joel ordered you to. You find more wetness, more of that sticky cream that seems to have coated your woman parts entirely. When you touched yourself a few weeks back, you weren't aware of your body reacting like that. You just swirled around that little nub, used some shower gel to make everything go smoother, and didn't dare let your hand wander further down than your clit.

And then there is your hole. It's true, the mysterious wetness originates from there, because when you stick the tip of your finger inside, you feel the liquid running down your digit, which makes you peer at Father Joel, all doe-eyed and startled.

"Is that—normal, Father Joel?"

"Oh yes," he chuckles and tenderly squeezes the side of your face, his brown eyes moving from your core up to your lips. "You're wet. That means you like it."

The thoughts rattle in your head, brow furrowed. "Is that… good?"

He laughs again, which goes straight to your lower belly. He has such an endearing laugh, always sounding a tad condescending but even more protective and caring.

"It is good, little rose."

"But I—I thought that it's wrong. You—you told me that it's wrong. I'm not allowed to touch myself, I don't—I shouldn't do this, I shouldn't lust."

Suddenly, you feel so dirty. Maybe even dirtier than you did before your confession, which sends you into madness. You are here to feel better about your sin, to cleanse your soul and go home light-heartedly, but thus far, you don't really detect any progress. It's the contrary, actually.

"Sweet girl…" Father Joel whispers and digs his fingers into the flesh of your cheeks, just very gently to make sure he has your attention. "Let me explain it to you, little one… The Lord doesn't want you to touch yourself at home when you're snug under the blanket and slip a hand between your legs. That's true. And he also doesn't want you to let anyone near you, not before you're married."

"I know," you say loudly, feeling indignant about the Father telling you things that are burned into your brain. As if you don't know this.

"Good. But the difference now is that I'm here. And so is the Lord. It is no sin while you are in my presence, little rose. Because you're here to show me what you did, which you did perfectly. I have to know where you touched yourself to know how grave a mistake you made."

You nod slowly. So far, it makes sense, but you still don't understand why—

"And do you also know why I asked you to find your hole?"

You shake your head, as it is precisely what's been throwing you off.

"Well, I noticed that you don't know a lot about your own body, princess. Is that true?"

You shrug before realizing who you have in front of you and decide to tell him the truth.

"Yes, I… I don't know a lot. Just… you know, the most important things?"

"This is important too," Father Joel utters and points to your cunt, which you only now remember is still exposed to the air, the priest, as well as the cross behind him.

"You don't know much about your own anatomy, which can be a problem."

Eyes getting round, your eyebrows raise slightly. "Why?"

"Well, because just think of someone taking advantage of your lack of knowledge. Think of someone touching you between your legs or making you do things that you have no idea about."

You process his words slowly, trying to figure out the meaning behind any of this, his implications, but you fear you need more information.

"What do you mean?"

Father Joel sighs and shifts in his chair to get into a more comfortable position.

"There are so many bad, evil men out there in the world, my little rose. Your parents, this community, they've protected you from those people all your life. But at some point, you're gonna meet some of them too. When you leave this loving community and go out into the world on your own. And what do you think bad, evil men want to do to sweet, innocent girls like you?"

You can taste bitter fear on your tongue as horrible, outrageous ideas appear in your head. Ideas so horrific, you don't even want to say them out loud.

"They want to corrupt you. They might want to put their hands on your body or use your pretty mouth or hands. Anything they can come up with. And as your priest, it is my duty to protect you from them. To prepare you."

Slowly, the puzzle pieces assemble and create the outline of a larger picture. Although you're far from pleased hearing tales about the bad people out there in the world, the image of Father Joel protecting you from them is to your liking.

"You need to learn about your body. You need to learn what the things a man and woman can do privately are about. So that no evil man can ever take advantage of your naivety and use you for his pleasure or lead you astray. I want you to be able to understand what a man might be trying to do to you and tell him no. I don't want you to go around the world with those heart-shaped glasses on. And therefore, you need to know about all those terrible things a man might want to do to you. You have to know. So that no one else can manipulate and ravish you, because you'll be able to see through them. Understand what they want."

Silence spreads across the room. You inhale a couple of times, feeling blessed by the fresh oxygen entering your lungs. His words carry a heavy weight, but at the same time it feels as though Father Joel has just illuminated you with the truth beneath it all. You feel… anxious, yes, but also wise and somehow more mature than just a moment ago. Because now you know things you didn't before, even though the cold truth is difficult to live with.

"I know it's a lot to process, sweet rose… Which is why I'm going to let you go soon, so that you can go home and rest. I'm sorry for telling you this, but you have to know. Because you're not just a member of this community, you are a precious soul, one of the most important people in my church."

Your cheeks gleam hotly under his compliment and you wriggle your toes while Father Joel continues.

"I want you to be safe and prepared. Which is why I'm asking you to come to me again tomorrow. Same time."

"But why?" you breathe. Father Joel chuckles softly, his voice laced with exhaustion.

"Haven't you listened to me, princess? You need to be prepared for what bad men want to do to you. So you have to be smarter than them and be familiar with all the horrible stuff they're going to try. Someone has to introduce you to all the secrets of intimacy so that no one can take advantage of you in the future."

Your breath is uneven and heavy, but Father Joel senses your uneasiness at once and takes both of your hands between his.

"You trust me, don't you?"

"Yes. Of course," the answer bursts out of you, making him smile gently.

"Good. So you know that it's better if it's me who shows you than those bad men. Don't you?"

You think about his words for a beat, then figure that it was about right. Yes, Father Joel is trustworthy and kind. The men he was talking about… No, you don't even want to think about them that much.

"Yes, Father."

"Do you know what that means?"

You have a hunch but prefer for him to spell it out first, so you shake your head slowly.

"It means I want you to come to my office tomorrow. Wear something pretty. And keep your hair down, I prefer it falling down your back. And then… Then I'm going to show you a few things. And no, it is not a sinful action because it's me doing it. It's not a bad man with bad intentions. It's me. It's important that you know that this is what all this depends on. You don't let any other man touch you. You don't touch yourself. But when I'm with you, when I tell you to touch yourself or when I… touch you, it's okay. It's right, it's what the Lord wants."

He squeezes your hand tightly, his thumb drawing vague circles over your wrist.

"So… You're going to touch me tomorrow?" you ask weakly, feeling your stomach coil with heat while you wait for his response.

"Yes. I'm going to touch you because it's for your own good. I only want what's best for you, the Lord only wants what's best for you. It's going to pay off in the future, sweet rose, because it's going to protect you. Do you understand that?"

"Yes," you reply, though your heart thunders up your throat. His plan is unspeakably indecent, but then again, it's coming from Father Joel. The man who talks to the guests with such passion during Sunday service that you always believe every word he says. He must be right about this one too. Just like he's right about everything.

"And… What about my confession, Father?"

He squeezes your hands one last time, gives you a friendly smile before withdrawing to lean back in his chair.

"We're going to talk about that tomorrow too. But you already did well showing me exactly what you did. That's a good step, sweet rose, it shows that you regret it and that you feel guilty."

Your brain aches from all the activity it has to catch up with today. So much has happened, there were so many things Father Joel told you in the past hour, you just want to put your head into a fridge and let it cool off. You still feel a little weak in the knees when Father Joel helps you get up, his hand stroking up your back while he leads you to the door.

"I have so much to do, little rose… I'm sorry. But I'll see you tomorrow. And I'm really proud of you for coming in. It takes a lot to make a confession like that. It was the right choice to tell me and the Lord."

Suddenly, you stand outside, hand braced against the wall next to you so you won't fall to the ground. Was all of that a dream? Have you even gone into the office to talk to Father Joel, or have you been standing here for an hour, wrestling with yourself about whether it is a good idea to consult with the Father?

No… that isn't an option. I'll see you tomorrow. Father Joel has clearly said that to you.

You groaned softly and, without opening your eyes, lifted a hand toward your face, fingers searching for the edge of your sleep mask.

Nothing.

Your hand paused midair.

Frowning, you squinted, lashes fluttering as you cracked one eye open. The room was dim but unfamiliar in that subtle, unsettling way. The phone was ringing again — closer than it should’ve been.

You followed the sound.

The nightstand.

Why is my phone on the—

Still half-asleep, you reached out blindly, shifting closer to the edge of the bed. Your fingers closed around your phone just as the call nearly dropped.

You answered without even looking at the screen.

“Hello?”

Your voice came out rough, unguarded—still wrapped in sleep.

“Finally,” Mikey blurted out, breathless. “Sis— why aren’t you in your bed? Mom’s already asked like three times and—” He cut himself off, words tumbling over each other. “Are you okay?” he rushed on. “Where are you?"

You huffed, rolling onto your side. “I am in my bed, Mikey. What are you talking ab—”

You stopped.

Your eyes opened a little more.

That wasn’t your wardrobe across the room. That desk wasn’t yours. That chair.

And on the nightstand, the snow globe -your snow globe- caught the low morning light, flakes frozen mid-fall.

Oh.

Your breath hitched. Without looking, without even turning your head, you slid your hand across the mattress beside you— feeling for warmth, for weight.

Nothing.

The other side of the bed was empty. Cool.

Oh.

Relief washed through you, sharp and immediate.

At least he wasn’t there.

“…Mikey,” you said slowly, eyes tracing the room now, piecing it together far too late. “Code red.”

There was a pause.

“Oh—okay. Got it,” Mikey said instantly. “No questions. I’ll handle Mom.”

Code Red: tell Mom I stayed at Emily’s last night. No follow-ups.

“I need you to be convincing,” you added under your breath.

A grin crept into his voice. “Please. I was born convincing,” he said, slipping into mock–spy mode. “I’ll sell it. Full cover story. Casual details. Zero suspicion.”

“Good,” you said. “Because if she—”

“I know, I know. I won’t crack.” Then he lowered his voice, conspiratorial. “But hypothetically,” he whispered, “if someone wasn’t at Emily’s… and was maybe at the place of a man whose last name happens to be—oh, I don’t know—Castillo…”

“Mikey.”

“Just saying,” he went on, clearly enjoying himself. “You were missing last night. You answer the phone half-asleep. Code Red gets activated. I’m connecting dots here.”

“Stop,” you said sharply. “I’m hanging up.”

“Love you too, sis. Stay safe. Tell—”

You ended the call before he could finish.

You lowered the phone slowly.

Then you looked down at yourself.

Your dress. Your tights. Exactly the same as last night.

We were watching TV… on the couch…

The memory surfaced in fragments—the low glow of the screen, the quiet, the way you’d shifted closer without thinking.

Then—You’d rested your head against Harry’s chest. His warmth. The steady rise and fall beneath your cheek.

That much you remembered.

Everything after that blurred.

Your gaze drifted around the room again, the unfamiliar details settling into place.

So he must have carried you in here.

You pushed yourself upright just as the bedroom door opened.

Harry stepped in, wearing nothing but a loosely tied robe. His hair was damp, curls darker from the water. He looked relaxed. Awake. Smiling.

“You’re up,” he said softly.

You startled—and instinctively yanked the sheet around yourself, clutching it to your chest despite the fact that you were very much not naked.

“I—why did you shower?” you blurted.

It was a ridiculous question. You knew it. But you’d asked it anyway.

Harry blinked. Once.

Something in his expression shifted—confusion melting into slow, unmistakable amusement as he took in your tone, your posture, the panic you were very clearly trying (and failing) to hide.

“…Because I was in the hospital last night,” he said, unhurried—almost indulgent. “You were there, remember?”

He stepped closer, the belt of his robe loose at his waist, skin still warm from the shower, the faint scent of soap following him.

“If you wanted to shower too—” he started, then stopped.

A beat.

His brow lifted slightly as he really looked at you.

“…Wait,” he said, amused now. “Are you panicking?”

“Me?” you said far too fast. “No. Why would I be panicking?”

You laughed—too loud, too sharp—and gestured vaguely at nothing in particular, as if panic were an abstract concept you’d merely heard about.

Harry took another step closer.

You absolutely noticed.

The robe. The way it shifted when he moved. The fact that he knew exactly what effect this was having on you.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, determined to regain control of the situation—

—and immediately got tangled in the sheet.

“What—”

You tipped forward and slid off the mattress, landing flat on your back with a soft thump.

Silence.

Then—

A sound escaped Harry’s chest. Not quite a laugh. Not quite concern. Something in between.

He hurried over and leaned down over you, upside down in your field of vision, brows knit but lips twitching.

“Are you okay?” he asked, smiling despite himself.

You groaned.

He offered a hand. You took it, letting him pull you up. You smoothed your hair, tugged your skirt into place, suddenly very aware of how close he was.

Your eyes flicked—just briefly—to the open edge of his robe. The warm line of his chest.

He cleared his throat lightly, suddenly aware of the silence.

“If you’re worried about last night…” he said, a little too quickly. “Nothing happened. We fell asleep on the couch. I brought you in here.”

You straightened instantly.

Composure snapped back into place as if the last thirty seconds—the panic, the falling, the staring—had never happened at all.

You flipped your hair with practiced ease.

“Yes,” you said calmly. Smooth. Unbothered. “I noticed that already.”

As if you hadn’t just been spiraling on his bedroom floor.

Harry smiled, clearly amused.

“I made breakfast for us,” he said lightly. “I’ll get dressed and—”

He turned toward the wardrobe, pulling out clean clothes and setting them neatly on the bed. As he did, the front of his robe shifted open just enough to be distracting.

Panic.

“Ah—really?” you blurted, clapping your hands over your eyes. “That’s—great. Perfect. Fantastic.”

You spun on your heel, words tumbling out as you fled.

“I’m starving—very starving—dangerously starving—”

You walked straight into the closed door.

Thud.

“Oh, damn it—who put the door there?!” you shouted, hands still firmly over your face, as if the door were the one at fault.

You turned—

—and collided directly with Harry’s chest.

Your nose brushed skin. Your lips followed.

It lasted half a second. Maybe less.

Your brain, however, completely short-circuited.

He laughed softly, warm and unmistakably amused.

“The door’s always been there, sweetheart,” he said gently. Then, tilting his head, concern sneaking in beneath the smile, “You okay?”

You inhaled.

Eyes still closed.

And froze.

The scent hit you all at once—clean, warm, unmistakably him. Fresh soap, warm tonka, deep amber. Something subtly woodsy underneath. Steam. Skin. Familiarity.

The same one he used to wear.

Your pulse stuttered.

“Let’s say…” you murmured, voice muffled somewhere near his chest, “…let’s say I’m functionally okay.”

His smile faded just a touch, replaced by something more serious.

“Your head,” he said. “Are you alright?”

“My head,” you echoed faintly.

You definitely weren’t thinking with it.

You tilted your chin up—very carefully—aiming for his face. Not his chest. And certainly not anywhere lower.

“…Which head?”

He laughed, a real one this time.

Shaking his head, he reached past you and opened the door.

“You should go sit down,” he said, gently steering the moment back into safety. “I’ll get dressed and join you.”

“Yes,” you said immediately, already moving away. “That’s a very good idea. I will absolutely do that.”

You walked toward the kitchen, heart racing. Very much awake now.

Harry watched you go.

A quiet smile tugged at his lips as he shook his head to himself.

“Sometimes, she acts like a little girl,” he murmured under his breath, more amused than anything, "So cute."

The moment you stepped into the kitchen, the smell hit you. Warm. Sweet. Comforting. You yawned without meaning to and drifted closer to the counter, a small smile pulling at your lips. Pancakes. Your favorite syrup. Blueberries. A full breakfast plate—everything carefully prepared, sliced, arranged. Just like it used to be.

You must’ve been staring too long, because when you finally looked up, Harry was already dressed. He was tugging his T-shirt down as he walked in from the hallway. “Do you like it?” he asked, stopping beside you.

You blinked at the spread. “You made all of this?” you asked, genuinely surprised. “Yeah.” He filled a mug from the coffee machine and handed it to you.

You leaned against the counter, inhaled deeply, then popped a blueberry into your mouth. “Did you make the pancakes first and then shower?” you asked around the bite. Harry sat down next to you, taking a sip of his coffee. “You were still asleep,” he said calmly. “I didn’t want to wake you.” He poured syrup over his pancakes and pressed his fork into them.

You couldn’t stop watching him. In such a short amount of time… you’d felt so much. He glanced up. “Why aren’t you eating?” You swallowed. Blinked. Your stomach felt strangely full already—like looking at him was enough. Instead of answering, you reached for a pancake and took a bite. You kept watching him as you ate.

Your mind drifted to the early days of your marriage. Breakfasts at the same table. Back then, his beard had been shorter. No gray in his hair. No lines at the corners of his eyes. Five years had aged him well. But he was still the same. The way he chewed. The way he took a sip of coffee after each bite of pancake. The way he always finished his plate before his coffee. And if there was anything left on yours— “Can I have that?” he’d ask. You’d always let him. You liked watching him eat.

Yes… you’d loved him then. Deeply. But now—now it was different. More. You’d never thought it was possible to love someone like this. So much that you wanted to tear your heart out and hand it to him. To crush your pride under your heel and throw it out the window. To tell him everything. To heal together. To never spend another minute apart.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Harry said softly. You startled slightly. “I was just thinking about the pancakes,” you said quickly. “They’re really good. Last I remember, you weren’t this good at making them.”

Harry smiled—just a little. There was something bittersweet in it. “After all those years alone,” he said, “you learn a few things.” He shrugged lightly. “Spending time in the kitchen helps you forget things. I actually liked it.”

You swallowed. Five years. Empty years. The loss hit you suddenly, sharp and aching. Harry noticed immediately. He reached across the table, slid his fingers under your chin, and gently lifted your face so you’d look at him. “Hey,” he said quietly. “I didn’t say that to make you sad.”

You smiled faintly. “I know. I just… time really does pass fast, doesn’t it?” “Yeah,” he said plainly. “Time’s a cruel bitch.” “A bitch?” you echoed, shaking your head. “No—worse. An absolute slut.” “Wow,” he said, still smiling. “Harsh.” “Accurate,” you replied.

Your eyes met. And for a brief, quiet second, the humor faded—not completely, just enough. Enough for everything else to slip in. All the years. All the distance. Everything time had taken—and everything it had twisted.

His phone rang. He glanced at it. “Ron. I need to take this.” You nodded. “Work comes first. I’m sure the company’s in chaos without you,” you teased, continuing your breakfast.

While he talked, you finished eating and walked toward the window. Snow was still falling—soft, steady. New York looked muted. Quiet. Slowed down. When he ended the call, he looked at you and smiled. “So?” you asked. “How’s the company surviving without you?” He laughed. “They’ll manage. Ron’s coming here this afternoon to run the video meeting.”

As he stepped closer, your body tensed without permission. His gaze felt heavy—intent, unreadable. “The snow is really beautiful,” you said quickly, words tumbling out before you could stop them. “It came early this year. There are still two days left until December and—normally it doesn’t stick like this, you know? Usually it melts by morning, but this time it looks like it actually settled, which is kind of rare and—”

“Hm,” Harry murmured and kept walking toward you.

You kept talking. “And the light outside is different when it snows like this, everything feels quieter, almost unreal, like the city pauses for a second and—”

“Hm,” he said again, closer now. Amused. Patient.

You stopped. You exhaled, straightening, grasping for composure. “Harry,” you said finally. “I should go. I’m wearing the same clothes. You know that’s not me. I need to change.”

He closed the distance then, slipping one arm around your waist, anchoring you before you could move. “Don’t go,” he said softly. “Stay.” Your breath caught. “I’ll have new clothes brought for you,” he added, just as calmly, like it was the most obvious solution in the world.

You bit your lip. And for a moment, you hated how tempting he made it sound. “But I need to shower. Fix my hair.” “Do it here,” he said immediately. “Whatever you need, I’ll get it.”

You swallowed, your voice gentler now. “I really should go. I didn’t go home last night either. I stayed at the hospital with you, remember? I’m not saying I regret it—I’m glad I stayed—but—”

He wrapped his other arm around you and pulled you closer. “Are we really going to act like nothing happened?” he asked quietly. “Something did happen that night. Yes, it was sudden. Maybe a little wrong. But it happened.”

His eyes closed as he leaned in. Your lips were inches apart. You closed your eyes too—almost giving in. Your noses brushed. Then—you opened your eyes. You stepped back, gently freeing yourself from his arms.

“You’re right,” you said. “It did happen. I’m aware of that. I’m happy… and excited. I just... feel strange." You looked away. “Can I think about it a little? I’m confused.” “There’s nothing to think about,” he said calmly. “Everything’s clear.” You shook your head, just slightly. “Not for me,” you said softly.

It wasn’t accusatory—just honest. You took a breath before adding, quieter now, “Let me think tonight. Can we talk tomorrow?” There was a small pause, and then, almost apologetic, you continued, “Or… the day after?”

Your eyes stayed on his, open and vulnerable. It wasn’t a rejection—just a request. He hesitated—just for a second. Then smiled. A little sad, but still warm. “Okay. However you want.” "Thank you."

You grabbed your coat and bag. Harry called his driver. “Let him take you home.” “Alright.” You stepped closer. “Don’t forget your meds, okay?” He nodded. “I won’t.”

After putting on your coat, you leaned in and kissed his cheek. Harry blinked—surprised—then smiled. “See you,” you said shyly. “See you.”

He watched you go, then murmured to himself: “I waited this long… I can wait a little more.”

He was crossing the living room, halfway to the couch, when his phone rang again. He froze. The detective. He’d completely forgotten he was supposed to land this morning.

Harry picked up. "I was just about to call you. My driver might be delayed,” Harry replied. “Have you landed?” “No, sir. There’s snow clearing on the runway. All flights have been canceled.” Harry frowned. “Of course it would be today…” He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Get on the earliest flight possible,” he said. “That’s why I called, sir,” the detective said. “I’ve been rebooked for tomorrow night. Customs might take a while,” he added. “But I’ll come straight to you.” Harry closed his eyes for a second. “Alright,” he said quietly. “I’ll be waiting.”

Outside, the snow had picked up. Not enough to slow the city, but enough to soften it—flakes drifting down, catching briefly on coats, on windshields, on hair.

Harry’s Mercedes was already waiting at the curb. The rear door opened. You stepped out of the building and got in. That was all.

You didn’t look around. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t see anything else. The door closed behind you, the car pulling away moments later.

Across the street, another car had just come to a stop.

John’s driver remained behind the wheel as John stepped out on his own. Snow landed in his hair immediately, melting against the dark strands as he straightened and looked up—just in time to see you.

Getting into Harry’s car. Still wearing yesterday’s dress.

John froze.

For a second, he genuinely thought his mind was filling in gaps that weren’t there. But then the Mercedes pulled away. And reality settled in.

“Queen…?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

His gaze lingered on the empty curb. On the fading tire tracks. On the building you’d just walked out of.

He’d come to see Harry. And whatever he’d expected this morning—it hadn’t been this.

Snow continued to fall, quietly collecting in his hair as he stood there, stunned.

The elevator chimed softly as you stepped into the apartment. You crossed the foyer quickly, already heading for the stairs, taking them two at a time—almost there—when you heard it.

“Sweetheart—where have you been?”

You stopped mid-step.

Lara was coming toward you from the hallway, worry written all over her face. She closed the distance between you in seconds, voice dropping instinctively. “Two nights,” she whispered, eyes scanning you, your coat, your hair. “Two nights, honey. Your mother’s losing her mind.”

You bit your lip. “I— it’s a long story. I just need to take a shower and—”

“Where have you been?” Scarlet’s voice cut through the space like a blade.

She appeared from the living room, eyes sharp, already scanning you from head to toe. Then she froze. “That outfit,” she said slowly. “You wore that to your gynecologist appointment.”

Your throat tightened. “Mom, I—” you swallowed. “I stayed at Emily’s. I needed to clear my head.”

“Don’t insult me,” Scarlet snapped. “Who do you think you’re fooling?” Her voice sharpened. “I know you were with Harry.”

Something in you finally snapped—not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough. You rolled your eyes, exhaustion tipping cleanly into irritation. “Oh, what—did you have me followed?” you said flatly. “If you already know where I was, then you know what happened to me too, don’t you?”

Lara’s eyes widened. “What happened?” she asked quietly.

Scarlet exhaled sharply, the sound tight and controlled. “I know you went to Harry’s place yesterday afternoon,” she said. Then her gaze hardened, sharp and assessing. “Or were you there before that too?” Her voice rose. “How could you stay at his house? What are you trying to do? I ignored the fact that you work at his company. I tried to be patient. But this—this is too much.” She pointed toward you. “It’s over. You’re not going back to that company. And you’re not speaking to him again.”

“You don’t get to talk to me like I’m a child,” you shot back.

“That’s exactly how you’re acting,” Scarlet snapped. “You’re the one who went to work for your ex-husband. Or what—do you still have feelings for him? Are you trying to make the same mistake all over again?”

“Scarlet, calm down—” Lara tried.

You couldn’t. “Harry was not a mistake!” you shouted. “Running from him—hiding the truth—that was the mistake. And now I’m going to fix it.”

Scarlet stared at you in disbelief. “Do you hear yourself?”

“I’m going to tell him everything,” you said. “When the time is right.”

“No,” she said, panic and fear bleeding into her voice. “No, baby—you can’t do that. You’ll be the one who gets hurt. The most.”

“I’m already hurting,” you said quietly. “And keeping the truth from him doesn’t feel right.”

“You think telling him will fix anything?” Scarlet pressed. “He’ll hurt you with his words. Just like he didn’t understand back then, he won’t understand now. And in the end, you’ll be the one bleeding again.”

“No,” you said, shaking your head. “Harry will understand. And he has a right to know.”

“Don’t you dare talk to me about his rights,” she snapped. “He has none.”

“Mom—”

“That monster is still in prison,” Scarlet said sharply. “What do you think Harry will do when you tell him about him?”

Your blood went cold.

Lara immediately stepped closer, wrapping an arm around you protectively. Scarlet saw it then—the fear buried deep in your eyes.

“He’ll be upset first,” Scarlet continued, voice trembling now. “But then he’ll blame you. Men always do. You should never tell him.”

You swallowed hard. Everything you’d buried for years clawed its way to the surface, squeezing your lungs, stealing your breath.

“You survived something enormous,” Scarlet said more softly now. “So many women never get as far as you did. You can’t trust him with this—not when your body can’t handle reliving that trauma. And how did you trust him so quickly? Did you really forgive him?” Her voice sharpened again. “If he hadn’t left you alone that day, none of this would have happened.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks. Lara was crying too.

Scarlet wasn’t wrong—you had blamed Harry for a long time. For everything. And you knew that when he learned the truth, he would suffer too. You understood your mother’s fear.

“Mom,” you said, your voice breaking. “This happened to me. I’m the one who carries the pain, the trauma. So… for once, let me decide what I do with it.” You wiped your face, steadying yourself. “I want to forgive Harry. I don’t want to be angry anymore. I’m exhausted from hating him, blaming him.”

Lara smiled gently and rubbed your back.

But Scarlet stiffened, her eyes burning. “Oh?” she said coldly. “Then know this—I will never forgive him. Never.”

She turned and walked away, disappearing into her room. When the door shut, Lara leaned in and whispered, “Are you sure, sweetheart? Your mother isn’t completely wrong. Telling him will reopen old wounds. They’ll bleed again. And how Harry reacts—whether he stands by you—matters more than anything. I don’t ever want to see you hurt again.”

You took a shaky breath. “I didn’t want to see it for a long time,” you said quietly. “But I realize now… all those years didn’t take anything away from how I feel. I love Harry more than I did before.” Your voice trembled. “I need him. I want to share this with him.”

Lara cupped your face in her hands, her thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks. “Then do what will heal you,” she said softly. “Your mother is just being protective. She always has been.” Her voice lowered, warmer now. “But if you love him—and if you’re certain of his love too—then this time, listen to yourself, sweetheart.”

You didn’t answer; you didn’t need to. She pulled you into her arms, holding you tight, steady and sure.

Later that night, you sat on the edge of your bed, phone in hand. The room was quiet. Too quiet. You scrolled without really meaning to—past old messages, past photos—until you ended up on Harry’s Instagram.

You told yourself it was harmless. It wasn’t something you’d ever done before. Not once. Not in five years. You had avoided it deliberately, even when curiosity clawed at you. You’d known it would hurt. You’d been afraid of what you might find—a new woman, a smiling photo, proof that he’d moved on without you. You couldn’t bear the idea of seeing him happy without you. So you never looked. You pretended it didn’t exist.

Until now.

Just curiosity, you told yourself. It wasn’t. You were desperate to know. Because you loved him again—and that changed everything.

You lingered on his pictures longer than you should have. Work events. Boardrooms. City skylines. Nothing personal. Nothing intimate. You exhaled slowly, a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Relief settled in—quiet, guilty, undeniable.

However, after talking things through with Emily earlier, your chest still felt tight—full of things you hadn’t said out loud. You exited the app and opened your contacts. Your thumb hovered.

Ex-Harry-bit C.

You stared at the name for a long second. Then, slowly, deliberately, you deleted it. You typed again.

Harry.

Just that. You saved it—and smiled to yourself.

At that exact moment, your phone lit up.

Incoming call: Harry.

You blinked. Then you laughed softly under your breath. What a coincidence. Still smiling, you answered. You inhaled deeply, heart already racing.

“Yes?”

His voice came through warm and gentle. “I’m sorry for calling this late. I hope I’m not bothering you. I just… wanted to check on you.”

You smiled. “No, no. I’m in my room, actually. I was about to get ready for bed. You know—work tomorrow.”

“Oh, right,” he said lightly. “But if you want to sleep in tomorrow, go ahead. I know you’re not a morning person. And as your boss, I’m officially giving you permission to come in late.”

You laughed. “That would be a double standard, Mr. Castillo.”

“Well,” he replied smoothly, “for you, I’m willing to sacrifice all standards.”

You shook your head, giggling.

“I already miss you,” he said more quietly. “I’ll be back at the office tomorrow. I think that’s enough resting for me.”

You tilted your head, smiling softly. “Are you sure?” you asked. “You could rest one more day. The doctor did say that.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I know. But I’m already bored. And today’s video meetings were a mess. Too many things that didn’t make sense.” His tone shifted, more determined now. “I need to be back.”

You smiled, warmth spreading through your chest. “Alright then,” you said gently. “Good night. See you in the morning, Mr. Castillo.”

“See you, Ms. Queen,” he replied.

You both smiled, even though neither of you could see it.

Harry ended the call and set his phone down on the desk, his smile still lingering as he glanced at his laptop screen.

A knock echoed through the penthouse.

He frowned slightly. 10:35 p.m. That’s not Ron.

He stood and walked to the door. When he opened it—

“John?” His brows lifted. “What a surprise.”

John stood there, his expression cautious as he stepped inside. “How are you?” he asked. “Feeling better?”

“Better,” Harry replied. “Thanks.”

They moved into the living room. John glanced around once—just once—before turning back to him.

“You can take your coat off—make yourself comfortable,” Harry said.

“No,” John replied stiffly. “I won’t stay long.”

Harry hesitated. “Can I get you a drink?”

John shook his head. “No, thanks.”

The tension was immediate. Unmistakable.

“I was going to come by this morning,” John said slowly, his eyes locking onto Harry’s. “But when I got here… I saw Queen.” Harry’s expression tightened.

“She was—” John continued evenly, watching him closely. “Coming out of this building. Getting into your car.” He paused, letting it land. “It looked like she stayed the night.” Then, deliberate. “Did she?”

Something dark flickered in Harry’s gaze. “John—”

John held up a hand, calm on the surface, but the air between them crackled. “Ever since she started at the company, I’ve thought about everything,” he said. “The way you tense up around her. The way she tenses around you. The constant push and pull.” He paused. “So I did a little digging.”

Harry closed his eyes.

“She’s your ex-wife,” John said.

Harry lowered his head. He’d known this moment would come—just not this soon. “I was going to tell you—”

John stepped forward suddenly. “I came to you like an idiot,” he snapped. “I told you how I felt about her. What she meant to me.”

Harry exhaled slowly. “John, listening to that wasn’t easy for me either.”

“Oh, it wasn’t?” John laughed bitterly. “Didn’t you laugh about it behind my back? Make a fool out of me?”

“No—”

“Aren’t we supposed to be friends?”

“John—”

He grabbed the front of Harry’s T-shirt, fingers twisting into the fabric. “How could you do this to me?”

“John, you’re angry,” Harry said firmly. “Calm down. It’s not what you think. Let’s talk when you’re not like this.”

“No,” John shoved him back. “We’re talking now.”

“What do you want me to say?” Harry shot back. “How was I supposed to know you’d fall for her? There are countless women—”

“You should’ve told me,” John interrupted. “The moment I mentioned her. You should’ve said she was your ex.”

Harry clenched his jaw. “I was furious. I thought she’d leave my life before anyone found out. You think I didn’t try to stop it? I did—but I couldn’t.”

John shook his head slowly. “If you’d told me from the start, everything would’ve been different. I wouldn’t have gotten this attached.” His voice dropped. “But now I’m in love with her.”

Harry stiffened.

“And I won’t give her up,” John continued. “Not for a friend who lied to me.”

He turned to leave. Harry grabbed his arm.

“No. I won’t allow that.”

“Your story is over,” John snapped, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh—sharp, almost hysterical. “You know… I still can’t believe it. That’s why she’s been running from you, huh? The ‘ex-husband’ she mentioned—the one who hurt her?” He scoffed. “That was you.”

Harry stared at him.

“But don’t worry,” John added coldly. “I’ll heal her.”

Harry stepped forward, jaw tight. “What are you saying?” he snapped. “She doesn’t even know how you feel.”

“She will,” John said without hesitation. “I’m going to tell her.”

Harry’s voice dropped—low, dangerous. “If you hurt her,” he said darkly, “you’ll have me to answer to.”

John’s mouth curved into something sharp. “I already do,” he replied. “I’m standing right in front of you. You’re not my friend anymore.”

Silence stretched between them.

“And in the end,” John added, steady and unflinching, “she’ll decide.”

He slammed the door.

The sound echoed through the penthouse. Harry stood there, hands on his hips, chest tight, replaying every word. John’s words. Your name. The threat hanging in the air.

And the quiet afterward felt heavier than the fight itself.

You woke before anyone else. Not because you couldn’t sleep—but because you didn’t want to start another argument with your mother. So you slipped out quietly, the apartment still dark, still heavy with everything left unsaid.

On the way, your phone rang. Chloe. She talked nonstop—about how long it had been since you’d seen each other, how you’d practically vanished, how worried she’d been. You listened, smiling softly, apologizing more than once. You owed her. For the dress. For showing up when she didn’t have to.

But opening up to her the way you had with Emily felt… harder. It wasn’t a lack of trust. It was uncertainty. You were still afraid of your own feelings—still doubting them, still trying to understand them. If you could barely admit the truth to yourself, how were you supposed to say it out loud to someone else?

And then there was everything else. Your family’s finances were deteriorating by the day. Richard was coming back tomorrow—and this time, he’d have to make a final decision about the company. Maybe even admit defeat. Maybe bankruptcy.

Yet somehow—you were happy. Strangely, deeply happy. As if nothing could truly hurt you right now. Because on your way to work, the only thing on your mind was Harry.

The office was quiet when you arrived. Early enough that the building felt half-asleep. When you stepped onto your floor, you paused.

Flowers again. And this time—a box of donuts. Elegant packaging. Minimalist design. A well-known New York bakery—one of those names people instantly recognize.

You smiled.

The flowers were different this time. Soft pink stock—unscented. Perfect for you. Your second favorite.

You were still looking at them when you heard footsteps behind you. Before you could turn, lips brushed your cheek. Warm. Familiar.

You turned, startled. “Harry?” you whispered, eyes widening as you glanced around. “What are you doing? We’re at work—someone could see.”

“No one’s here yet,” he said easily. “And you’re early. I saw you and—couldn’t help myself.”

You smiled, then lowered your voice. “If you keep acting like this—and decorating my desk with flowers and donuts—I’m going to attract attention. Maybe we should be a little more subtle?”

“Donuts?” he frowned.

You pointed to the box. “These. You didn’t send them?”

“No,” he said flatly.

At that exact moment— “Good morning.”

You turned.

John stood there, perfectly dressed in a tailored suit—sharp, composed, unmistakably executive. He walked past Harry without so much as a glance and stopped in front of you.

“John?” you blinked, then smiled politely. “Wow. That suit looks… serious.”

He smiled back, pleased. “Do you like it? My father transferred his shares to me. I’ll be joining management now. I figured it was time to take my role more seriously.”

His eyes flicked to Harry—pointed. “I brought the donuts for you,” he continued smoothly. “You said you liked them.”

“She doesn’t,” Harry cut in immediately.

John looked at him.

“Ms. Queen doesn’t eat donuts early in the morning,” Harry went on coolly. “If she does, it’s after breakfast—and always with her coffee.”

Damn it. He was right.

John’s expression tightened, just a fraction.

“And,” Harry added, voice sharpening, “she already has a position.”

John held his composure. “An internship isn’t a position,” he said calmly. “I’m sure she’s an ambitious, capable woman—and would seriously consider my offer.” He turned to you, smiling again.

You lifted a brow. “Offer?”

“Yes,” he said smoothly. “I was actually planning to make you a job offer later today—”

Harry stiffened. “Ms. Queen won’t be an intern for long. She’ll be leading the project I’m overseeing.”

The tension was unmistakable.

You glanced between them, a sharp breath leaving you before you could stop it. What was this? And why was it happening first thing in the morning? They were talking about you. As if you weren’t standing right there.

You didn’t like that. Not one bit.

“I appreciate both of you,” you said firmly, your voice calm but unyielding. “But I’m more than capable of making my own decisions.”

You sat down at your desk. “And if you’ll excuse me—I need to work.” Then you lifted your hand and made a small, dismissive wave. “You can return to your own floors.”

John and Harry exchanged a look.

“We’ll discuss this at the board meeting,” John said coolly. “Mr. Castillo.”

“See you then,” Harry replied.

They walked away in opposite directions.

As they left, the office slowly came back to life—employees arriving, voices filling the space, the day beginning as if nothing had happened.

But you knew better.

Something had shifted.

After the board meeting, the company buzzed like a disturbed hive. The rumors wouldn’t stop. Every hallway, every coffee station, every hushed corner conversation circled the same two names—Pitts and Castillo. Their tone. Their posture. The way they’d gone at each other in the meeting.

Ron and Dana hadn’t felt tension like this in a long time. Harry had locked himself in his office. And neither of them was brave enough to go in.

Dana leaned over Ron’s desk, lowering her voice. “So wait—John, I mean… Mr. Pitts,” she corrected herself, “he actually asked for that position?”

Ron nodded. “Yeah. You should’ve seen it. He went straight at Mr. Castillo. Even I was surprised.”

“But what changed?” Dana whispered. “Until yesterday, John wouldn’t make a move without Harry’s approval. He practically wanted to build his entire future under him.”

“I have a theory,” Ron said carefully. “But I’m not sure.” He leaned in closer. “What really hit hard was what John said. He told the board that Mr. Castillo won’t be CEO forever.”

Dana slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God.”

“You should’ve seen the shareholders’ faces,” Ron muttered. “The board members too. It was brutal.”

Dana exhaled. “No wonder Mr. Castillo stormed into his office like a thunderbolt. He’s definitely going to shut down now. What do we do to lift his mood?”

Ron grinned. “There’s only one person who can.”

Dana’s eyes lit up instantly. “Oh. That’s a brilliant idea.”

Ron smirked. “In the name of Queen, we trust.”

She laughed.

Just then, Mrs. Reyes appeared beside your desk. “Mr. Pitts would like to see you, Queen.”

You groaned softly. “Oh, now he’s Mr. Pitts, huh?” You stood up with a quiet sigh and headed toward the elevators.

When the doors opened onto the floor of John’s very new office, you barely took two steps before—Ron spotted you. And immediately panicked. He moved like his life depended on it.

“Ms. Queen—where are you going?” he blurted, practically sprinting toward you.

You barely had time to blink before he threw himself in front of John’s office door, arms spread wide, palms flat against the frame—blocking your path with his entire body.

“Ron,” you asked, stopping short, “what are you doing?”

He looked at you, eyes wide with concern. “You’re not going in there, right?” he said urgently.

You blinked. Once. “Um… John—sorry, Mr. Pitts—asked to see me.”

Ron frowned, clearly conflicted. “Shouldn’t you go to Mr. Castillo first?” he said carefully. “I mean… his situation feels more immediate?”

“Immediate?” you asked.

Ron opened his mouth… and the door opened behind him.

John appeared, calm and perfectly timed. “You’re here,” he said, looking straight at you. “Come in. Let’s talk.”

Ron startled, spinning around instantly. “Oh—sir,” he said, stepping aside at once, tugging at his jacket and smoothing it down like this was all very professional and not embarrassing at all. “Mr. Castillo did ask to see Ms. Queen as well.”

John’s brow lifted slightly. “Did he?” he said mildly. “Well, our CEO with two assistants can afford to wait, I think. I highly doubt he needs her at the moment.”

You gave Ron a small, apologetic shrug and stepped inside. The door closed.

Ron narrowed his eyes. “Great,” he muttered under his breath. “As if Lucy wasn’t enough—now this too.”

Inside John’s office, you glanced around. “Well,” you said lightly, “this is nice. Should I call you Mr. Pitts now?”

He smiled faintly. “Please don’t. Just John.”

“Alright then,” you said teasingly. “But you really should’ve told me.”

“You’re right,” he admitted. “I should have.”

“Well,” you shrugged with a small smile, “everyone has secrets, right?”

He returned the smile. “True,” he said quietly. “And if you ever have one you want to share you know you can tell me.”

You paused—then shook your head lightly. “No. Nothing like that right now.”

“If you say so,” John replied.

“So,” you asked, “why did you call me in?”

“Yes—right,” he cleared his throat. “With this sudden change, I need help adapting. My department changed overnight. I was wondering if you could assist me with the filing system. And eventually, I’d like to talk about the project I mentioned before—though I know it’s early.”

“Of course,” you nodded. “I’ll organize the files and bring them to you. Mr. Pitts,” you added with a grin.

“Please don’t,” he laughed.

Your phone rang. Harry.

“Sorry—one second,” you said, answering. “Yes?”

“Come to my office immediately,” Harry said. “It’s urgent. Please.”

“Urgent?” you blinked. “Okay. I’m coming.” You lowered the phone. “I need to go. I’ll bring the reports later today.”

John nodded, watching you leave—confused, thoughtful.

You hurried to Harry’s floor. Dana practically jumped out of her chair when she saw you. “Oh, thank God.”

“Dana—Is he okay?” you asked.

She grimaced. “You should see for yourself.”

Ron was already inside the office. “Ms Queen,” he said gently, “I’ll leave you two alone.”

You stepped in.

Harry was sitting on the couch. When he saw you, he stood and came closer. “Harry, what’s wrong?” you asked. “Is it your head?”

“No, no—I’m fine,” he said quickly. “Sit, please.” He guided you to the chair across from him.

“You said it was urgent?”

“Yes—well… the meeting with Monsieur Moreau. You need to prepare the file.”

You blinked. “Me?”

“You were there with me at the lunch so...”

“Alright,” you nodded. “I’ll go back to my desk and—”

He caught your arm. “Do it here. It’s quieter.”

You narrowed your eyes. “John also asked for my help. There are a few things I need to prepare for him as well.”

Harry stiffened. “Oh. Did he.”

“Both of you are acting strange today,” you said, rolling your eyes. “I’ll work at my desk, Harry. I’ll bring you the file.”

You left the office.

Back at your desk, just as you sat down, your phone rang. “Yes?”

John. “Hey—sorry, you left in a hurry. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” you said. “Mr. Castillo called me. I was in his office.”

“Oh,” John paused. “I actually forgot to tell you something important. Could you come back? I’ll get us coffee.”

You exhaled slowly. Coffee did sound good. “I’ll be there,” you said.

As you stood, torn between Harry’s file and John’s request, you realized—you had no idea which fire to put out first. Still, you turned toward John’s office. One step at a time.

Lucy walked toward Harry’s office with deliberate confidence. Dana leaned closer to Ron the moment she passed.

“Is it just me,” Dana whispered, eyes following her, “or is that skirt… shorter than usual?”

Ron snorted quietly. “A little? It’s practically a strategic decision.”

“I swear,” Dana muttered, “if she didn’t get dressed specifically to get Mr. Castillo’s attention today, then I know absolutely nothing.”

Ron glanced toward Harry’s office and smirked. “She could walk in wearing the hottest outfit known to mankind. Wouldn’t matter.”

Dana grinned. “Oh?”

“The boss’s eyes only see one person,” Ron said. “And it’s definitely not her.”

They both stifled a laugh as Lucy disappeared inside.

Lucy smiled sweetly as she stepped into Harry’s office. “So,” she said lightly, “you decided to come back early. Understandable, of course. After what John pulled today, you really needed to be here.”

Harry returned the smile—but it was tight, forced. “Yes,” he said. “John seems… very enthusiastic.”

Lucy tilted her head, pretending curiosity. “I do wonder what suddenly changed. He’s quite determined, isn’t he?”

“I’m not sure,” Harry replied coolly. “Though he does seem to forget how inexperienced he still is. He hasn’t exactly earned that position yet—and juggling all those responsibilities won’t be easy.”

Lucy sighed theatrically. “Oh, but maybe he’ll manage. I saw Ms. Queen in his office just now—on my way in.”

Harry’s expression shifted. “In his office?” he repeated. Again? he thought.

“Yes,” Lucy said innocently. “She was probably helping him—reporting whatever he needed. She does seem eager. And capable.” She smiled faintly. “If she supports John, he could become successful very quickly. Don’t you think?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “And she might be… influenced by him.”

Harry looked up sharply. “In what way?”

Lucy’s lips curved. “Well—his position is improving. And really… which woman doesn’t like a powerful man?”

Harry’s discomfort was now unmistakable.

Lucy gave one last pleasant smile. “I just thought you should know.”

And then she left.

The door barely closed before Harry’s patience snapped.

“Ron!” he called sharply.

Ron appeared instantly. “Yes, boss?”

“Go to John’s office,” Harry said. “Bring Ms. Queen here. Now.”

Ron hesitated. “But if they’re in the middle of a meeting—”

Harry shot him a look that could freeze steel.

“Now.”

You were still in John’s office when your phone buzzed again. Harry. Again. You didn’t even sigh this time. You just stood up and went—because apparently that was the rhythm of the day now.

By the third interruption, John’s patience was visibly gone. And so was yours.

By the time lunchtime arrived, you were exhausted. Hungry. Worn thin enough that when John suggested lunch, you’d agreed without even thinking twice. You just needed food. And quiet.

The elevator doors opened into the lobby. And then—

Harry’s hand closed around your arm. “Ms. Queen,” he said evenly, like this was perfectly normal, “let’s have lunch together. We need to finish those files.”

Before you could even respond—John grabbed your other arm. “As you can see,” he said tightly, already pulling you in his direction, “I’m taking her to lunch.”

The tension snapped into place instantly.

Ron froze. Dana appeared right behind you, eyes wide, panic written all over her face. Every single conversation in the lobby died. People stared.

You were done being pulled like a cursed wishbone.

“That’s enough.” Your voice cut clean through the space. “Enough. Stop this.” You wrenched your arms free.

Then you did something very deliberate.

You reached out, took Ron and Dana by the arms, and pulled them firmly to your sides. “I’m going to lunch with Ron and Dana,” you said clearly, your voice steady. “And until you both decide to behave like actual adults—” You glanced between Harry and John. “—I will not be having lunch with either of you.”

You linked arms with Ron and Dana. “Let’s go, guys.”

Ron grinned—but as he glanced back, the smile shifted. “Seriously?” he said aloud, shaking his head. “Grow up.”

Dana didn’t even bother hiding it. “This isn’t a good look on either of you,” she added coolly, eyes sweeping over Harry and John. “Do better.”

Then—just like that—the tension broke.

“So,” Ron said brightly as you headed for the doors, “sandwiches or pasta?”

“Pasta,” Dana replied immediately. “I need carbs after whatever that was.”

You laughed, the sound finally light again. The three of you stepped out into the daylight, still talking, still smiling.

Behind you, Harry and John exchanged a look. Neither said a word. They turned away in opposite directions, faces carefully neutral—but both of them feeling it.

Because for a brief, very public moment, they’d behaved like children.

Harry called you that afternoon, again.

You went only because you swore to yourself it would be the last time.

You walked into his office and sighed the moment the door closed behind you.

“Harry,” you said, rubbing a hand over your face, exhaustion finally spilling through, “I’m tired. Whatever you need to say—make it quick.”

He looked at you for a long second.

Then, gently, from behind his desk—“Sit.”

“No. I’m going back to my desk to finish the report.”

Harry stood. “You told me you’d give me an answer after tomorrow,” he said, holding your gaze. “But you still haven’t said anything.”

“Yes,” you replied, “but can you stop rushing me? This feels like an ultimatum.”

“It’s because I can’t stand being away from you,” he said quietly.

You raised a brow, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “Harry,” you said lightly, “did you hit your head a little too hard back there? Or is this a delayed side effect I should be worried about?”

He smiled. “Maybe I finally came to my senses.”

He stepped closer, one hand settling at your waist as he leaned in, and your hands rose instinctively to his chest before you even realized you’d moved. “When you’re afraid of losing someone,” he said softly, “you realize how much time you wasted pretending nothing mattered. Aren’t you tired of acting like nothing happened? Like you don’t feel anything?”

His lips hovered dangerously close to yours.

You almost kissed him. Almost.

“Tomorrow,” you said suddenly. “Tomorrow night. Dinner. I’ll tell you my decision then. Is that okay?”

Harry smiled, his eyes bright—almost boyish with excitement. “Tomorrow night,” he repeated.

You swallowed. “Harry… tomorrow, I want to talk about everything,” you said quietly. “About why I was at the hospital. And… everything else.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll wait. I’m looking forward to tomorrow.”

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your lips—brief, gentle. Both of his hands came to rest at your waist, steady and warm, as if grounding himself there. Your fingers slid up instinctively, curling at his collar before finding his face, your palm fitting there like it always had. The kiss deepened only slightly, just enough for you to melt into it without thinking—without resisting.

Harry’s lips had barely left yours when—

A knock. The door opened.

“Oh—what the—”

Sienna froze in the doorway. Ron, who had been right behind her, froze too. The three of you stared at each other for half a second too long.

“I—um—okay,” Ron blurted out, brain clearly short-circuiting. “Sienna, your sister. Harry. Queen. Wow. My circuits are officially fried. I’m just—yeah. I’m leaving.”

He turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall.

Sienna laughed softly and looked between you and Harry. “Well,” she said, amused, “that image definitely confused me too.”

You pulled away and cleared your throat, suddenly shy. “Hi… Sienna.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “You didn’t say you were coming.”

He opened his arms. She walked straight into them and hugged him tightly. “I was passing by and thought I’d stop in,” she said. “You look good. If you’re back at work, I guess you’re doing better.”

She pulled back and glanced at you. “When Queen called me, I tried not to let Mom notice—but I was really scared.”

Harry kissed the top of her head. “I’m okay. Don’t worry, bunny.”

She rolled her eyes. “Are you still calling me that?” you said, exasperated. “Seriously.”

He smiled, completely unrepentant. “You’ll always be bunny to me.”

You couldn’t help it—you smiled too. He had always called Sienna that. And he still did.

“Mom okay?”

“She’s fine,” Sienna replied. “Still in Rhinebeck with abuela.” Then she smiled, remembering something. “Oh—and since I have you both here… Eloise wants to see you again soon. Especially around Christmas. She’s insisting on a video call.” She laughed. “She hasn’t stopped talking about you since you left. She misses you both.”

Sienna took the chair beside Harry’s desk and sat down. Harry chuckled and joined her.

“Maybe we’ll be there for Christmas,” he said casually—then glanced at you, the implication clear.

You smiled. “Maybe. Uhm. I should go. I still have a report to finish.”

Sienna smiled warmly at you. “Okay. See you later.”

You slipped out of the office.

The moment the door closed, Sienna raised her eyebrows at Harry. “So,” she said slowly. “What’s going on with you two?”

Harry shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Oh, please,” she laughed. “That wasn’t nothing. Are you—”

“Maybe,” he said.

She grinned. “Oh my...”

“Hold on,” Harry added. “Give me a second, sis.”

He called out, “Ron!”

Ron reappeared. “Yes, boss?”

Harry gave him a look. “Ron,” he said. “Book a table at Vestry for tomorrow night. And tell them Mr. Castillo wants his old table. Make it special.”

Ron smiled. “Absolutely, boss.”

Sienna turned back to Harry, eyes shining. “So… are you getting back together?”

Harry exhaled, a quiet, hopeful sound. “I hope so.”

“Oh my God,” she said softly, smiling. “I mean—come on. The chemistry, the looks, the way you two orbit each other… it’s exactly the same. I’ve been waiting for this moment for years.”

Harry let out a small, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You have no idea how long it’s felt like I was stuck,” he said quietly. “It’s like something finally moved.”

Her smile softened. “This is the first time I’ve seen you smile like this in a long time,” she said gently. “I really hope everything works out this time.”

Harry smiled back, emotion thick in his voice. “I hope so too, sweetheart.”

He gestured lightly toward his desk. “So—can I get you coffee? Water?”

That evening, as you stepped out of the taxi, your phone buzzed incessantly in your hand. Notifications. Messages. Mentions. You barely glanced at them. Probably more nonsense from the 5th Avenue Dolls group—elite chatter, half-rumors, recycled gossip. You’d deal with it later.

You were still scrolling absently when you looked up— And froze.

Tabloid reporters, paparazzi. A cluster of them near the entrance, cameras already raised. The moment they spotted you, everything shifted.

“Queen!” “Ms. Queen—over here!” “That’s her!”

They rushed forward. Your heart dropped. Microphones were suddenly inches from your face.

“Ms. Queen, is it true your family is facing a financial crisis?” “Is your father’s company on the brink of bankruptcy?” “Has Richard officially admitted insolvency?” “What does this mean for you personally?”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. Your thoughts scattered, panic buzzing under your skin.

Before you could process what was happening, Rob—the doorman—stepped in front of you, firm and protective. Security followed immediately, creating a barrier.

“Please step back,” Rob said sharply. “She’s not answering questions.”

Hands guided you forward, through the doors, away from the flashes and shouting. Once inside, the noise fell away.

You exhaled shakily. “Thank you,” you whispered, voice trembling.

Rob nodded. “We’ve got you.”

You didn’t wait. Already worried, already bracing yourself, you rushed toward the elevator.

And just as you’d feared—your mother was exactly where you expected her to be. Pacing. Angry. Tense.

Mikey hurried over to you, voice low. “It broke this afternoon,” he said. “Someone leaked everything to the press. No one knows who—or how—but it spread fast.”

Too fast.

You felt it then—the real blow. You’d known it was coming someday. But knowing didn’t make it hurt less.

Upper East Side scandals moved at lightning speed. By evening, it wasn’t just the neighborhood anymore. It was everywhere. Every channel. Every headline.

Financial Collapse. Richard Queen. Scarlet Queen. You, the heiress.

Some outlets even drew comparisons—Castillo Capital vs. Queen Financial. Your name. Your face. Your life dissected.

When your mother finally took medication for her headache and retreated to her room, the apartment fell into a heavy, fractured quiet.

Your phone rang. Harry.

You’d missed his call earlier—but now, sitting on your bed, you let it ring once more before answering.

“Hey,” you said softly.

“I heard,” he said gently. “I was worried.”

You exhaled, staring at the floor. “Yeah. It’s… a lot.”

“If you don’t want to see me tomorrow,” Harry continued carefully, “I’ll understand. Completely.”

You sat up straighter. “No,” you said immediately. “I don’t care about any of this. Please don’t cancel. Tomorrow—us—shouldn’t be affected by this.”

You heard his breath leave him slowly on the other end. “Okay,” he said. You could hear the relief in it.

You smiled faintly.

“So… would it be alright if I took tomorrow off? Mr. Castillo? Family reasons,” you teased.

He laughed softly. “Of course. Rest. Take the day.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow,” you said. “Though I might have trouble leaving the building. I’ll probably use the back exit.”

“I’ll come get you myself,” Harry said without hesitation.

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he added, “And during the day—I’ll talk to your father. Castillo Capital might be able to help Queen Financial.”

Your breath caught.

“Harry…” you said quietly. “Would you really do that? I don’t even know what to say.”

“I would,” he replied simply. “For you.”

You swallowed hard.

“Tonight,” he added gently, before the weight of it could settle, “don’t think about any of this. Just think about what you’re going to wear tomorrow.” There was a smile in his voice. “You love that part anyway. And if I know you, you’ve already started.”

You laughed softly. “Alright. Good night, Harry.”

“Good night.”

You ended the call and fell back onto the bed, pressing your phone against your chest.

Messages kept pouring in—demands for statements, questions from elite friends, concern thinly disguised as curiosity. You ignored them all.

The only thing on your mind was tomorrow night.

That morning, Queen Residence felt different. Heavier. Tighter. It was one of the hardest mornings the family had ever faced.

Breakfast was silent. Every phone had been placed on silent—a collective, desperate attempt at something resembling peace. Richard’s phone, however, still vibrated endlessly against the table, breaking records even muted. Scarlet looked like she was nursing the worst headache of her life. Even Mikey—normally incapable of silence—said nothing. He didn’t mention Sienna once. He just stared down at his plate, subdued.

It felt like you were all trapped inside the apartment. Cornered. Under siege.

Finally, Richard cleared his throat. “I’ll have to make a press statement tomorrow,” he said. “They’re telling me I should accept bankruptcy. But I won’t.” Everyone looked up. “I have no intention of accepting defeat,” he continued firmly. “For all our sakes. In this city—especially on the Upper East Side—admitting defeat like that is the same as erasing yourself.”

Silence followed. No one touched their food.

Scarlet spoke next, her voice tight. “Can’t Mark help you?”

Richard shook his head slightly, then glanced at you. “There’s not much he can do right now. But if I reject bankruptcy and push the press back, we might still be able to negotiate something.”

Again—everyone looked at you.

You frowned. “Why is everyone looking at me?”

Richard sighed. “Because Mark’s firm is our only real chance, sweetheart. And in this situation… we need you.”

Your stomach dropped.

“His son—Lucas,” Richard continued. “He’d like to meet you. If you had dinner with him, it might help.”

For a split second, time folded in on itself. Like you were twenty again—young, unprepared, shoved right back into a version of yourself who had been expected to smile and comply while everyone else decided her future. Standing on the edge of yet another life-altering introduction—before Harry, before choice, before you learned how to say no and mean it.

“Dad,” you said slowly, “do you hear yourself?”

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” Richard replied.

Scarlet leaned forward immediately. “Sweetheart, it’s just dinner. No one’s asking you to marry him. And when our family is in trouble, don’t we help in every way we can?”

The implication was sharp. As if last night’s conversation had never happened.

You stood.

“I’m sorry,” you said calmly, “but this financial collapse is not my fault. And I’m not obligated to fix it.” They stared at you. “If I’m going to help,” you continued evenly, “it won’t be by being paraded as leverage. I’m not a solution you can schedule over dinner.”

Your voice hardened—clear, controlled, unmistakably you.

“This isn’t strategy. It’s desperation.”

Scarlet opened her mouth.

You didn’t let her.

“And I won’t be guilted into it.” You pushed your chair back. “I’m done with this conversation.”

A few hours before evening…

Harry’s apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

The clothes he’d ordered for the night were laid out neatly on the bed. Tailored trousers. A dark jacket. And beneath it all, a cream-colored shirt—silk-soft, with subtle velvet detailing that caught the light when he moved. Elegant. Intentional.

He dressed carefully.

Once finished, he left the jacket draped over the back of a chair, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt instead. He checked his reflection, then turned just as a knock sounded at the door.

He opened it.

“Mr. Castillo.”

“Finally,” Harry said, extending a hand. “Come in.”

The detective stepped inside. Before sitting, he reached into his bag and pulled out a thick folder, heavier than it looked. He handed it to Harry.

“The administration at the hospital in Switzerland was… difficult,” he said. “They’re extremely protective of their medical records. But I managed.”

Harry took the folder.

“Everything you asked for is in there, sir.”

Harry exhaled slowly.

The detective hesitated.

“Would you like me to stay while you review it? Or I can give you some privacy.”

Harry walked to his desk, opened a drawer—and placed the folder inside.

He closed it.

“I’m not going to look,” he said quietly. “At least not right now.”

The detective frowned slightly. “I don’t quite understand, sir.”

Harry sat down and opened his checkbook, writing a number—large, deliberate. “Ms. Queen wants to tell me herself,” he said calmly. “And that’s how I want to learn.”

He tore the check free and handed it over. “The rest of the payment. As agreed.”

The detective’s eyes flicked to the amount. His expression softened into a grateful smile, though concern lingered. “Of course,” he said. “I respect that. And if you change your mind at any point—you know how to reach me.”

“Thank you,” Harry replied, standing to shake his hand once more. “For everything.”

After the door closed behind him, Harry stood still.

His gaze drifted to the drawer.

For a moment, he considered opening it. Just one look. Just to be prepared.

But no.

Hearing it from you mattered more.

He turned away and finished getting ready. He slipped on his jacket, smoothed his hair in the mirror, and allowed himself a small smile.

His heart was already racing.

He was leaving a little early—there were a few things to take care of beforehand.

With one last glance at his reflection, Harry grabbed his keys and stepped out.

You were getting ready in your room for dinner. Emily stood behind you, gently working through your hair, while you watched yourself in the mirror. For a moment, everything looked… right. Emily smiled, letting out a soft sigh. “God,” she said fondly. “You look beautiful, honey.” You smiled faintly—then sat down on the edge of the bed. And just like that, your face fell.

Emily noticed immediately. “There it is,” she said gently. “What happened now? When is that smile ever going to stay?” You swallowed. “I’m scared, Emily,” you admitted. “I’m scared that when I tell him everything, the past will come between us.” You looked down at your hands. “And I love Harry so much,” you continued quietly. “More than before. It’s like… whatever we had back then wasn’t this big. This is. Feels like... I don't know. Feels like my happiness depends on a single sentence that comes out of his mouth.”

Emily smiled softly. “Well… that’s love, darling. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” You shook your head. “How can you say that? Everything changed so fast. It feels fragile—like it could break any second.”

Just then, the door burst open. Chloe walked in, visibly angry. She didn’t bother closing the door behind her. She looked you up and down, jaw tight. “How could you hide this from me?” she snapped.

Emily stepped in immediately. “Chloe, what are you talking about?”

“Your family,” Chloe shot back at you. “How could you keep something like that from me? Aren’t I your friend?”

“Chloe,” you said carefully, standing up, “I understand why you’re upset. But this wasn’t something I could just casually share.” “Casually?” she laughed bitterly. “You lied to me. You said the staff was on vacation. That you wanted to do your own hair. A hundred little lies. I trusted you.” Her eyes narrowed. “And was the Harry thing a lie too?”

You froze. “I heard you,” Chloe went on. “You’re going to meet him tonight, aren’t you?”

At that exact moment, the elevator chimed downstairs. Harry had arrived. He was holding flowers. You hadn’t answered his calls because you were in the middle of this. The hallway was empty, your room upstairs—so he took the stairs instead. Halfway up, he slowed. He heard raised voices. Chloe’s.

“So what happened to the plan?” Chloe said sharply. “Didn’t you say you’d only go after Harry for revenge? Didn’t you say you joined the company just for him?”

Harry stopped. His fingers tightened around the bouquet.

“We planned this,” Chloe continued. “We ran from the Vanderholt CEO together. We burned bridges. We risked everything. You said you’d make him fall in love with you. That he’d beg. That you’d destroy him after. Didn’t you say that?”

Harry’s other hand gripped the railing. He felt dizzy.

Then he heard your voice. And something inside him shattered. “Yes,” you said. “I did say that. I wanted him at my feet. I hated him. I wanted revenge. I tried to make him fall in love with me so I could hurt him back.”

Harry took a step backward. The flowers slipped in his hand, suddenly meaningless. He couldn’t breathe. He turned and started down the stairs, the rest of the conversation dissolving into distant noise. The bouquet fell from his grasp, petals scattering on the steps—abandoned, bruised. Tears blurred his vision. He felt like a complete fool.

By the time he reached the elevator, he was barely holding himself together. He stepped inside like a ghost. Mikey saw him. Harry didn’t look up. He just focused on staying upright. The doors closed. Mikey stood there, stunned. “What was that?” he muttered.

Then he heard voices upstairs. He moved toward the stairs—and spotted the flowers. Crushed. Forgotten. He picked them up and hurried up.

Upstairs, you were still shaking. “Yes, I said it!” you cried. “My pride was shattered. I was furious. But that anger only lasted a few days.” Your voice broke. “Everything changed, Chloe. While I was making him fall in love with me, I fell in love with him again. Now the only thing I want is to be with him. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t even know what I was feeling myself.”

Chloe’s anger melted when she saw your tears. “Oh,” she whispered. “So that’s what it is.” She stepped closer. “I shouldn’t have gone off on you. I thought you were shutting me out. I was hurt.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you said, opening your arms. “You helped me too. But the revenge plan is cancelled.” You managed a shaky smile, holding Chloe's hand. “Checkmate turned into a truce. And the Queen fell in love with the King.”

Chloe laughed weakly. “So… who won?”

Emily smiled. “Love won.”

You all laughed softly.

Then Mikey cleared his throat at the door. You turned. He looked… wrong. Pale. Upset. “Uh… sis,” he said quietly. “Harry was just here.” Your heart stopped.

“What?” you whispered. “Where? He was supposed to pick me up.” Mikey held up the flowers. “He looked like he was crying. He left them on the stairs.”

Emily covered her mouth. “Oh no.”

“He must’ve heard us,” Chloe said slowly.

Your knees nearly gave out. “No. No, no,” you said desperately. “He misunderstood. He heard the wrong part. Where is he now?”

“I don’t know,” Mikey said. “He got in the elevator and... just... left.” “Damn it,” you breathed. “This can’t be happening.”

You grabbed your coat and ran. “Wait—where are you going?” Emily shouted. You didn’t hear her, just sprinted for the elevator, then outside. The reporters were still there. You didn’t care. You scanned the street wildly. No black Mercedes. Your heart pounded.

Rob and security tried to hold the press back as you flagged down a taxi and jumped in. “Vestry,” you said urgently.

That was the only place that made sense. He had to be there. Waiting. Expecting an explanation. But when you arrived—he wasn’t. The waiter showed you the table. Your table. The old one. Perfectly set. Waiting for two. Your chest burned.

You pulled out your phone and called him. Nothing. “Harry, please,” you whispered. “Please pick up.” He didn’t. You left Vestry, got back into a cab, and went to his penthouse. No answer. You knocked again and again. The doorman told you he’d left earlier and hadn’t returned.

You called Ron. Nothing useful. Dana didn’t know. Sienna didn’t know. No one knew where he was.

By the time you returned home, it was well past midnight. Your feet ached from running, from searching. Your dress. Your hair. Your makeup. None of it mattered anymore. You sat down, shaking, phone in your hand, calling him again and again. No answer.

You broke.

Emily and Chloe stayed with you, quietly, patiently, as you cried. “This was supposed to be when I told him everything,” you sobbed. “It was supposed to be perfect.” Your voice cracked, the words barely holding together. “I had it all planned,” you whispered. “Everything was going to be beautiful.”

And the night swallowed the words whole.

After the horrible night, the morning was even worse. Harry’s phone was completely off. You called again. And again. Nothing. You called Ron—he sounded exhausted, shaken. “I couldn’t reach him all night either,” he said. “I tried everything.”

By the time you got to the office, it was clear how bad things really were. Harry’s absence had thrown everything into chaos. Meetings were postponed. Decisions stalled. The entire company felt… suspended. People moved through the halls with quiet urgency, phones pressed to their ears, all asking the same question. Where is Mr. Castillo? No one had an answer. It was as if he had vanished.

Ron and Dana spent the morning pacing, listing every place Harry might go, every habit, every old escape route. Nothing.

You sat in Harry’s office, curled tensely on the couch, staring at the space where he should have been. You tried his phone again. Still nothing. You thought about calling Sienna—then stopped yourself. If she’d heard anything, she would have called you already. You didn’t want to worry her. Your chest burned. Your thoughts raced. Where would he go when everything broke?

You were close to losing it when Ron walked in, his expression different. “Ms. Queen,” he said quickly. “I have something.”

You stood. “Did you find him? Where is he?”

“I spoke to the driver,” Ron said. “Mr. Castillo took the Jeep early this morning. Packed a bag. Told him not to come.”

Your heart skipped. “On his own? Where did he go?”

“Vermont,” Ron replied. “The driver said Vermont. I don’t know why—he’s never gone there before.”

You froze. Then, quietly, you said, “I know why.” Ron frowned. “He really bought it,” you murmured. “The chalet. So it was real.” You straightened suddenly. “I have to go there, Ron.”

He blinked. “You can drive?”

“I haven’t in a while,” you admitted. “But I have to.”

“I’d come with you,” Ron said immediately, “but I need to keep things running here. I’ll have a car arranged for you.”

The afternoon passed in a blur. You changed out of your work clothes, pulling on something warmer, something practical, then met Ron once everything was finally in place. By then, the sky had already begun to darken, the air outside sharp with cold. Ron handed you the keys. “Winter tires. All-wheel drive,” he said, serious now. “Still—be careful. The weather’s turning.”

You nodded. He stepped around the car and opened the door for you, waiting until you were settled before closing it gently. “Text me when you get there,” he added. “Please,” he added quietly. “Don’t come back without him.”

“I won’t,” you said.

You started the engine and pulled out. You followed the highway, navigation guiding you mile after mile. The city gave way to open roads, then forests. Snow lined the shoulders. Eventually, a sign appeared: VERMONT.

By the time you reached the small town, it was already dark. You pulled over near a local shop and stepped out. “Excuse me,” you said to the man outside. “I’m looking for a chalet.” You held up the piece of paper in your hand. “This is the address.”

“Castillo?” he asked. “The one from New York?”

You nodded. “Yes!”

“Oh—yes,” he said immediately. “I know the place.” He tilted his head toward the road. “He was here earlier today.”

Your heart leapt. “Can you tell me how to get there?” He gave directions, then hesitated. “You should hurry. There’s a snowstorm coming tonight. Roads might close.” “Thank you,” you said, already getting back into the car.

The roads grew narrower. Darker. Snow thicker. “This is insane,” you muttered to yourself. “Harry, we were supposed to come here for a romantic getaway. Not like this.”

Nearly an hour later, you saw it. Not a name. Just the number. The same one the man had pointed out earlier—weathered, half-buried in snow, nailed to a wooden post at the edge of the road. You pulled over and stepped out. The cold hit immediately. “I should’ve brought a thicker coat,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around yourself.

The chalet was breathtaking. Warm yellow lights glowed against the blue-white silence of the night. Snow sparkled softly around it, untouched, peaceful. Your nerves eased when you spotted the car. It looked like the one Ron described. You brushed the snow from your boots, walked to the door, and rang the bell. Nothing. You knocked. “Harry!” you called.

A moment passed. Then you heard it—wood creaking. Footsteps. The door opened. He stood there, confused, stunned. The moment you saw his face, relief crashed through you. “Oh, thank God,” you breathed. “It’s you.”

His expression hardened. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, glancing past you at the car. “How did you even get here?” “You’re unbelievable,” he added coldly.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” you snapped, shivering. “I drove all this way.”

He exhaled sharply. “What do you want? Why did you come?”

“Why do you think?” you said. “To talk.”

“To talk?” he scoffed. “What is there to talk about?”

“Harry, I know you’re angry,” you said carefully. “But you misunderstood everything. I know what you heard sounded terrible—but it’s not what it seems.”

“I don’t want to hear another word,” he snapped. “You came here for nothing. Turn around and go back.”

“Why are you acting like this?” you cried.

“Why?” he laughed bitterly. “You really have to ask? After breaking my heart again?”

“Harry, please—listen—”

“Listen to what?” he shouted. “To how much you hated me? To how you planned everything? To how you wanted to destroy me? You wanted me on my knees—didn’t you?”

You shouted back, tears spilling. “I did! Yes, I did!”

He laughed, hysterical. “Congratulations. You succeeded. You won.” “Harry, please—”

“Please leave,” he said sharply. “You’ve destroyed me enough. You won. At least let me fall apart alone.”

“No,” you sobbed. “You don’t understand. I was going to tell you about the past. I was trying to gather myself. I— I love you too. Please. Listen to me.”

He went still. A tear slid down his cheek—but his voice was ice. “I don’t want to hear anything from you anymore,” he said. “I don’t care what happened in the past.”

“What?” you whispered. “Harry, don’t do this.”

“I’ve said what I needed to say,” he replied. “You should go. Before the storm hits.”

You stared at him. “Is that really your final word? Do you really want me to leave?” You waited. Praying he would say no. He didn’t answer—but his eyes did. Cold. Closed.

“I can’t do this right now,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to see you. Not like this. Please. Just. Go.”

“You know what?” you said through sobs. “When you learn the truth, you’ll regret this. And it’ll be too late.”

You turned and walked away. You were crying openly now, the cold cutting into you as you reached the car. Behind you, the door closed.

Harry stood inside, watching through the window as your car skidded, wheels spinning briefly before catching the road. He exhaled shakily. He didn’t want you to leave. He hated himself for that too.

He collapsed onto the couch, not sitting so much as falling. He wiped his face, trying to steady his breathing. He told himself your words didn’t matter. That he was too angry. Too broken.

But somewhere deep inside— they had already begun to burn.

The road back was empty. Too empty. Snow had started falling harder, thicker—each flake blurring into the next. The radio crackled once, then went silent. And then—the storm hit. White. Violent. Sudden. The world disappeared.

Your visibility dropped to almost nothing. The headlights caught nothing but swirling snow, a white wall pressing in from every direction. “Shit,” you whispered, gripping the wheel tighter. The car slid. Just slightly—but enough to steal your breath. You corrected instinctively, heart pounding, pulse roaring in your ears.

Then the GPS chimed. Turn right. You hesitated. “I can’t even see the road,” you muttered. But you turned anyway. And immediately knew you’d made a mistake.

The tires sank. The car lurched—and stopped. Snow packed in around the wheels, thick and unforgiving. “No, no, no—” you breathed. You pressed the gas. The engine responded—but the wheels only spun. Again. Nothing. “Damn it,” you hissed, slamming your palm against the steering wheel.

You grabbed your phone with shaking fingers. No signal. You tried again. Still nothing. You scrolled desperately, thumb hovering over Ron’s name. Call failed. “Come on,” you whispered, panic creeping in. “Please.”

Nothing.

The storm howled outside now, wind shaking the car, snow battering the windows like fists. Your chest tightened. You stepped out once—just to see. The cold was brutal. Instant. Biting. Snow whipped into your face, stealing your breath. You could barely see the hood of the car. You climbed back inside immediately, slamming the door shut. Heart racing. Hands numb.

“Okay,” you told yourself aloud, voice trembling. “Think.”

You tried rocking the car—forward, back—gently. Gas. Brake. Gas. The wheels spun uselessly, sinking deeper. “Fuck,” you whispered. It wasn’t working. “Damn it.”

The storm was getting worse. You leaned back against the seat, breathing hard. The realization settled slowly—and terrifyingly. You were stuck. Alone. In the middle of nowhere.

Your fingers trembled as you turned the heater on, pulling your coat tighter around you. “Stay calm,” you whispered to yourself. “Just stay calm.” You knew this much, at least. Leaving the car would be worse. Much worse.

The safest thing—the most instinctive thing—was to stay inside. To keep warm. To wait.

You curled slightly into yourself, arms wrapped tight, eyes burning with tears you refused to let fall. “Harry…” you whispered, voice breaking.

Outside, the storm raged on.

And all you could do— was wait.

Harry sat by the fire with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He hadn’t realized how much he’d already drunk. Your words kept echoing in his head—

the past

you’ll regret this

too late.

They wouldn’t leave him alone. More than an hour had passed since you drove away.

He stared at the suitcase near the couch. The file. The one he’d brought here but sworn not to open. His jaw tightened. It’s time, he thought.

He set the glass down, reached for the folder, and took a deep breath before opening it—completely unaware that you were barely five miles away, stranded in the snow.

Medical Report – Swiss P. Hospital Patient Name: ██████ Queen Date of Admission: March 24 Transfer: Emergency medical evacuation to Switzerland following acute trauma

Initial Diagnosis: Severe vaginal hemorrhage Acute pelvic trauma Penetrating uterine injury Retained foreign bodies within the uterine wall (glass fragments) Pregnancy loss secondary to traumatic injury Hemorrhagic shock due to pelvic bleeding

Harry’s eyes froze. He read it again. And again. His fingers trembled. “No,” he whispered. “That’s not— I’m reading this wrong.” He turned the page too fast. Then back. Same words. Same diagnosis.

The room seemed to tilt. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, like his body had forgotten how to do something as basic as breathing. His vision blurred, not with tears yet—just shock, pure and paralyzing.

This wasn’t a misunderstanding. This wasn’t a typo. This was real.

His jaw clenched hard, pain flashing across his face as the weight of it crashed down all at once—too much, too fast. “Oh my God…” he breathed.

The sound that followed wasn’t quite a sob. It was worse. It was the sound of a man realizing the truth too late—and knowing, with sickening clarity, that every choice he’d made had led him here. Alone.

His hand went to his phone, shaking. He called the detective.

“Mr. Castillo?”

Harry’s eyes never left the paper. “This—this file,” he said hoarsely. “Is it saying what I think it’s saying?”

There was a pause. The detective exhaled quietly. “So you decided to open it,” he said. “Yes, sir. Based on the medical records, the conclusion is… miscarriage.”

Harry’s breath left him in a broken rush. His hand shot out, gripping the edge of the desk as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. The room felt suddenly too large. Too empty.

“Wait,” he forced out, voice barely holding together. “The injuries. The bleeding.” He swallowed hard. “What do those mean?”

Another pause. “Sir,” the detective said carefully, “unfortunately, it’s not possible to determine the exact cause with absolute certainty.”

Harry’s knuckles whitened against the wood. “But,” the detective continued, steadier now, “based on the reports, the most likely scenario points to a fall, followed by significant trauma.” Harry closed his eyes. “And after that,” the detective added quietly, “severe blood loss.”

The words landed one by one.

Harry didn’t move. He just stood there, gripping the desk, realizing with sickening clarity that this wasn’t just a loss—it was something you’d survived. Barely.

Something collapsed inside Harry. It wasn’t loud. It was deep. Heavy. Like something tearing loose and falling inward. He couldn’t breathe.

“Mr. Castillo?” the detective asked carefully. “Are you alright?”

Harry swallowed hard. Tears spilled freely now, blurring the page in front of him. “I—I wasn’t expecting this,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I thought… I thought it was something simple. An injury.” A shaky breath tore out of him. “Maybe she fell. Maybe a car accident. Something—something explainable, something I could survive hearing.”

His hand trembled violently. “But this…” he choked. “This is too much.”

“I’m very sorry,” the detective said quietly.

Harry didn’t answer. He forced himself to keep reading—even as every word felt like it was carving something out of his chest.

“But five months,” he said suddenly, voice shaking. “Why was she hospitalized for five months? A miscarriage is devastating, yes—but this—why so long? Was there… something else?”

The detective hesitated. “Sir, what comes next will be harder. If you’d like, we can pause. Or I can explain everything over video—”

“T–that’s fine,” Harry said quickly. “I want to know. Everything.”

“Are you sure?” the detective asked gently. “I can contact your therapist if—”

“No,” Harry snapped, then softened. “Just… continue.”

“Alright,” the detective said. “The following pages document ongoing gynecological surgeries, post-trauma complications, and long-term rehabilitation.”

Harry’s hands shook violently as he turned page after page. He had to stop several times just to breathe. At one point, he broke completely. He folded in on himself, hunched forward, a raw, animal sound tearing out of his chest as he sobbed.

His lungs burned. His heart felt like it was being crushed from the inside, pain so sharp and unrelenting he honestly thought it might kill him. He cried for a long time. Not quietly. Not neatly.

Time blurred. Minutes stretched into something unrecognizable. The tears didn’t slow—they kept coming, heavier, more desperate, as the weight of it all settled deeper instead of lifting.

When he finally dragged in a breath that didn’t shatter him, nearly an hour had passed. And somehow, the pain was worse.

The detective had switched to a video call at some point—Harry barely registered when it happened. A sterile hospital room filled the screen now. White walls. Harsh lights. Switzerland.

Harry wiped his face with the back of his hand, fingers trembling as he forced himself upright. Then he asked the question he’d been circling for far too long.

“How,” he croaked. “How did this happen?”

His voice cracked, hollow. “There’s nothing here,” he went on, barely above a whisper, eyes scanning the file again as if it might change. “Nothing that explains how.”

He looked up at the screen, broken and searching. Waiting for an answer he already knew might destroy him.

The detective sighed. “The hospital was extremely restrictive about that information. As I mentioned before, there’s another file.”

Harry’s head snapped up. “Another file?”

“Yes. An NYPD file.”

Harry felt cold all over. “Police?” he whispered. “Why would the police be involved?”

The detective’s voice dropped. “Because this wasn’t an accident, sir.”

Harry shook his head slowly. “What?”

“I need to be clear,” the detective said carefully. “There’s no absolute confirmation. We can’t state it as fact.” A pause. “But based on the injuries, the timing, and the nature of the trauma… I suspect this was an assault.”

The word didn’t register. Not at first.

Harry’s hand flew to his chest, fingers digging into his shirt as if he could physically hold his heart in place. His breathing turned shallow, uneven—every inhale scraping like glass. “Assault?” he whispered.

He shook his head again, harder this time. “But. No,” he said hoarsely. “No—there’s nothing about that in this file.” His voice was weak now. Unsteady. “There’s nothing that says that,” he insisted, more to himself than to the man on the screen.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t understood.

It was that understanding this—after everything else—was too much.

His mind was buckling under the weight of it all, grasping for something solid, something survivable. And denial—raw, instinctive denial—was the only thing keeping him upright. The safest place to stand when reality threatened to tear him apart.

On the other side of the screen, the detective noticed.

Not as a professional assessment—but as a human one.

He could see it in Harry’s eyes. The way his breathing had gone shallow. The way his gaze kept slipping, as if his mind were trying to look away from the truth before it shattered completely.

The detective stayed still. Careful. Measured.

Not because he was trained to be unemotional—but because he was witnessing a man’s quiet collapse, and someone had to remain steady enough to hold the space while it happened.

“Mr. Castillo,” he said gently, deliberately slowing his voice. “I know this is overwhelming.”

Harry didn’t respond.

He was still staring at the page, knuckles white, as if letting go—accepting even one more word—might cost him the last piece of himself he had left.

Because if that word was true—if that word belonged anywhere near you—he didn’t know how he was supposed to survive it.

“It was covered up,” the detective explained. “Special protocol. To protect elite families, to avoid media exposure.”

Harry’s throat closed. “An incident,” he whispered, barely audible. Tears streamed down his face, but he didn’t stop. “Continue,” he said. “Please.”

“The final document is a private security report,” the detective went on. “The location was… your former residence, sir. I obtained it through special permission. I’ll be honest—it may not have been entirely legal.”

Harry’s hands were shaking so badly he could barely open the folder. The detective warned him, voice urgent. “Mr. Castillo—there are photographs. Crime scene photos. Please take a moment. Breathe.”

Harry thought he was ready. He wasn’t.

He opened it.

Blood. So much blood. Your blood.

The room tilted. The folder slipped from his hands, photographs scattering across the wooden floor. Harry collapsed to his knees, bracing himself with his palms, heart pounding so violently he thought it might burst.

He couldn’t hear the detective anymore. All he could hear was the roar in his ears.

After what felt like forever, he crawled forward. Each photo was worse than the last. The floor of his old home—stained, soaked, unrecognizable. Knowing it was you—it felt like he was the one bleeding.

Eventually, he staggered back into the chair. His entire body was shaking. He held one photograph up to the camera, eyes dark, feral with grief and rage.

“You said assault,” he growled. “Who did this? Who?”

The detective visibly stiffened. “Sir… we couldn’t identify the perpetrator. Legally, this is as far as I could go. Without Ms. Queen’s explicit consent, no further information can be accessed.”

Harry bowed his head. He felt like he was drowning.

He closed the laptop.

For a long time, he didn’t move. He sat on the floor, back against the couch, one bloodstained photo still in his hand. The only sound was the crackle of the fireplace.

His phone rang. Once. Twice. He ignored it. Then again. Finally, he answered. “Ron,” Harry said hoarsely.

“Oh thank God,” Ron said. “Is Ms. Queen with you? I tried reaching her—she’s not answering.”

Harry wiped his face, forcing his voice steady. “She was here earlier. She probably arrived by now.”

There was a pause. “Harry,” Ron said slowly, “Listen to me. I checked the vehicle GPS. The signal’s still active. It shows the car… still in Vermont. On a back road. It hasn’t moved.”

Harry stood up so fast the chair scraped loudly behind him. “What?” he said sharply. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I thought it froze, but the signal’s steady.”

Harry turned toward the window. Outside, the snowstorm raged—violent, blinding.

A horrifying thought hit him. His blood ran cold.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no—she can’t still be out there.”

Panic seized him completely.

He grabbed his coat, barely managing to get one arm through the sleeve as he stumbled toward the door. Keys. He didn’t remember picking them up—only the sound of the door slamming shut behind him, the cold air hitting his face like a blow.

Outside, the cold burned his lungs. He got into the car, hands shaking so badly it took him two tries to start the engine.

“Idiot,” he muttered as the car came to life. “A complete idiot, Harry.”

He pulled onto the road too fast, tires crunching against snow and ice. Tears still streaked his cheeks, freezing in the cold air. He scrubbed at his face, sniffing hard—his nose running from the cold, from the crying, from the weight of it all.

“How could you be this stupid?” he snarled. “All these years.”

His chest tightened as he drove, breath coming in sharp, uneven pulls.

“You never asked,” he went on, voice cracking. “You didn’t want to know.”

A bitter laugh tore out of him. “You were selfish. You were comfortable. You chose not to look.”

The road blurred ahead of him.

“She was hurting,” he said hoarsely. “And you didn’t even notice.”

His grip tightened on the steering wheel until his hands ached—then he slammed his palm against it once. Twice.

“Idiot,” he snarled. “God—idiot.”

The sound echoed inside the car. He hit the wheel again, harder this time, pain shooting up his arm, but it wasn’t enough.

He glanced up—and caught his own reflection in the rearview mirror. Red eyes. Tear-streaked face. Someone he barely recognized.

“You absolute piece of shit,” he hissed at himself. “Look at you.”

The light changed. He barely noticed.

“How many times did you tell yourself it wasn’t your business?” he went on, voice shaking with rage. “How many times did you decide it was easier not to ask?” His chest burned as tears spilled again, relentless, blinding.

“You’re unbelievable,” he whispered, disgust thick in his voice. “A coward.”

Another glance at the mirror. “A selfish bastard.”

He laughed once—short, broken, full of hate—for the man staring back at him. And then he drove on, faster than he should have, fury and regret tearing through him with every mile.

The headlights swept over the shoulder of the road. A car. Your car. Hazard lights dead. Engine silent. The battery completely drained after hours of trying to keep the heat on without the engine running. Snow clung to the windshield like it had been there far too long—half-buried in white, tires locked, the car long since dead. Harry slammed on the brakes. He tore the rear door open. Cold spilled out—biting, unforgiving. You were curled on the back seat, drawn inward, barely moving. Your skin was ice beneath his hands. “No—no, no,” he breathed. He gathered you up without thinking, lifting you against his chest, your weight frighteningly light as he carried you through the snow and laid you carefully across the back seat of his car. He wrapped his coat around you, hands shaking as he blasted the heat to full. “Come on,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Please.” The engine roared. He pulled back onto the road, driving too fast, snow blurring past the windshield. Every few seconds, his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. To you. “Hold on, baby,” he said hoarsely. “Hold on.” His grip tightened on the wheel. “When you wake up,” he went on, the words tumbling out of him, desperate and broken, “I’ll get on my knees. I swear I will. I’ll beg if that’s what you want.” His voice shook. “You can throw me out. You can scream at me. I won’t let you go—I won’t. I’ll do anything. I’ll do everything.” His eyes flicked to the mirror again, panic and love colliding in his chest. “Just be okay,” he whispered. “Please, baby.”

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No. No, no, no. This wasn’t— This had to be a dream. Why did it sound like it was echoing inside your head?

One of my many sources, Melanie91, sent us this little gem…

What? Who? Spotted: Manhattan’s Queen, seen leaving the Q3 after-party last night in the company of her ex-husband, Harry Castillo.

What? No— what was happening? This was a dream. It had to be.

The voice kept going, smug. Relentless.

Didn’t these two divorce five years ago? Didn’t they avoid the same rooms, the same parties, the same air?

A pause. Almost a laugh.

Don’t believe me? See for yourselves. Sources confirmed the two were photographed getting into his car and heading straight to Harry Castillo’s penthouse.

Screens lit up everywhere. Phones. Tablets. Laptops. All at once. A collective gasp rippled through rooms, streets, crowded spaces — a sound you somehow heard, even as your ears started ringing. Your stomach dropped. No. This wasn’t happening.

But here where it gets interesting…

Of course it did. Special thanks to my other source, who provided photographic proof. At 5 a.m., Queen was seen leaving alone — appearance disheveled, emotions… visible.

A sharp, mocking edge slipped into the voice.

Even queens had bad nights, it seems.

The screen flashed white. The photo filled everything. You. 5 a.m. Eyes red. Tears clinging to your lashes. Mid-step into a taxi, your body half-turned — caught in the exact second you hadn’t known anyone was watching. A moment you never agreed to share. A moment you didn’t consent to being remembered.

The whispers exploded, overlapping, multiplying—

“Oh my God.”

“Wait — is that her?”

“Are they… getting back together?”

“I thought that was ancient history.”

Suddenly, you were in the middle of a party. You didn’t know how you got there. Music was pounding. Glasses clinking. And everyone was looking at you.

What— What was happening? Heat flooded your face. Shame hit hard and fast. You turned and ran. The room blurred. And then — you were somewhere else.

Home? No. Yes. Maybe. Scarlet’s hand gripped your arm too tightly, grounding and suffocating all at once. Richard stepped closer, his phone already in your face, the screen glowing like an accusation. “Explain this. Now.”

“How could you?”