Gemini Flanagan’s Personal Assistant.

You dragged yourself from the bed and into the shower. Once you’d managed to put yourself at least semi together, you beelined to the kitchen to make coffee. Caffeine was a necessity if you planned to accomplish anything. The apartment was too quiet, too empty. The absence of both of the men you loved was a weight that seemed to settle on your shoulders and never leave. You ran a hand over your face, wincing when your fingers brushed the edges of your wound.

The knock came just after noon. You froze, your third cup of coffee halfway to your lips and waited. Another knock. You sucked in a breath and headed to the door. A glance through the peephole showed a person holding a box and you opened the door.

“Delivery for you,” they said shoving the box in your direction.

“From who?” you couldn’t stop from asking.

The man shrugged. “Don’t know. He gave me a hundred and told me where to bring it.” He gave a half wave and disappeared down the hall.

You sat the box on the counter in the kitchen and began pulling things from it.

A bunch of wildflowers nearly identical to the ones Robby bought you on your first date.

A carefully wrapped sandwich from Cal’s, that upon closer inspection showed itself to be the same one you’d ordered on that same date.

An insulated bag with a pint of ice cream in the same flavor he’d bought you in the park that day.

Tucked in the bottom was a small velvet box and an envelope with your name scrawled across the front.

You set them on the counter and took in the items in front of you. Of all the gifts he’d sent you over the weeks trying to regain your affections, these were the most meaningful. The fact that he’d remembered, that he wanted you to remember that very first date with him said more than a hundred other presents. Your fingers traced the box, wondering what it held but resisting the temptation for the moment.

First, you found a vase for the wildflowers, a mix of purple, yellow and white. Messy and imperfect and absolutely beautiful. You left the sandwich where it was and placed the ice cream in the freezer. You settled yourself on a stool at the counter, box and envelope in front of you.

You opened the box first. Inside, nestled against the velvet were two tiny charms. An M and a J, both delicate and small. Just the right size for an anklet. You lifted one and turned it in the light. Gold with a small line of what you were sure were diamonds set into it. They were understated and absolutely perfect. You set the charm carefully back in the box and reached for the envelope.

You ran your hand across your name scrawled in Robby’s familiar handwriting. Not the mess it was when he was in a hurry, but the careful lettering he did when he wished to make an impression. You slid a finger under the flap and pulled out a single sheet of paper covered in that same writing.

Your vision blurred after the first line.

If you’re reading this, thank you. It’s more than I deserve.

You set the letter on the counter and wiped at your eyes as you sucked in a shaky breath. You could do this, you needed to do this. You were hoping whatever he had to say was exactly what you needed to hear, but part of you was terrified that this would be it. A severing of everything he was to you. That you were asking too much and he was done trying.

Fuck, you needed to stop. You grabbed the letter and your now lukewarm coffee and headed to the couch. You closed your eyes, took a centering breath then tried again.

If you’re reading this, thank you. It’s more than I deserve.

I’ve written this letter six times. The first five went in the trash because they were full of excuses and justifications and all the bullshit I tell myself to sleep at night. Not that it works. This one isn’t going to be perfect either, but it’s the truth and that’s the only thing I can give you.

I have spent my entire life waiting for people to leave. My parents, mentors, people I’ve loved. They’ve all left me. They’ve all proven I’m not worth staying around for. It’s what I expect. It’s what I prepare for. When we met you, I knew instantly that you were too good for me, that I didn’t deserve you and I never let myself forget it. Even when you were right there, even when you were in my bed, in my arms telling me you loved me, some part of me was bracing for you to leave.

That’s not your failing, it’s mine. It’s the broken part of me that I’ve been too stubborn to really look at. I was so busy waiting for you to prove my worst fears that I didn’t see what was right in front of me. A woman who loved me exactly as I was, who never asked me to be anything different, who thought I was enough.

A tear landed on the paper, smudging the ink slightly. You wiped at your cheek with the back of your hand.

I accused you of the worst thing I could think of, because on some level I wanted it to be true. If you were using us for our money, then you were exactly what I expected. Predictable. Safe, in the worst possible way. The alternative, that you loved me, that you really loved me, meant I had something real to lose.

And then I did lose you and it broke me in a way I didn’t think was possible.

Losing you once was enough to last me a lifetime. I won’t do it again. I can’t. So, I’m making you a promise, whatever you need from me, I will do it. If you want to start from the beginning, I’ll take you on a first date, nerves and all. If you want us to go to therapy together, I’ll make the appointment today. If you need space, I’ll give it to you. If you need me to prove myself every day for the rest of our lives, I will.

I will do anything. Because the alternative is living without you and I can’t do that. Please don’t make me live without you.

The words blurred. You wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of Jack’s hoodie, you’d been wearing since he left it behind weeks ago. Your chest felt tight, an ache spreading beneath your ribs.

If you’re done with me, if this was too much to forgive, I understand. Fuck, I understand. But please don’t push Jack away because of me. He loves you. He’s been caught in the middle of this and I know it’s tearing him apart. He doesn’t deserve to lose you just like I don’t deserve to have you.

I love you. I have always loved you. I will love you whatever happens next.

-Michael

You let the letter fall to your lap and pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes. Your shoulders shook. The tears came quietly at first, then in earnest until you were curled forward over your lap. When the worst of it passed, you sat up and wiped your face. Unsurprisingly, your head was throbbing again.

You picked up the letter again and read the last lines one more time.

I love you. I have always loved you. I will love you whatever happens next.

You knew what happened next. You’d known from the moment you kissed Robby in your bathroom and felt his hands shaking against your skin. You’d known when you sent him away then sat on the floor and wished you hadn’t.

You had the uber drop you off at the hospital just after seven and stood a short distance away from where you knew Robby would be exiting after his shift. The evening air had a bite to it and you shoved your hands into the pockets of your jacket. You leaned against the wall and watched people flow from the building, exhaustion heavy on their shoulders after a long shift. A couple of people recognized you, gave you a smile or a wave but didn’t stop to talk.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other and hoped this wasn’t one of those nights where Robby stayed for hours past his shift. If he took too long, you’d text Jack to give him a friendly nudge toward the door. You’d read the letter several more times throughout the afternoon. You’d almost called Jack to discuss it with him, then decided against it. This was between you and Robby first. Jack would understand.

It was 7:20 when a weary Robby stepped outside. He had his bag slung over one shoulder, a gray hoodie zipped up over his scrub top. He was looking at his phone, thumb scrolling so he didn’t see you at first. You pushed yourself off the wall.

The movement caught his attention and his head came up. His phone slowly lowered to his side. His expression collapsed then rebuilt itself all at once. His mouth opened. Closed. His eyes went wide and wet and so unbearably full of hope you had to look away for a second.

“Hi,” he said, the word broken.

“Hi.” You took a step forward. “I thought I’d walk you home if that’s okay.”

His throat worked. He nodded once, quick. “Yeah, that’s more than okay.”

You fell into step beside him. Not touching, but close. His stride adjusted to match yours automatically. His hands were in his pockets now, too. The silence between you was thick with things unsaid, but that terrible brokenness that it would have brought with it even a week before was absent.

You walked in silence through streets you knew by heart, having made this same trek with him or Jack so many times. Your hands stayed in your pockets. So did his. The house came into view, porch light shining in the gathering dark.

Robby’s steps slowed as you approached. He punched the code into the lock and pushed open the door, stepping aside to let you enter first. The house smelled the same as it always did, clean with the lingering aroma of coffee in the air. It was messier than it had been last you were here. Not dirty, just untidy. Blankets that hadn’t been folded. A coffee mug left on the table. You stood in the center of the room and Robby stayed by the door. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

“Why are you here?” he asked finally, his voice quiet. “I need to know. Because if you’re here to tell me it’s really over, I’d rather you did now before…” He swallowed. “Before I let myself hope.”

You ran your gaze over him, taking in his hunched shoulders, the hands still buried in his pockets. His gaze held yours with a desperation that made your chest ache.

“Your letter is why I’m here,” you said. “The flowers, the charms, the food was all fine but not why I’m here.”

He didn’t move, just watching you with that steady gaze.

“It’s the first time that an apology felt real. Not something you thought you should say, or a performance to get me back. It was you. I saw you in every word. It was messy and scared and honest. I saw the man I fell in love with, not the one who accused me of the worst thing he could think of because he was too afraid to trust me.” You took a step toward him.

His eyes closed and his chin dipped toward his chest.

You took a steadying breath. “You hurt me, Michael. You took something I thought was solid and made me question whether any of it was real.”

He nodded, eyes still closed, and a tear tracked down to his beard.

“Don’t do it again.”

His head shot up. Eyes wide, desperate as he looked at you. “I won’t, I swear I won’t.” The silence stretched, then he licked his lips. “Does that mean that you’ll give me another chance?”

Your smile was small but sincere. “Yes. That’s what it means.”

His breath left him in a rush. His bag hit the floor with a thud and he crossed the room in two strides, wrapping you in his arms. He buried his face in your neck as he trembled at your touch. Your arms went around his waist and you held on, taking in the familiar scent of him, the way his breath hitched against your skin. He was saying something against your neck, muffled and broken and you realized after a moment he was thank you over and over again, like a prayer.

You held him until the shaking stopped. Until his breathing steadied. He pulled back slowly and lifted his hands to frame your face. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, wiping away tears you hadn’t realized were falling. His own eyes were wet, lashes clumped together.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

You nodded.

He leaned in carefully, his mouth meeting yours with a gentle reverence. His lips were warm and slightly chapped and he tasted like coffee and mint gum. You sank into it, one hand finding the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. He made a needy sound against your mouth and kissed you deeper.

He backed toward the couch, taking you with him until his legs hit the edge. Then he sat, pulling you down with him so you settled in his lap. Your knees bracketed his hips, your weight comfortable against him. He kissed you like he was memorizing you, like he might never get the chance again. His hands moved up your back, under your jacket, warm through the fabric of your shirt. You cupped his face between your hands, feeling the scratch of his beard and kissed him until you were both breathless.

When you broke apart, you were both breathing hard. Robby’s forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. “I missed you,” he said, voice low and soft. “God, I missed you. Every fucking day.”

“I missed you too. Even when I was angry, I still missed you.”

He released a broken laugh and pulled you tight against his chest. You sat like that for a long time, his chin resting on your shoulder and his arms around you. Eventually, he stirred. “I should shower. I’ve got hospital all over me.”

You pulled back to look at him. “Can I help?”

The smile he gave you was radiant and he pressed a quick kiss to your lips. “Of course you can, baby.”

The two of you undressed one another in the bedroom, clothes discarded in the hamper, mixing together in a way they hadn’t in weeks. It was a small thing, a domestic thing, but it only solidified that you were home. Finally.

Robby turned on the shower and adjusted the temperature. “Come here,” he said, steering you toward the counter. He reached into the cabinet and pulled out the first aid kit. He secured a bit of gauze over your stitches with a waterproof bandage. He kissed it after, then grinned at you again. “There.” He paused, then added, “You’re beautiful.”

“So are you.”

He laughed then grasped your elbow to steer you to the shower. He guided you in first and your shoulders immediately dropped as the hot water instantly started working its magic. Robby climbed in after you and you turned the two of you so he was under the water. “You’re the one that stinks of hospital,” you told him and reached for the shampoo. “Tip your head back so I can reach.”

You worked your fingers through his hair with methodical precision and he sighed at the feel of your nails scraping along his scalp. Once he’d rinsed, you took the soap and worked it over his chest, his shoulders, everywhere tension had settled into his muscles. He watched you the whole time. His eyes never leaving your face like he was afraid you might disappear if he looked away for too long. When you washed his back, your thumbs pressed into the knots along his spine. His head dropped forward with a groan that had had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with relief.

You dried each other off and Robby removed the bandage and tossed it away. In the bedroom, he pulled back the covers and you climbed in together. He gathered you against his chest. One arm around your shoulders, the other across your waist. Your leg hooked over his, and your head rested on his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart and sunk into the feeling of being right where you belonged.

“I love you,” he said against your head. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt that again.”

You believed him. You pressed a kiss to his collarbone and felt him shudder. “I love you, too. So much.”

“Hey, Sweetheart, it's Sam,” your friend’s familiar voice answered and a tendril of cold fear crawled up his spine. Realistically Jack knew Sam wouldn’t be making light if something were seriously wrong, but if you were fine, he wouldn’t be calling at all. “Your girl got cracked in the head with a bottle during a bar fight. She's bleeding like hell and probably needs stitches.”

Jack gripped the edge of the counter. “How much blood are we talking?”

Lena’s head snapped up, a question in her eyes. He shook his head once to let her know he didn’t know anything yet.

“She’s soaked through the towel but I’m afraid to replace it. Bottle broke so I’m sure there’s glass. I’m putting her in the car right now.”

“Bring her in through the ambulance bay. We’ll keep an eye out.” His voice had shifted into something flat and practical. His doctor voice. The only one he could trust wouldn’t crack. “Drive safe.”

He hung up without waiting for a response so Sam could focus on the road.

“What’s going on, Jack?” Lena asked.

He huffed out a sigh. “I need a room. Girlfriend took a bottle to the head in a barfight.”

“Is she okay?” she asked even as she clicked through the computer. “Three’s open.”

“It seems like it but until I see her…” he trailed off and Lena reached out to pat his hand.

“Understandable. You take care of her and we’ll take care of everything else. Okay?”

“Thank you, Lena.” He stepped away from the counter. His thumb hovered over Robby’s contact for half a second before he pressed it.

He answered on the second ring. “Jack? Everything okay?” His voice was rough like he’d been sleeping, or trying to.

“Sam called. There was fight at the bar. She took a bottle to the head. He’s bringing her in, said it’s bleeding pretty—“

“I’ll be right there.”

The line went dead. Jack stared at the screen for a beat then slid the phone back into his pocket. Of course, Robby would come immediately. He didn’t know why he thought the man would do any differently. He’d been falling apart without you for weeks, begging for a scrap of attention. Of course, he was going to come when you needed him.

Jack grabbed a wheelchair and headed outside to wait for you. The air was cool against his skin and he took a deep breath to center himself. He counted seconds in his head as his mind kept supplying images he didn’t need. The crack of glass against your skull. Blood soaking through one of the white bar towels Sam used. He’d seen enough head injuries to know what they looked like in graphic detail, to understand how dramatically they bled.

But this was different. This was you. Your blood. You most likely trying to convince everyone you were fine when you most assuredly were not. Anger spiked through him hot and sudden. Not at you but at the asshole who’d thrown the bottle, at whoever started the fight that put you at risk. At the whole fucking night that had ended with you bleeding in Sam’s car on your way to the one place Jack didn’t want to see you.

He straightened as Sam’s car approached. The hazards flipped on once he’d parked and Jack was reaching for the door handle before the engine even switched off. You turned to him with a scowl and greeted him with a resigned, “Hey.”

He lifted one brow. “Hey yourself.”

His gaze ran over you doing a quick assessment. The towel was dark with blood, staining the hand holding it. Blood had run down the side of your face coloring the neck of your shirt. You wouldn’t be happy about that.

“Don’t,” you said, interrupting his perusal. “Don’t start. I’m fine.”

“You are bleeding through a bar towel. That is far from fine,” Jack replied, voice even. “Get in the chair.”

You muttered under your breath, all kinds of unpleasant things he was certain, but you did as he said. He glanced at Sam before he took you inside. “You’ll have to move the car if you’re staying.”

Sam looked at you for guidance. You waved a hand through the air in dismissal. “Go. You’ve still got a mess to clean up at the bar. Jack will take care of me.”

He hesitated for a moment then nodded once. “Okay. Call me if you need anything. Text me proof of life tomorrow.”

You huffed a laugh at that. “Get out of here.”

“See you, beautiful,” Sam said with a wave as he got in the car, but Jack was already wheeling you into the ED.

Shen was moving between rooms when he caught sight of you and came to a stop. “Woah, what happened to you?”

“I’m allergic to assholes,” you deadpanned.

He snorted and smiled. “Aren’t we all?” He shifted his attention to Jack. “You good?”

“Yeah, I’ll be in Three if you need me.”

“You got it,” he answered and headed back to his original destination.

Jack sat the bed all the way up and helped you get settled before pushing the chair into the hall. Vivi was passing by and he gave it to her as he rattled off the list of supplies he needed. He shut the door and pulled the curtain across before snapping on a pair of gloves. He’d just gotten the lamp moved into position when the door opened and the curtain was flung aside.

Robby was breathing like he’d run the entire way, his eyes wide and fixed on the bloody towel still pressed to your head. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” He closed the door again and pulled the curtain back into place.

You shot Jack a sharp look that clearly said ‘really?’.

Jack reached for the towel. “Don’t give me that look. You can either let Robby go home with you to keep an eye on you or you’re staying in the ED until I get off. It’s a head injury. You need someone to keep an eye on you.” When you didn’t protest any further, he gently peeled the towel from your head.

You winced as the fabric pulled where it stuck to your skin. The laceration was above your left eyebrow near the hairline. It was two inches long and ragged. He clenched his teeth to keep his face neutral. The last thing you needed was to see him wince at the seeping blood. Fragments of glass glinted in the overhead light, tiny shards caught in your hair.

Robby pulled a stool from the corner of the room and dragged it to the opposite side of the bed. He sat with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together, not touching you but not taking his eyes off the wound. “If I’d stayed maybe I could have stopped this, protected you somehow. I should have been there.”

“Don’t,” your tone was sharp, but softened when you spoke the next words. “You did what I asked you to do. This isn’t your fault.”

He nodded but Jack could tell he wasn’t listening to you, not really. Jack would worry about him later, right now he needed to focus on you. “Did you lose consciousness?” he asked.

You winced when he shined the penlight in your eyes to check your pupils. “No.”

“Any nausea? Dizziness?”

“No.”

He continued to run through the neuro questions and you answered each one with poorly concealed annoyance. “Can we skip to the part where you stitch me up so I can go home?” you finally asked.

The corner of his lips kicked up, just slightly. “Neuro looks good. You’re a horrible patient, you know that?”

You huffed a humorless laugh. “Look who’s talking.”

Vivi had come in with everything he needed to clean you up and took your vitals while he was doing the check. He dropped the bed as close as it would go to the floor and pulled another stool over so he could sit while he worked. He moved the tray closer to him. “I’m going to numb you up first, then we’ll clean it. We need to be sure all the glass is out.”

“Yeah, okay.” Your voice was rough.

Jack injected the lidocaine as gently as he could but you still cringed with each prick. You closed your eyes as you waited for it to take effect. Jack took his gloves off so he could hold your hand, thumb rubbing across your skin. Robby stayed in his original position, hands trapped between his knees so he wouldn’t reach out to you. Jack’s heart ached. He hated this distance between the two of you. He understood it completely, but he still hated it.

“Alright, sweetheart. How’s that feeling?” he asked after several minutes had passed.

“I think it’s ready.”

He nodded once and stood to grab a new set of gloves. He handed a set to Robby first. “I need you to hold the towel while I use the saline. And you can help me spot the glass.”

Robby only hesitated for a moment before nodding quickly. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Jack pressed on the skin around the wound. “Good?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” you said with a little nod. Your gaze moved between the two of them as you bit your lip.

Jack paused, tweezers in hand and said your name. Your gaze flicked to him. “You won’t feel anything but some pressure. If it hurts you tell me and we stop immediately. Okay?”

You took a deep breath. “Got it.”

Robby came to stand beside Jack, his glasses on so he could get a better look. Jack used the tweezers to help him search and find tiny slivers of glass in your hair first, Robby occasionally directing him one way or another. Each piece landed in the basin with clink.

The wound was next. Jack clenched his teeth in anticipation but thankfully found it mostly void of debris. “Alright, saline now.”

Robby rolled the towel and pressed it against your head just below the wound to soak up any saline and blood. His gaze flicked over to Jack as the blood was irrigated from the wound. “That’s deeper than I thought.”

Jack nodded once. “Yeah. We’re going to have to do a couple of layers of stitches here, honey, to make sure it heals right.”

“Fantastic.” Your obvious sarcasm had his lips twitching in amusement.

Once the wound was clean, Robby stepped back, tossing the towel in the appropriate bin. He stripped out of his gloves and took his previous seat. His hands twitched anxiously in his lap.

You watched him for a moment then held out your hand.

Robby froze completely. “I…are you sure?”

“I know it’s not going to hurt, but I’m still anxious about it. I just need a hand to hold. Don’t read too much into it,” you told him. When he still hesitated you added, “Or you can get one of the nurses to hold my hand if you’d rather not.”

“No,” he said too quickly, too loudly. “No. I’ll hold your hand. I’d love to hold your hand.”

Jack finished threading the needle and caught Robby’s eye, shaking his head once.

Robby cleared his throat. “Right. Shutting up now. Hand.” He took your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. His eyes grew moist and it was easy for Jack to see how utterly thrilled his partner was to be allowed to touch you.

Jack started to close, doing the more delicate internal stitches before switching threads to do the external ones. His hands moved with the easy confidence of someone who had been doing this exact action for decades. “There,” he said finally, tying off the last suture and cutting the thread. He surveyed his work before covering it with a dressing. “Nicely done if I do say so myself. It should heal clean with minimal scarring.”

You extricated your hand from Robby’s and he slid his stool back slightly to put some space between you. He wasn’t pushing his luck. Good.

“Thank you,” you said.

“Anytime, baby. Let’s try to avoid anymore ED visits though, huh?” Jack stood and snapped off the gloves before throwing them in the bin. He moved over to the computer to pull up your chart. He scanned his badge then his fingers flew over the keyboard to enter your information.

“Since you don’t have insurance, I’ll put myself down as the responsible party,” he said, not looking away from the screen. His tone was casual, trying not to make a big deal out of it. You could tell he was waiting for you to argue. “It’s easier that way. Billing can be a hassle. Mike and I will take care of it.”

You said nothing, simply waiting for the inevitable.

A beat of silence stretched as Jack’s fingers paused over the keyboard. He scrolled, frowned, scrolled again.

“This says you have insurance,” he said slowly, turning his head to look at you. “And it’s current.”

“Sure do.”

Robby frowned and stood to look over Jack’s shoulder. “That must cost you a fortune.”

Your lips twitched, the ghost of a smile appearing then disappearing just as quickly. “My employer pays for it.”

Jack turned to fully face you this time, crossing his arms over his chest. “Honey, you pick up random unscheduled shifts at two part-time jobs. Who the hell is paying for your insurance? Sam?”

“I told you that I do work for my grandfather.” Your voice carried more than a thread of amusement. You hadn’t really intended to keep the information from them, you’d only been waiting for them to ask.

Jack and Robby looked at each other. The glance was brief but spoke volumes. You literally watched the realization occur to the both of them that they had missed something fundamental.

“We thought you were just helping him out. Paying his bills, things like that,” Jack said.

You studied them both for a moment. “Don’t you need to get back to work, Jack?”

He pulled the stool over and sat down, crossing his arms again. “Oh no. I’m not going anywhere until we have this conversation. Shen is on. He knows where I am. They’ll get me if they need something.”

Robby brought his stool over beside Jack before sitting and looking at you expectantly.

You sighed and finally gave into the smile you’d been fighting. “I managed the vast majority of the charitable arm of my grandfather’s company.” You said it simply, like it was nothing. Like you’d just announced that you prefer coffee over tea. Both men blinked at you. “Didn’t you wonder how I knew so much about earmarking donations at the gala?”

Robby’s skin flushed pink. “You’re smart about so many things I know nothing about. I just assumed that was another one of those things.”

You held his gaze for a moment before shifting on the bed to pull the small card wallet you used when you were working out of your back pocket. You pulled out one of the cards and tossed it on the foot of the bed. The black American Express card reflected the bright lights of the room. Both men stared at it. Robby’s mouth opened then closed. Then he said, “Is that a fucking black card?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you. “When I told you I didn’t need your money, I meant it.”

“You have a tattoo fund jar on your bookshelf.” Robby sounded so utterly confused.

You shrugged one shoulder. “That’s where the bookstore and bar money goes. That’s mine. The rest…that was different.”

“Your apartment is shit, honey,” Jack said. It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement of fact.

You laughed again. “It’s not that bad. And it’s mine. I moved in with Chelsea because it was convenient and she seemed okay. She left when I caught her fucking my boyfriend and I just never bothered to move. The building manager is chill, doesn’t hassle anyone. And the location was convenient.”

Robby leaned forward. “When we met you the elevator had been broken for weeks. The lights flickered. Your lock was messed up.”

“I didn’t mind taking the stairs and the lights didn’t bother me. The lock worked, it was just tricky. No one was getting in without knowing how to jiggle it the right way.” You took a deep breath. “Look, I learned to get by without. Not because I didn’t have the money but because every penny I spent was scrutinized by my parents. They had access to information about any funds that came out of the trust. It was a safety measure my grandmother insisted on when it was set up. My grandfather hadn’t anticipated them clinging to it so selfishly.”

You grabbed the card and put it away to give yourself a moment. “Until Pop passed, I didn’t have any money I really considered my own. He made my family sign off on all rights to my trust to receive their portion of the estate. They didn’t know he’d funneled almost all of his assets into the trust.” Your gaze flicked between the two of them. “I have a lot of money now. Like, so much. So, so much.”

The last part came out a little stunned. You were still trying to process your change in circumstances. The room was silent as both men stared at you in stunned disbelief. Finally, Jack stood up. “I feel like this a conversation we should discuss in more detail later.”

You nodded then winced at the movement, a spike of pain shooting through your head. Great. “Preferably when I’m not exhausted and don’t have a headache.”

Their eyes narrowed in unison and Robby stood to move to your side. “How bad?”

“It’s just a headache. A bottle shattered on my head. I think I’m entitled.”

“Fair,” Jack said with a little laugh. “I’ll get you something for it then you and Mike can get out of here.”

Robby drove through the city with both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road. The streets were quiet the way they only got in the early morning hours. You sat with your head leaning back against the headrest as you watched the scenery pass. Neither of you spoke.

When you arrived at the apartment, Robby parked and killed the engine. He sat for a moment, not looking at you as if giving you a chance to change your mind. You considered it, however briefly, but Jack would be furious. And you didn’t really want to be alone right now.

“Come on,” you said. He stayed a step behind you all the way to your apartment. Inside, you dropped your keys on the table by the door and headed straight for your bedroom and the attached bathroom.

You stared at yourself in the mirror for a moment, taking in the dried blood streaked across your skin. Robby appeared in the doorway, filling it with his broad shoulders, his expression landing somewhere between concern and affection.

You grabbed a washcloth. “I can’t shower but I need to get this blood off.”

“I know.” He stepped into the room that was too small for the both of you. He took the cloth from your hand. “Let me. Please.”

You didn’t argue. You lifted yourself to sit on the counter while Robby ran the water in the sink, waiting for it to warm up. Once it did, he put the stopper down and let water fill the basin to the halfway point. He dipped the washcloth then wrung it out. “Tip your head back,” he instructed.

You did as he asked and his other hand came to rest at the base of your skull, supporting your head with an unexpected gentleness. This was your Michael. The man you fell in love with and god you missed him. The cloth was warm against your skin as he carefully cleaned what he could, occasionally pausing to rinse out the rag. “You’re good at this,” you said.

“At what?”

“Taking care of people.”

He smiled at that. “Well, I’ve had a bit of practice.”

You studied his face for a moment. Taking in the gray in his beard, the tired lines around his eyes, the way his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked. “I’ve missed you.” The words came out sounding far more broken than you’d intended.

His hand stilled as his eyes snapped to yours. “I’ve missed you too. Every second of every day. I missed you the moment you walked out the door. And I am so fucking sorry I am the reason for that.”

The distance between your mouths felt suddenly unbearably far. You closed it.

His lips were warm and careful against yours, hesitant in a way you weren’t used to from him. As if he pressed too hard, you’d disappear. You reached up and touched his face, your fingers tangling in his beard as you kissed him properly with intention and the full weight of everything you’d been carrying for weeks.

He dropped the rag to the floor as he made a low broken sound against your lips. His hand found the side of your neck, his thumb brushing your jaw with a tenderness that made your chest ache. When you broke apart, you were both breathing hard. Robby’s gaze flicked over you, full of hope and desperation.

“This doesn’t magically fix everything. You know that right?” you asked. You needed him to understand that. Just because you missed him, craved him, didn’t mean all was forgiven.

He nodded then pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. “I know. I’m not asking for that. I just…” He swallowed. “I’ve missed you so much that it physically hurts. I just want to be near you for however long you allow.”

You slid off the counter and he stepped back to give you the room. His hands slid to your hips as if afraid to let go. You took one of his hands and led him into the bedroom. He followed without a word, fingers intertwined with yours.

The bed was unmade, the sheets rumpled and tangled from your restless sleep. You sat on the edge of it and he sat beside you. His hands found your face, cupping your jaw, his thumbs tracing the lines of your cheekbones. “I’m going to take care of you,” he said, his voice rough with need. “In any way you’ll let me, for as long as you’ll let me.”

Every tired, aching, lonely part of you believed him. You’d missed him desperately, missed the weight of him beside you in the bed. You stripped off your shirt followed quickly by your bra and Robby surged forward pressing his lips to yours. He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. His hands shook as the traced your skin. Your fingers found the hem of his shirt and you separated only long enough for him to peel it off and toss it aside.

He kissed you again, laying you back, his weight settling over you. And he was careful. God, he was so careful. His hand cradled the back of your head as he lowered you to the pillows.  His mouth was desperate against yours. His skin was warm under your palms as you traced the familiar landscape of him. His broad shoulders, the soft dusting of hair that covered his chest and tapered down to the waistband of his pants. His beard scraped your neck as he kissed his way down your throat and you arched into him, your fingers burying themselves in his hair.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmured against your skin. “I’ve always got you.”

He took his time. There was no urgency in him. No rush. Just the slow, deliberate attention of a man that was relearning every inch of you by touch and taste. His tongue traced the tattoos on your arms, on your chest, as if he’d forgotten they existed and needed to refamiliarize himself with them. His lips moved lower, dancing across your ribs, his mouth warm and wet.

“Robby,” you breathed.

His head snapped up as he looked at you with wide, pleading eyes. “Michael. Call me Michael, please.”

“Michael,” you repeated and his name in your mouth made him shudder.

He paused his exploration to remove the rest of your clothing and then his hands began their own journey across your skin. They mapped the curve of your waist, the dip of your hip. The inside of your thigh where your skin was the softest. Each touch deliberate, planned. His beard scratched the sensitive skin of your thighs as his tongue worshipped the tattoos there as well.

Through it all, his eyes never left your face. He watched you with an intensity that would have unnerved you in different circumstances. He tracked every shift of your expression, every hitch of your breath. He was reading you the way he always did, cataloging everything he learned about you.

When his fingers finally found the center of you, you were already wet. In fact, you were dripping. A sound tore from your lips that was half frustration and half relief. He worked you with the same steady care he’d been showing all night. His thumb circled your clit as his fingers curled inside of you in just the right spot. Your thighs trembled as you neared the edge. You grabbed his wrist, holding on and he leaned down to kiss you, his mouth swallowing the sweet sounds you couldn’t hold back.

“Look at me,” he said against your lips. You opened your eyes and met his dark gaze. “I need to see you. Please.”

You came with a shudder and his name on your lips. He watched it happen like it was something sacred, something he thought he’d never see again.

You pushed at his pants impatiently and he chuckled against your neck. He stood quickly and stripped. His cock was hard against his stomach and you reached forward to wrap your hand around him. You stroked once, twice and his hips jerked forward. His hand flashed forward to grab your wrist. “I need to be inside you.”

You nodded and he was above you again, his weight settling between your thighs, his forehead pressed to yours. His hand came to your face again and his thumb traced your bottom lip. You sucked in a jagged breath.

“I love you,” he said, voice rough, a little ragged around the edges. “I love you so much it terrifies me.”

You tilted your face up to kiss him and he pushed into you in one slow, careful stroke that had you both gasping. The feeling of him inside you, the fullness of it, was too much and not enough all at once. You wrapped your legs around his waist and held on as he began to move.

It was slow. Measured. Every thrust deliberate, every withdraw careful. His hips rocked against yours with a rhythm that built gradually to something steady and deep. Soft kisses littered the skin of your face until you were certain every inch had been touched. His lips lingered over your wound for a beat longer than anywhere else.

When you came it was with his hand between your legs, his fingers working in tight circles while his hips drove into you. The orgasm that rolled through you left you trembling. He followed moments later, his rhythm faltering as a groan tore from his throat. He buried himself deep and held there, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his entire body shuddering above you.

For a long time, neither of you moved. His weight above you was familiar and solid and you ran your hands over his back, feeling the muscles shift as his breathing slowed. Eventually, he eased out of you then headed to the bathroom, returning with a wet rag he used to clean you up.

He returned to the bed and pulled you against his chest, his arm heavy across your waist as he buried his face in your neck. “I love you so much,” he whispered against your skin. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

And you believed him. But it didn’t change anything. Wouldn’t until you were certain he understood how deeply he hurt you. You wouldn’t survive another broken heart. Because when Michael Robinavitch broke your heart, he did a damn thorough job of it.

***

Morning light coming through the blinds woke you. You blinked your eyes open to find Robby already awake, propped on one elbow. His eyes were soft as he watched you and he smiled when he realized you were awake.

“We should start packing this weekend. Or I could even start today if you wanted,” he said. His tone made it clear that he felt the worst was behind him, that you could move forward, go back to the way things were. “Or next week. We don’t have to rush. We’ll have to decide what you’re keeping and what can go.”

You watched him as he continued talking, your brow furrowing. This was your fault. You should have known that despite what he said, he would think all was forgiven. You should have resisted the temptation of having him with you again. A cold knot settled in your chest somewhere near where your heart was supposed to be.

You sat up carefully, far more aware of the dull throb in your head than you wanted to be. You swung your legs out of the bed before he could reach for you. You grabbed comfortable clothes and slipped them on. Robby fell silent behind you.

“I really appreciate you staying, but I have things I need to do today. I think you should go.” You managed to get the words out without your voice breaking. Barely.

Robby sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist. “What things? I could help. I’m off today. I wanted to—” He stopped as he ran his gaze over your face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just a lot to do. Work for the foundation.”

He was quiet as he stood and dressed, eyes never leaving you. “Do you want to get lunch? Breakfast? Coffee maybe?” The hope in his voice was so obvious it almost hurt to hear it.

“I can’t. I’m sorry.” You picked up your phone and checked the time, though it didn’t really matter. As soon as he finished dressing, you steered him toward the door. His eyes stayed glued to you.

You opened the door and turned to face him, taking in everything you loved about him just in case it was the last time you saw him. He stepped past you slowly, leaning forward to kiss you but you turned your head so he got your cheek instead. “Can we talk about this? Please?”

You clenched your teeth and nudged him out the door. “Not now. I need you to go. Please.” Once he was clear, you shut the door. “Goodbye, Michael.”

The door closed with a soft click. You stood with your hand on the knob, your forehead pressed to the wood and listened to the silence on the other side.

It lasted for three breaths. Then came a quiet knock.

“Please.” His voice was muffled, broken. “Just let me in. We can talk. However long you need. I’ll do whatever you need. Just…please don’t do this.”

“I told you this didn’t fix everything, Michael. I told you, but you acted like it did anyway.” You weren’t certain he could even hear you with how soft your voice was.

When he spoke again, his voice was ragged and full of tears. “I love you. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here.”

His footsteps moved away down the hall and you slid down the door until you were sitting on the floor. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes until the pressure turned the darkness into bursts of color. As hot tears made familiar tracks down your face, you wished for just a moment that you’d let him stay.

Aaron Hotchner takes his 3 PM coffee black, and on Wednesdays with a sugar cookie. And as his secretary it’s expected that you will get it to him no sooner, no later. So naturally on this Thursday afternoon you’re in a rush to get back to his office with the flimsy paper cup, it’s no help that you’re stuck in the stairway being talked at by some cocky agent. I mean look at the guy, sure maybe your friends would find the blonde young man to be a total catch, but you have places to be!

It feels like the fourth time you’ve tried to excuse yourself when you hear a stern voice from the floor above you.

“Excuse me, Agent McCallum. You’re holding up my coffee, it’s 3:01.”

Thank the stars. When you look up you see Aaron in his typical Thursday suit, only differentiated from other days by the blue pinstripe tie. McCallum finally moves out of your way, not looking to be reprimanded over something as trivial as this, but you can still feel his eyes on you while you try to go up the stairs.

“Eyes to yourself McCallum.”

Again, you feel the hair on the back of your neck prick up at Aarons voice, he’s always seemed to dislike male attention on you which is as appreciated as it is unhelpful. Heaven forbid a girl wants to get a date sometime.

By the time you make it to his office, Hotch is already back at his desk and reading over some files. You set his coffee on his desk and start going back to your little desk outside his office when you hear him.

“Three hundred in your account. Jack’s at a sleepover. Dinner at Belloni’s?”

There it is. For the past few months, Hotch has been taking you out for money. Supposedly you could call it a sugar daddy situation, you almost feel bad considering he just seems lonely. Obviously, it wasn’t sexual, sure maybe there was some thigh touching, and the occasional grinding against each other in the car, but for some reason he never let it cross the line.

“Sure, dinner. What do I wear?”

“Anything. Just be there.”

There’s what feels like a long silence, just watching each other and feeling your throat hurt from all the things you can’t say. Instead, you simply nod and leave.

Belloni’s is as nice as you imagined, of course Hotch got your uber for you. He comes outside to walk you in, eyes roving over the black dress you picked which was definitely shorter than anything you’ve worn at work. By the time you get to the table there’s already a basket of breadsticks and bottle of wine. Being the ever gentleman that he is Hotch pulls your chair out for you, and you can’t help but smile to yourself.

“Like the dress?”

“Quite a bit.” His voice is low and clearly not focused on the idea of conversation.

The night goes well like any of your other nights together, talking, pulling laughs from him, and smiles nobody else saw. Honestly these dates mean more to you than just the money, but you don’t think you can even tell him that.

Hotch just finished telling you a story about his golfing buddy missing so badly he fell over, which just reduced you into a fit of giggles, even to the point of slouching in your seat. His gaze is gentler when watching you, face relaxed to a softer smile.

“You know, if McCallum keeps bothering you, I’ll reassign his department.”

“Oh my gosh, no it’s fine. I really don’t mind.”

“I do.” Oh.  He’s serious. Sure, you know he wasn’t the fondest of other guys around you, but how far does he really plan to take this?

“C’mon Hotch-”

“Aaron.”

“Okay Aaron, you’re not my boyfriend, and I’m not your girlfriend.”

His mouth is pressed into a firm line, the two of you blatantly aware this has nothing to do with McCallum. There’s a wave of silence between the two of you, Aarons eyes on the tablecloth, whilst yours are fixed on him. After what feels like a century, he finally speaks up.

“But I don’t want you to see anybody else. And we both know you don’t want me to see anybody else.”

Oh. He’s not wrong, you’d get pissy when he would pay more attention to other women who came through his office, but it feels unfair for him to call you out on it.

“Then what do you want from me?”

“I don’t want anything,” He groaned, head falling into his hands as he takes a minute to gather his thoughts. “I just want you.”

Hotch’s words shouldn’t surprise you, not really. It’s been months of dancing around the subject but hearing it out loud really sucks the air from the room.

“I want you too Aaron.” Your tone is quiet, the small confession could’ve been drowned out by the sounds of the restaurant around you, but you know he heard you.

The rest of the meal is silent, the only proof of what just happened is your joined hands. The hands that both go straight to Hotch’s car after the bill is paid, the hands that only separate when one is placed on your thigh for the drive back to his.

Daryl didn’t know where you were.

He didn’t know if you’d escaped.

He didn’t know if you’d died under the same bat that’d just threatened to split his skull in two.

Had you already been put on a drying rack?

Dead?

All he knew was that no matter the outcome of your status, he wasn’t going to leave you, not in that place.

Didn’t matter if you were cold yet or not.

“We gotta go back in there,” Daryl uttered out into the group, his movements uneasy, his reclaimed crossbow in his grip now after Carol had passed it over to him.

He should’ve been happy to see her face after all this time. He should’ve been happy to see all the familiar faces.

But—

It didn’t feel like he could be…happy.

Not when you were still in there.

“Like hell we are!” Abraham yelled, stepping forward like he was daring to do something. “We just got out!”

Daryl didn’t waste a second stepping forward himself, challenging the ginger-haired man who’d just walked in full guns blazing when he didn’t know shit.

“And we goin’ back.”

It was then that Rick stepped in like he always did.

“I agree with Daryl.” He spoke with that authority that he always seemed to have despite everything. “We’re gonna go back in. We’re not leavin’ her.”

“Let’s go then,” Daryl replied, his eyes flickering coldly over Abraham’s once more, then—

He started moving towards the gap in the fence that they had all just climbed over.

Nobody spoke for a moment.

Nobody moved.

Carol sighed, rubbing a hand across her face.

“Wait.”

Daryl’s stilled, his gaze dragging towards Carol’s over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed on her face, noticing the immediate flash of dread wash over her features.

He knew Carol well enough by now to know that look never meant anything good.

She reached into her pocket, slowly, almost as if she didn’t want to do it. The handle of a knife appeared in her grip first then followed a small folded up piece of paper.

He recognised the knife as soon as he spotted the engravings.

Yours.

He could do no more but jump to conclusions seeing it.

“She dead?” Daryl asked, his voice cracking with the severity of the question.

Carol stepped forward, angling the paper towards him like it was a silent answer to his question.

“Just read it.”

His eyes flickered towards Rick’s for a brief moment, then towards Michonne’s before he reached out and took the paper into his own hand.

He unfolded it once.

Then twice.

The writing was undoubtedly yours; no questions about it. Daryl didn’t know when he’d seemed to have memorised your handwriting, but it seemed that he had.

‘Please don’t come looking for me.’

He found himself staring at those words like they’d personally wounded him.

Had they?

“Nah,”

Daryl shook his head, his eyes flashing back up towards Carol, his fingers clenching around the paper. His thumb contacted with the damp of your tears by your name.

“She’s not thinkin’ straight,”

“What does it say?” Maggie questioned, stepping forward, that sense of worry already riddling her face.

Daryl didn’t say anything; he could feel something crawling at his throat, though he didn’t dare to put a finger on what it was.

Rick snatched the letter from his hands, pulling it into his own view. Michonne was close behind him, her shoulder contacting his as they both scanned over what you had written.

“What does it say…?” Maggie repeated with urgency this time, directing her question towards Rick this time, because—

Daryl didn’t want to answer that question.

That made it real, and he didn’t plan on going about this the way you’d wished.

A beat.

“She’s gone.” Rick answered finally, his eyes glued to Daryl’s face as he spoke.

“Dead?” Glenn asked.

“No,” Rick responded, folding the letter back up into its previously folded situation, handing it back over to Daryl. “She ran.”

“Well then that settles it.” Abraham butted in again, securing his rifle over his shoulder.

Everyone’s eyes shifted towards him.

“Settles what?” Rick said, the tone in his voice cold.

Abraham narrowed his eyes, his gaze flickering between the group, then towards the plummet of smoke projecting from Terminus.

“That we don’t need to waste our time on this girl. She made her choice.”

That got a rise out of Daryl that he’d never felt before.

Who the hell was this guy to be making claims like that when he’d been around for less than a damn day?

“Ya dont even know er!” He yelled, closing the distance with Abraham, his arm swinging out. “Ya don’t even know what the hell yer fuckin’ talkin’ bout!”

Carol’s hand contacted him firmly against his chest as soon as she saw things getting out of hand again.

“Daryl.”

He didn’t say anything.

He couldn’t even look at her—he was seething. His eyes stayed locked on Abraham, his jaw clenched so hard that it hurt.

“Daryl.” Carol repeated again, shoving him slightly to get his attention.

Daryl’s eyes crossed towards her hesitantly, his whole body still tense.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did Carol.

“I’ll go with Daryl,” Michonne cut through the quiet, stepping forward.

Something in Carol's expression shifted slightly, like she was still waiting to say something.

“We’re all goin’,” Rick pushed forward, already crouching down slightly to brush the dirt away that’d been covering a bag of weapons that he’d stashed before going into Terminus.

Abraham stepped forward at that and just when he was about to shoot another protest—

Carol cut him off.

“I know where Judith is.”

The words dropped from her mouth like a bomb, all eyes dragging towards hers. Rick was practically jumping to follow Carol at that point, as was the rest of the group.

Michonne seemed to have been the only one that stuck to her guns.

Looked like she wanted to find you just as much as Daryl did.

Carol handed your knife to Daryl before he and Michonne separated with a silent promise to the rest of the group to find each other whether things went good or bad.

Daryl found himself turning the knife over in his hand as he made his way through the woods. His thumb traced over the engravings slowly.

Gaining anything, even if so little.

Michonne walked carefully beside him, her hands firm around her newly adopted weapon. She was watching him closely, keeping notes on his actions.

She’d been doing that ever since the predicament with Abraham.

A beat.

“You really care about her, don’t you?” Michonne asked abruptly, her voice echoing through the trees.

Daryl didn’t answer anything to that.

His actions spoke much louder than his words. He wouldn’t have been looking for you now if he didn’t care. That care that he felt wasn’t a new profound thing either—he’d always felt it despite how you and he acted with one another at the prison.

Despite the kiss.

Despite your head injury.

He grunted before he shoved your knife into the sheath on his hip beside his own blade.

“Before that group came, before she hit her head…” Michonne started with a sigh.

Daryl lifted his head finally, his eyes tracking over Michonne's face.

Michonne waited a moment before she spoke again.

“…She told me she never hated you.”

He already knew that.

He already knew that because he had never hated you either. You’d confused him more than anything.

But hate?

He could never have hated you.

Daryl stayed quiet—he didn’t know what to say anymore. A grunt left his lips as if he was done with it all being verbally put out before him.

He didn’t need it said in words.

Not when he had been going over it all in his head ever since he first set his eyes on you back at the prison.

“Gotta find er,”

That was the last thing he muttered before the both of them dipped into utter quiet. He scouted the area, his eyes peeled for any traces of the direction you’d gone in.

Daryl knew he was a good tracker but—

You just seemed to have been ten steps ahead of him.

Even after forgetting.

Even after everything.

And yet—

He couldn’t stop.

He was like an addict searching for a high in whatever of your presence that was left behind, and before he knew it—

A day had already passed.

There had been no signs of you.

Nothing.

He nor Michonne could do anything more but retreat until the aches in their feet fleeted. One thing led to another, and now, he was stuck in a church with the others.

It was the last place he wanted to be.

The house of God.

What damn God?

His back rested against the side of one of the benches. He kept his distance from the others as they sipped communion wine and allowed themselves to get slightly tipsy.

It’d been a day, and it was already beginning to feel like the others had moved on to the next problem.

Like they’d forgotten.

It was all catching up to him now.

How much he hadn’t realised what he had in you until it was gone like it’d never been there in the first place.

A laugh tore him from his thoughts and just as quickly snapped him back to what he’d set out to do in the first place.

He didn’t give the others any warning, picking up his crossbow and heading towards the double doors at the front of the church.

A walker stumbled forward from behind a row of trees, then another. His crossbow ejected two arrows, setting their marks in rotted brain.

He pulled your knife from his sheath, dragging it along tree bark. He didn’t know what he was marking at first and then after doing the same thing on each tree his passed—

It became clear to him.

D.D.

His initials.

“What are you doing?” Carol's voice filtered through the breeze, causing him to still slightly.

His eyes met hers slowly, narrowing slightly as he looked at her properly.

“What ya think?” Daryl spoke. He came across much harsher than he’d meant to and he immediately felt guilt bubble in his chest.

A beat passed.

Daryl sighed, turning back towards the tree and etching the letters into the wood.

“Sorry.”

Carol closed the gap between the two of them, her eyes trailing over the now light beige carving surrounded by its previous dark brown tone.

“Daryl, what are you doing?” She repeated again, gesturing towards his initials set in wood.

He pulled the knife away from the tree, clasping it tightly in his hand—the friction of the wood against his skin was so harsh that it could have splintered.

He was doing exactly what you’d told him to do back after the two of you had left John’s cabin. You’d told him that you’d carve your initials into the trees to find your way back to one another.

He didn’t do it then, but he was doing it now.

He didn’t say anything for a moment; he was just looking at Carol as if he wanted her to figure it all out herself.

But…how was she supposed to know?

Carol raised an eyebrow.

“Daryl…?”

His eyes tore away from her for a minute, towards the knife in his hand, then back up towards hers.

“When it was just us,” he spoke quietly, the gruffness in his tone noticeable, the tiredness even more so. “She wanted to go off on er own.”

A breath.

“I didn’t let er.”

Carol tilted her head, clearly invested in what he had to say.

“She told me that we coulda marked our initials in the trees to find our way back to one another,” he added, scratching the side of his face. “Never let er do that either.”

And suddenly, it felt like the one thing that’d he’d disagreed to originally was the only thing to guide you back.

Get you back.

A sense of hope that you’d remember something that he could never forget.

Daryl turned after the confession, suddenly feeling slightly uncomfortable with Carol's intense and all-knowing gaze.

She knew what he was thinking.

She always did.

“And the lighter she wrote about?” Carol questioned, moving further into the woods before Daryl like she’d already decided she’d go looking for you too.

“S’nothin’” Daryl lied, pushing forward to join Carol by her side.

It wasn’t just nothing, and he knew that.

Carol pressed her lips into a thin line, both of her brows lifting now like she could see straight through him.

She always could.

“Are you sure?”

“M’sure.”

She just looked at him once more before nodding and turning her gaze forward.

He was thankful that she didn’t press him on it.

He let the blade of your knife sink into another tree, then his initials soon followed.

D.D.

And with that—

He swore to himself that he’d mark every tree he passed until you found it and led your own way back to the group.

Back to…him.

A/N: Ooo we got a Daryl pov now! Honestly him remembering what reader said about the initials is so heartwarming. He’s just too cute.

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the Taglist!🖤

They’d been open to finding an Omega but as the years passed and they failed to find anyone compatible, they accepted it might be just the two of them. Truth be told, they were fine with that. They loved each other, they knew each other’s quirks and the demons that haunted them. They would be two grumpy old Alphas taking care of each other for the rest of their lives.

Then came a warm Tuesday spring morning and a car in the driveway of the house next door. The house had been empty for several months but no ‘for sale’ sign had ever appeared in the yard. A service had kept things cleaned up so Jack hadn’t given it much thought. His gaze fell on a woman with her arms so full of clothes he couldn’t see her face. Ordinarily he’d offer to help but he’d just finished hour fourteen of a twelve hour shift. His leg hurt and he needed to wash the stench of hospital off.

“Hey,” he called as he entered the house, shutting the door behind him.

“Kitchen,” Robby yelled back.

Jack popped his head in to greet his husband. “Looks like we have a new neighbor,” he said after he’d kissed him hello.

“Do we?” Robby turned to look out the kitchen window that faced the other house.

“Just one car but they were carrying clothes inside. I’ve got to clean up.”

Robby kissed him again. “Yeah, you go ahead. I’ll make you some food.”

Jack took his time in the shower decompressing and washing off the hospital along with the remnants of the suppressant gel he had to wear at work. Robby had food ready by the time he emerged and they sat at the table in the kitchen to eat.

They’d been eating and chatting for about five minutes when there was a knock at the door. Robby frowned but stood. “Stay put. I’ll be back.” He kissed the top of Jack’s head on the way by.

The longer Robby was gone the deeper the furrow in Jack’s brow became. How long did it take to grab a package?

“Hey, Jack,” Robby called from the door. “You should come meet the new neighbor.”

Jack sighed and dropped his bacon back on his plate. He wiped his hands then wheeled his chair into the front hall. Robby stood in the open doorframe, blocking Jack’s view of whoever was on the porch. “Hey,” he said.

Robby turned with a smile and stepped aside. “Meet the neighbor, honey.”

Jack’s gaze shifted from him to the woman standing outside. You turned with a smile of your own and introduced yourself. You were beautiful. He wheeled closer, ready to say something by way of greeting when a breeze blew past you and into the house. Jack was suddenly enveloped in the scent of honeysuckle and vanilla mixed with something that was all you. It smelled like home.

His eyes snapped from you to Robby who gave a small nod in confirmation.

Oh.

Oh shit.

You were their Omega.

“Hey, wake up.”

“I think she’s dead.”

“She’s not.”

A hand pushed forcefully at your shoulder.

At this point, you’d been conscious for a while, and you’d been ignoring the attempts of people trying to wake you up.

You knew it wasn’t anybody you were familiar with, so what was even the point in responding?

Was that selfish of you? Yes.

Did you care? No.

You didn’t even want to open your eyes anyway—not after what you’d seen in that damn room.

The bodies.

The blood.

You wished your brain would wipe that away from your conscious like it had done with most things, but it hadn’t; guess it was picking and choosing what you could and couldn’t remember.

The hand shook you again, even harsher this time.

You would’ve ignored it like you had been doing for the past hour or so, but you were starting to get pissed off with people prying and poking at you.

“Take your fucking hands off me!” you scolded, smacking the hand away from your arm, your eyes flickering open at once.

There were four people gathered around you like you were somebody's newborn baby that they wanted to see.

“Woah,” one of the men protested, holding his hands up.

“Can you all back up?” You adjusted your position, your face twisting into one of complete annoyance. “Seriously.”

They all exchanged a glance with one another before they shuffled back, giving you your space.

Your eyes narrowed on each face, finally getting a good glance at them all.

Then you looked away with a scoff, your hand instinctively reaching for your pocket.

Searching for the photograph.

The lighter.

Only to be met with nothingness.

Empty.

“No, no, no,” you whispered to yourself, pulling yourself to your feet immediately to make sure that you hadn’t put them elsewhere on your person.

You hadn’t.

“Fuck!”

Daryl had given you that lighter in hopes that you’d remember something.

Anything.

The photograph was personal to you and now—

It was all gone like it had never been there in the first place.

Was it ever there?

Was it something your brain had made up?

No, you knew it was real.

You knew.

“She’s goddamn crazy!” A voice rang out from the corner of the train car.

“Don’t you ever call me crazy!” You shouted, your voice cracking. “Don’t ever—”

You couldn’t even finish your sentence; your breathing was completely out of control.

Sharp enough to sting your lungs and knock the words straight from you.

“I didn’t mean—” The man who’d called you crazy stepped forward.

You didn’t say anything back to him; you couldn’t.

The whole train car spun around you, and before you could stop yourself, you were throwing up whatever was remaining in your stomach.

Even if so little.

You wretched three more times before your back hit the wall.

The feeling of defeat succumbing to your chest.

Unwavering.

The tears poured from your eyes.

“We’re all gonna die,” you sobbed, your shoulder shaking. “We’re all gonna fucking die,”

Nobody spoke.

“I’m gonna die before I can even remember anything,” you cried out again, you were more or less talking to yourself now. “I’m gonna die before I even see if anyone else is alive.”

Nobody reassured you.

Nobody comforted you.

A blonde-haired woman crouched down before you, her face blurred beneath the fortitude of your tears as they streamed mercilessly down your face.

“You came with people?” She asked, her eyes tracking over your face.

You didn’t answer immediately, still half recovering. It was only when her hand hesitantly contacted your shoulder that you broke down yet again.

The words wouldn’t form.

Nothing formed.

“An Archer? A Samurai?” She questioned you again. “Ringleader and a Kid? Any of those…nicknames ring a bell to you?”

Your breath stilled.

Your brows furrowed together.

It took you a minute to realise what she was talking about and then—

It clicked.

“How do you—” You asked abruptly, yet you couldn’t get the question out properly.

She held a hand up, stopping your attempts.

“I’m positive they caused the chaos out there,” she started, her head lowering slightly. “That asshole Gareth put em in a train car.”

You should’ve guessed it.

Every last thought in your head halted, and all you wanted to do now was crawl into a ball and beg a higher power for safety.

For respite from the uncertainty.

Your eyes dragged towards the floor—patterns casting through your retinas; you couldn’t tell if they were real or not.

What was real anymore?

“And they’re alive?” You asked finally, adjusting yourself against the wall again.

“They’re alive,” she started, her eyes flickering away from yours. “I don’t know for how long though.”

You didn’t speak.

The silence filtered through the train car again.

Thick.

Suffocating.

It stayed like that until the light faded out from the gap and returned, signaling for the morning.

You were dragged from the car. A gag was shoved in your mouth and a cloth wrapped around your wrists.

Binding you to your fate.

A pig walking to its slaughter because, after all, that was all this was.

Humanity stripped to benefit the rumbling stomachs of those who viewed you as meat.

Meat and nothing more.

The gag snagged on the stitching in your cheek, pulling one of the wires loose from your flesh.

They didn’t care for the whine that followed; they just shoved you harder.

Why bother stitching you up if they were just going to kill you anyway?

A butcher-looking man lined you up over a sink, pushing your head towards the steel.

The bat struck before you could even process that he’d moved to another woman, the air exploding from a jugular as red spilled before your eyes.

You yelped through the material of the gag, scrambling backwards.

You didn’t get far.

How could you?

The butcher just shoved you straight back into place.

The bat swung again.

The crack of a skull.

More blood.

Rinse and repeat.

Then, you were next—the bat lined up in the centre of your skull.

You closed your eyes tightly, bracing for the blow, but it never came.

Gareth’s voice cut it off completely.

“Shot count?” Gareth questioned the butcher.

“24.”

Gareth’s figure became clear to you as your eyes snapped open; tears were watering at your eyes at this point.

Gareth nodded, noting the number down on a notepad.

“That asshole Rick in the other warehouse?” The butcher questioned.

Gareth nodded.

“Yeah. And the archer.”

His eyes crossed over towards yours after the words left his mouth, like he was rubbing it in your face that he’d caught Daryl.

This had been planned since the start, and that’s why he wouldn’t let Daryl come with you to the infirmary.

That’s why he separated you from the rest of the group and—

That’s why you had to come up with a plan.

You’d told yourself you weren’t dying before getting your memory completely back.

You couldn’t.

“Hey,” you spoke, your voice completely muffled under the material in your mouth. “Hey!”

Gareth rolled his eyes with a huff, making his way towards you and pulling the gag from your mouth.

“What?”

“I was bitten before I got here, y’know.”

A lie.

“I think that’s the amnesia talking.” Gareth mocked, his hand looping around the gag again to pull it back up.

You cut him off with your words before he could even do it properly.

“You really gonna risk serving up an infected person to your people?”

Gareth tilted his head, his eyes flickering up towards the butcher behind you.

Skeptical.

“We checked you.” He started, his eyes flickering back down towards yours. “No signs of being bitten.”

“Well…I don’t think you’ve checked hard enough.” You hissed.

You knew he wouldn’t risk serving up an infected person to his people. He wasn’t stupid enough to do that.

Gareth had gone dead silent, as had the butcher.

The panicked breaths of the other women were the only noise that filtered through the warehouse now.

A beat.

“Check her.” Gareth addressed the butcher, stepping back from you. “I’m going to go and check shot counts in the other warehouse.”

The other warehouse…

God, you hoped Rick or Daryl had formed a plan because if it was just you getting out of this…

You’d never live with yourself.

Then—

Gareth was gone, his footsteps echoing slightly until they filtered out.

The butcher pulled you back from the sink, turning you around to face him. He crouched before you, checking over you, pulling your shirt up and checking over your stomach.

His hands were rough, so much so that you nearly flinched.

What kind of butcher wasn’t delicate with their meat?

He moved back slightly, looking at you properly, almost as if he knew you were lying.

“It’s on my thigh.” You uttered quickly, trying to gain more time to figure out what you’d do next.

He didn’t say anything, still studying you.

“You might want to cut through the material of my jeans,” you added through the silence. “It’s on the outer side on the right.”

Another lie.

Deceit.

A beat.

“You better not be lying, girl,” he muttered, pulling his knife from its pouch and shuffling closer towards you; he was mere inches from you, his exposed arm resting just at the side of your head against the steel.

You knew what you had to do, and you weren’t going to wait for another chance.

You let out a shaky breath and then—

Your teeth sunk into the flesh of his forearm so hard that you could’ve sworn you met bone.

Blood spewed from the opening, spewing straight on to your face.

The butcher fell to the floor, the seven stages of panic washing over his face before the tears began falling from his eyes.

You didn’t feel an inch of empathy.

How could you?

You spat the flesh from your mouth, pieces of it still clinging between your teeth almost as if it were a trophy.

“You bitch!” The butcher cried out, clutching onto his forearm for dear life.

You didn’t take any notice of his insults; instead, you maneuvered closer, pushing yourself into a sitting position rather than a kneeling one.

Your boot immediately found its way to his crotch area, applying pressure.

“Throw the knife over to me now,” you firmed.

He didn’t move for a minute, like he was testing just how far you’d go with this.

“Do it now or I swear I’ll stomp down on your balls so fucking hard that—”

“Alright!” he panted, chucking the knife over to you. “Alright!”

Coward.

It was almost amusing having a man jump to following your orders when you threatened to crush the one thing they admired most.

Pathetic.

You shuffled over, struggling to get a good grasp on the handle due to the restraints around your wrists.

When you finally managed—

The cloth met the silver and surrendered immediately, splitting into two halves.

You picked yourself up, angling the knife out towards the butcher.

“Don’t you dare move.”

He nodded quickly.

Now you had the upper hand.

You moved again, cutting through the material that bound the two other women.

Their gratitude came in bursts, and before you could even reply—

An explosion shook through the room, knocking you off your balance completely.

“What the hell was that?!” The butcher cried, still clutching his arm, the blood seeping through his fingers.

You didn’t respond but you were thinking the exact same thing.

What was that?

Your eyes dragged towards the pair of women at your side.

“You all need to get—”

Another explosion rattled through the warehouse again, louder this time.

Fuck.

The sound of gunfire followed, and it was then you knew that something bad was going on outside.

Or good.

It just depended on whether it was their people or your people who had the upper hand in it.

You just hoped deep down that the others had managed to get out because you felt like doing something…

Reckless.

Maybe that guy who’d called you crazy was right.

Maybe this head injury was creating a new side to you.

“You all need to get out.” You panted, finally able to get your words out though disturbed by the firing outside.

“What about you?” A blonde-haired woman enquired, her voice shaking with every word that left her mouth.

You needed that lighter back.

“I’m going to go and look for something.” You answered.

“But—”

“Just go.” You finalised, your tone harsher than you’d meant it to be.

The two women looked at you with a sense of hesitation in their eyes.

“Please…” you spoke quieter this time.

They took another glance over you before they darted immediately.

You turned the knife back on the butcher as soon as it was just you and him in the room.

“Where do you keep the things you steal?”

“It’s—” he sighed, clearly embarrassed with himself that he’d gotten in this position. “It’s just out of that door on your left...”

You nodded.

“Great.”

Then—

You crouched down and pressed the knife hard into his chest.

You’d rather he turn than kill him; he didn’t deserve such high treatment.

Not when he would’ve killed you in the blink of an eye and had you for his supper.

The door creaked open, the smell of tar hitting you instantly before the dead bodies made themselves known to your eyes.

Dozens of walkers pushed through the lot that’d been clear beforehand.

This wasn’t coincidental; you knew that now.

A sharp throbbing pain washed through your head again before it fluttered towards the open stitching on your cheek.

Maybe you needed to slow down.

No.

What a stupid thought.

How could you slow down?

You continued through the building, as the butcher had said, your eyes falling on the array of different weapons on both sides of the room.

You found yourself searching for Daryl’s crossbow first even though you’d originally come in here for the lighter.

It was almost as if it were second nature to seek him out in everything.

Through inanimate objects and presence that didn’t belong to you.

To make sure he was safe.

You didn’t know if that was new territory to you or if it was something you’d always done before.

You wished you could’ve remembered.

The crossbow sat idle on one of the tables, Your engraved knife sat just by it. The blade just touched the metal framing of the bow, gaining contact, gaining something, even if so little.

You trailed your hands once over the engraving before they crossed over to the crossbow; the cool metal felt grounding against your touch, almost making you forget everything outside.

And when a glimpse of a memory

pricked its way through, the sharp bang from gunfire outside cut it off as though it weren't allowed.

Your jaw clenched.

Your throat closed up.

“Please…” you begged to your own mind, your voice barely above a whisper. “Just remember.”

Nothing.

The tears threatened to spill, yet nothing came out. You’d already cried enough.

There were no tears left to fall.

You had to keep searching.

You moved towards the personal belongings now, eyes flickering over everything.

Teddy bears.

Beaten-up wallets.

Then—

Bingo.

The lighter.

The photograph.

Both sat slightly obscured behind the mass of belongings like they were dying for refuge and—

You didn’t waste a single second giving them that refuge, shoving both items back into the pocket that they had been in before.

Still holding onto that hope through and through.

Even if it put you in danger.

Even if it resulted in nothing.

Because—

Remembering meant more than anything else to you right now.

More than the fighting.

More than surviving.

And that’s why you’d become a liability to the others if you went back.

You couldn’t go back.

Not to Rick nor Michonne nor Carl.

Not to…Daryl.

Because…

What was a girl to them if she’d already been dammed from the start?

Rick said there was nothing wrong with you, trying to save you from that turmoil of your loss of identity.

Save you from your loss of everything.

You couldn’t be…

Saved.

This world had already decided that.

You were a liability to them, and you wouldn’t risk their lives in an attempt to receive comfort.

You couldn’t go back.

Your hands trembled slightly as they skimmed over the piles of belongings again, searching for something in particular, and just as if the world were pushing this initiative to you—

You found it.

Paper and pen.

Gunfire sparked again from outside.

The pen found its way to your shaking hand before it met the paper; you knew who you’d write to despite not knowing the rest.

————

Daryl,

If you're reading this, then it means you’ve made it out of this place, and I hope you’ve got the others with you. I figure I’m writing this to you directly because you’re the one that I can remember most.

I want to be on my own whilst I figure myself out again. I hope you can understand that or at least try to understand it.

I’ve still got the lighter, and I'm taking it with me. I think it’s the only thing that might lead me back to remembering. I know it meant something or you wouldn’t have given it to me.

If I remember, then I’ll come and find you. I promise.

Tell the others I’m sorry even though I know they will all be reading this from this piece of paper.

Thank you for everything I’m sure you’ve done for me.

Please don’t come looking for me.

————

A tear splashed onto the paper, smudging your name as you signed it off. This felt like a goodbye, and you weren’t sure if it was yet.

Was the letter even enough? It sure didn’t feel like it as you looked down at it now.

Was this the right thing to do? Was this selfish?

Your boots moved before you could even decide; you folded the letter up twice before you eased it through a gap in the metal of Daryl’s crossbow.

Half secure.

Half not.

Your hand lingered over the metal for a moment before more gunfire pulled you back.

You couldn’t waste time dwelling on your decision, not when the hoard outside was growing larger with every second.

Not when every second you stood still made you doubt everything you’d just done.

Your fingers slipped away from the crossbow, crossing over towards a rogue AK-47 that lay just beside it.

You threw the strap over your shoulder.

Then—

You hesitated slightly when your fingers fell over your knife once again; you probably should’ve taken it with you but…

You didn't.

You left it lingering in the same spot by the crossbow—you’d rather it be a parting gift.

Then you were out of that room, firing a line into walkers that dared to come too close.

Your boots thudded against the floor as you ran for a gap in the fencing round the back of Terminus.

You didn’t stop.

You just ran like you always did.

Running to face your problems face-first, yet this time…

Alone.

A/N: No Daryl this chapter😥 BUT, DARYL POV NEXT CHAPTER HEHEHE. I’m so excited omg😩

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the Taglist!🖤

You are standing on the roof of the White House, above the Truman balcony, wanting to kick your shoes off, but needing to play the host for just a little longer. This is your second Fourth of July in the White House and you thought you knew what to expect, but you are happy to be wrong, because the fireworks are impossibly brighter and more wonderful this year, the celebrations more grand, and you’re shoulder to shoulder with your husband, hands entwined as the dazzling show plays out before you over the South Lawn.

It’s breathtaking.

And so is he. Still. Always.

The grand finale erupts overhead, a cascading symphony of red, white, and blue that paints the night sky in impossible, starburst glory. You can feel the percussion in your chest, reverberating through the soles of your shoes, and you tip your head back to watch the last brilliant volley streak upward and burst into a thousand glittering silver and gold tendrils that drift lazily toward the earth.

Then jubilant cheers and applause and the faint, sweet smell of smoke and the distant roar of the crowd on the lawn below, cheering, waving, singing.

You turn to Steve, a smile already blooming on your lips, ready to say something about how beautiful it was, but he's already looking at you, and his eyes are doing that thing—that thing they've done since the very first kiss you shared, the real one, in Kansas City, that thing where the whole world seems to narrow to the blue of his gaze and the impossible softness of his mouth.

He pulls you close.

One hand slides to the small of your back, warm and certain through the fabric of your dress, and the other rises to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing the apple of your cheek as if he can't quite believe you're real, as if he needs to check. And you have to admit there are moments you still can’t quite believe yourself that this is your life, these moments, and him. The night air is still thick with the scent of gunpowder and summer heat, and the last of the silver sparks are drifting down behind him like slow, glittering rain, and you have just enough time to think oh before his mouth finds yours.

It's quick. It has to be quick—you're standing on the roof of the White House, surrounded by friends and aides and a few dignitaries, Secret Service agents with their earpieces. But it's enough. It's always enough. His lips are warm and a little dry from the evening air, and he kisses you the way he kisses you when he's happy, which is to say with his whole heart, like there's nothing else in the world worth his attention, like the presidency and the country and the fireworks are all very nice, but they are not this.

You kiss him back. Of course, you kiss him back, placing your hand over his heart.

When he pulls away, it's only an inch, his forehead resting against yours, and you can feel him smiling. You can feel the shape of it against your mouth before you see it, and your own smile is bursting for him, too.

"Happy Fourth, Mrs. Rogers," he murmurs, and his voice is low and rough in that way that it has no business being right at this moment.

"Happy birthday, Mr. President," you whisper back, and he laughs, a quiet, rumble before the two of you break apart and turn to face the small crowd with you on the roof.

And there they are—the faces you've come to know so well, the ones that make this house feel less like a museum and more like a home, or at least as close to one as you can get here. Ambassador Chen from Taiwan, laughing with the German trade minister. Sophia, sharp as ever in her midnight blue, already catching your eye with that knowing, slightly smug look she gets whenever she catches the two of you being soft with each other. Senator Nakamura, who flew in from Honolulu just for this. Colonel Rhodes, grinning like he's about to make a joke he absolutely should not make in mixed company.

You move through them like water, because you've gotten good at this—good at the handshake that lingers just long enough, the murmured thank you for coming that sounds like you mean it, because you do. You mean all of them. Steve is circulating as well, but you’re both being led by your aides toward the exit, aiming to get you into the Residence as quickly as possible because you both have packed days tomorrow (as ever).

Back inside, you kick off your heels in the elevator and breathe, sinking into Steve’s side as your small phalanx of staffers peels away, each murmuring quick good-nights and peeling off down the Residential Corridor, exhausted and slightly tipsy.

He bumps your shoulder with his, sly and crooked in a way that tells you he’s been waiting all night to be alone with you. He reaches for your heels, and you let him take them for the short walk down the hall and into your borrowed home.

The next minutes are a tangle of hands and laughter, breathless and urgent, your dress falling to the carpet with a sound like wings beating, his tie left hanging somewhere between the elevator and the bedroom. You are giddy and graceless, all eager to be together, just the two of you.

He kisses you until your knees go watery, but never letting you falter, guiding you backwards until the back of your thighs catch on the edge of the mattress. You tumble together, the bedspread starched and crisp beneath your palms and knees, and then the world narrows down to calloused hands and the hush of his laughter and the feeling, always, that you are safe. The dim lamplight gilds the curve of his shoulders, the roughness that’s come into his voice as he pulls your name from the space between your mouths. He tastes like bourbon and wild honey from the refreshments at the party, just enough to loosen the lines of his day.

You drag him closer by the lapels, hungry for the taste of him. You pull him down and roll, greedy, pinning him beneath you. His tie is gone; you’re not sure when, but you feel the press of his hands at your waist, guiding you in a slow, grinding circle that makes you gasp. You forget to breathe as you tangle your hands in his hair and let him kiss you dizzy. He’s already undone the buttons of his shirt one-handed, and you help him push it off his shoulders, so you have the skin of his arms beneath your palms. He’s golden and warm, his heart beating under your fingers like a secret. There’s a lightning-bolt thrill each time he murmurs your name. You want to bottle this, this slice of private time in a life where you so rarely get to keep anything for yourselves, and you want to uncork it every time the day-to-day feels a little too heavy.

He traces the line of your jaw, thumbing your chin up and examining you. "You've been different all day," he says, quietly, not accusing, just curious. "Not off, just…something on your mind?"

He’s not wrong. You laugh, because you can’t help it, because how could he possibly have noticed, because you’ve tried to be so careful. But of course he did. “Yes, there’s something.”

He sits up, pulls you into his lap, and you tangle your knees around his waist, greedy for the press of his body. You take a breath, not to arm yourself, but to gather him in. This is a moment you’ve waited for all day, and it’s a moment you know the two of you will remember for the rest of your lives.

“It’s Independence Day and your birthday, and so, so much of today was about everyone else, but I wanted to save one thing for just us.” You run your hands up his chest, and you can feel the way his muscles tense, just a little, the way he always does when he senses something is about to change. His hands go still at your waist. He looks at you the way he looked at you on your wedding day—that same unguarded, ungoverned look, the one that has no presidential composure in it whatsoever.

You swallow, suddenly giddy with nerves, but you try to keep your voice steady as you tell him, “We’re going to have a baby.”

For a moment he’s silent, holding you so tightly you are certain he’s the only thing keeping you from flying off this bed and straight through the window into the dark and dazzling sky now that your stomach is completely aflutter with butterflies - your whole chest really. Steve opens his mouth, then closes it, startled as you’ve ever seen him, caught utterly off guard, and the surge of joy in his eyes is so bright you almost have to look away.

He laughs, choked and astonished, and cups your face with both hands, searching you for the truth even as he repeats your words back to you, as if you’ve cast an unbreakable spell. “We’re—are you—are you sure?” he whispers, and you nod, and in less than a heartbeat he is kissing you everywhere—your forehead, your cheeks, your jaw, the tip of your nose, your lips, your collarbone, drawing your fingers to his lips.

“I wasn’t sure at first. The first test I took was negative. But then I took four more—yesterday being the most recent—and all the rest have been positive. I’ll need to have an official one from our medical team, but this is how normal people try to figure it out, and I wanted to at least start that way.”

“Say it again,” he whispers, and there’s something raw and vulnerable in it that makes your own eyes sting.

You say it again, just for him, and its warmer and easier the second time. “We’re going to have a baby.”

He tugs you close, a long, slow drag of his palms up your spine, and his mouth finds you again, velvet and open and as gentle as if you’re already breakable. You can feel the words he isn’t saying in every touch, every line of his body, every hush of breath against your lips. The rest of the world can wait awhile longer. The future, the headlines, the meetings and luncheons and the never-ending security briefings—they’re so far away. Tonight, it’s just the two of you.

You’re still in his lap and you want to stay there, anchored by his arms, held in place by the gravity of him. Just Steve, the curve of his neck under your hands, the soft light making gold of his hair and blue fire of his eyes and the clean, clean taste of his mouth.

He slides his palms up your thighs, slow and reverent. You feel the calluses catch on the delicate skin behind your knees, then up the slopes of your thighs. Your whole body is tuned to the gentle sweep of his hands, the warmth of his breath against the hollow of your throat.

Steve shifts you in his lap, sliding his cock into your warm and waiting cunt, and your legs find their place around him, heel pressed to the hard muscle of his lower back, hips flush.

You rock together, slow and steady, as if this new knowledge has rewired the both of you, as if every part of Steve that has ever belonged to you is suddenly magnified, gifted back to you in triplicate. He moves inside you as if your bodies are completing unfinished sentences.

You clutch his shoulders and ride him, slow and deep and close, the sounds of your bodies punctuating the quiet as you move together, breath and heartbeat and the little desperate noises you can never hold back from him. His hands travel the length of your back, every unhurried pass softening the landscape of you. The window is open just a crack and summer air pulses in, humid and electric, thick with city sounds and the far-off echo of festivities still unfolding for a thousand strangers. But here, in this room, everything is slow, thick, sweet, nothing but devotion.

He groans, burying his face in your shoulder, and you feel the shape of his smile against your skin, the press of his teeth where he bites back a more urgent moan. You want to laugh, to cry, to collapse and never move again. He moves his hands to your hips, slowing you even more, keeping you close while his mouth traces up along your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth, your ear.

“I love you,” he says, a promise and a benediction. “I love you so much.”

You clutch him even closer, saying as much back, pouring it into his big heart, and time doubles back on itself, collecting all the nights that led you here: sprawled on a mattress in a St. Louis walk-up, or in Colorado Springs when you were snowed in during the state’s Clean Energy initiative tour, and even sometimes in the backseat of an electric SUV of a Secret Service motor pool. You could have lived a thousand lives and never guessed at this particular happiness, this improbable ending: you and Steve, knotted together in the gleam of a presidential bedroom, a future unspooling inside you, somehow as terrifying and bright as fireworks.

You spend the rest of the night lying together on the sheets, his arm curled around your waist, your hands splayed together with each other over your stomach; his full chest pressed tight to your back, the long, slow breathing of him on a slow, rising tide of emotion you aren’t sure you understand, or ever want to. There’s a secret, quiet sense of being at the exact center of the world that’s only the two of you and the baby on the way. At least for a while.

You drift in and out of sleep, and each time you wake, Steve’s hand is where it left off, thumb brushing circles low on your belly, as if by touch alone he could will the newness of what you told him into the marrow of himself.

As dawn slips in, painting the suite with the faintest gold, you shift slightly, and Steve murmurs, “You awake?” against your neck.

“Mm. Barely.”

He nuzzles in deeper, his beard tickling your neck, and you squirm and turn around to face him. “Did you even sleep?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Not really,” he admits, voice gone hoarse and quiet. “Kept worrying I’d wake up and it wouldn’t be real. You’re here, though.”

“Mhmm, you’re stuck with me.”

You kiss his brow and let your hand run through the gold of his hair, musing at what a child of his might look like. You picture the bright blue of his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw, and, despite yourself, the impossible hope that the world you’re building together will be even marginally kind to someone so new and small.

Steve pulls you into his chest, folding your whole body into his, and you melt.

"When I woke up in this century," he begins, his voice low and intimate, "I thought I'd lost my chance at this kind of happiness. I resigned myself to being a man out of time, always looking back at what might have been." His thumb traces gentle over your stomach, soft whispers of his hope.

“I felt untethered, but you are the anchor my soul needed.”

Your throat aches, and you’re not sure what to say because your heart is so full. As much as he’s clear about his devotion to you, it’s reciprocated note for note from your heart. Everything you two have built—the relationship, the purpose, the passion, the drive, the community of people around you—moved your post-blip return from average to a life of vibrancy you also thought you’d never find again.

“I only ever told Bucky I was considering it, but since we figured out time travel to bring everyone back, there was a time I weighed going back to the forties or fifties, but now I thank everything in my bones that I didn’t. I would have missed so much. Even the hard parts, even the hurt, I’d choose all of it to find us.”

It’s a strange, buoyant sadness that washes through you, an ache for the lives you both were supposed to have and the astonishing joy of the one you’re building now, brick by brick, night by night, and dream by dream.

You thread your hand through his, squeezing, letting the gravity of his words swirl through your psyche. “Good, because there’s no one else I would ever want to do this with—not just this,” you gesture to the presidential trappings you live in, “but this,” and you let your hands rest together, gentle on your belly, both of you quietly marveling at the shift in your world.

“I’ll never be able to say it enough, but I love you, Steve. Always.”

Instead of more words, he says it back with another searing kiss.

Once dawn has broken and the two of you are side by side in the bathroom, brushing your teeth, moving through your morning routines, Steve frowns, and you catch the knit of his brow in the mirror. “What’s that consternation for all of a sudden?”

“How did you get not just one, but multiple pregnancy tests smuggled in without a soul finding out?”

You grin. “Sophia.”

Steve scoffs and shakes his head, his scowl turning sarcastic. “She’s supposed to be my personal secretary.”

“And she staffed me on the campaign first,” you remind him. “I’m convinced she only accepted your offer so she could keep you in line and spy on you for me.”

“She doesn’t even pretend to have plausible deniability,” he mutters, rinsing his mouth. “Busted me on a whole security briefing last week when she caught me stashing Reese’s in my desk. I’m the President—” he says this with faux outrage, like he still doesn’t quite believe it, “yet she controls the candy flow and now, apparently, the pharmacy.”

You spit your own minty mouthful. “A First Lady’s job is never done, and I can’t help it if I’ve got the best co-conspirator.” The two of you share a look in the mirror—a look that says God, what have we gotten into—and then there is a knock at the bedroom door, sharp and brisk.

Steve’s head drops with a groan. “Five minutes,” you call, and trade glance with your husband, resignation and amusement in equal measure.

It’s Jake calling into the master suite, “Sir, the British Prime Minister’s advance team just arrived and we have a briefing with the Joint Chiefs at 09:15 but we will need to move your security detail to accommodate the updated press pool, and—”

“Roger that,” Steve calls back.

You holler “Thanks, Jake,” into the hallway, and before you can even turn back to Steve and finish rinsing your mouth, he’s close behind you, arms caging you between the counter and his chest, both of you reflected twice in the gilded mirror.

His chin hooks your shoulder, his lips finding the sensitive skin just below your ear, and you nearly drop your the hairbrush you’ve reached for into the sink. “Come here,” he says, as if you aren’t bodily pressed against him, as if he could ever actually want you closer.

You smile at him in the mirror because you can’t not, and the whole reflection is so absurdly domestic—yesterday’s confetti still in your hair, his shirt unbuttoned just below the collar, the two of you framed by White House marble and gilt. “We are going to be late for your entire country,” you warn, but you let him wrap you up anyway.

“Let them wait,” he says, but he steps aside after a final, scandalous little nuzzle, letting you go. He’s a man who never shirks responsibility, and you know that to be true in every part of his life. You can’t wait to explore a new chapter with him.

I LOVE THEM, I LOVE THEM, I LOVE THEM! So soft and so fluffy here, but I still love this AU so much. 🥹 ❤️🤍💙

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