no halo

You found thermos inside the cabinets at home, you cleaned it a bit and filled it with the dark brew liquid. The scent made your mouth water, but you were aware you couldn’t drink coffee now. Then, you tugged your coat tighter around you as you crossed through Jackson, boots crunching in the snow. The wind bit at your cheeks, turning them pink, but with your fingers wrapped around the thermos, warmth spread through your veins.

You found Joel at the house he’d been working on, hammering at a frame with the help of Tommy, a few others scattered around the site. The place was barely a house yet, wood stacked and windows not even set, but Joel was there, sleeves rolled up over his flannel.

You lingered for a second, just taking a look of him. Focusing on the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the little grunt he made when something didn’t line up right. You were so in love with him it made your chest hurt sometimes.

He was too focused he didn’t even notice you right away. Not until you called out.

“Hey, Miller.”

He looked up at the sound, and his face softened the moment he saw you. That small, personal smile he got just for you.

“What are you doing out here, sweetheart? You’ll freeze your ass off.”

You held up the thermos with a grin, “Oh, I just brought you a little gift for you.”

Joel’s brow arched in amusement as he set the hammer down and walked over to you. You uncapped the lid, letting the steam curl up between you, and his eyes went wide when the scent hit him.

“Did you bring me—"

“Real coffee, yes.” You replied, not getting a chance to hide a grin. “I traded something for it this morning. I know how much you missed a good cup of coffee.”

For a second, he stood there without saying anything. Just stared at you like he still couldn’t believe you were his girl. The woman he had devoted his life to for the last years.

Without a warning, his hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you in for a kiss that tasted like snow, cold and the taste of coffee because when he pulled away, his forehead rested on your neck, planting a kiss over your it.

“You’re a miracle.”

You laughed softly. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. This shit’s expensive.”

He chuckled, taking a sip from the thermos, groaning in pleasure like it was the first good thing he’d tasted in his life.

“Goddamn it.”

You smiled, watching him like it was the only thing keeping your body warm.

“I thought you need it. Winter is only getting worse and colder.”

His eyes softened, a thumb brushing over your cold cheek. “As long as I got you, baby, I can get through any winter.”

You leaned on his palm, kissing the back of his hand, sealing a promise you both had made to each other.

I’m always going to be there,

I’m always going to have your back,

until the day death tears us apart.

Jackson, present day

You barely remembered the walk home. Your legs had stumbled more than three times and your tears didn’t stop falling.

The cold bit at your skin, the world blurring past you like it wasn’t really there. The ache in your chest wasn’t sadness settled there anymore but rage. A vicious, clawing thing that crawled up your throat and made your hands shake as you slammed the door behind you.

You made it to the bedroom before it burst out of you.

A lamp went first, shattering against the floor with a satisfying crack just as the sound of your heart. Then the chair by the window, the one Joel used to sit in when he couldn’t sleep. You grabbed the small wooden carving Joel had been working on the week before the attack, and it hit the wall so hard the pieces splintered across the floor like scattered bones.

Your hand bled where a sharp edge caught your palm, but you didn’t feel it.

You reached for the framed picture by the bed, the one taken in Jackson months ago. You standing beside him, his arm around your waist, both of you caught in a rare, unguarded moment of laughter.

The glass shattered beneath your grip. The frame clattered to the floor.

For a second, just a second, your hand hovered, and something in your chest begged you to stop.

But it was drowned out by the storm roaring in your blood.

And when it was done, when there was nothing left to throw or break, you slid down against the wall, knees pulled to your chest, hands trembling.

The pain on your chest increased with each breath. It felt like a bruising mark had settled there in the middle of your sternum, it even felt like some pair of hands tightening around your heart until every fiber of it was hurting your body, taking your life out, your breath and you will of living.

Some pairs of hands you never thought they would even hurt you.

Joel’s hands, Joel’s words, Joel’s second chance of living.

Everything you had done. Everything you had lost…Grieving the death of somebody who wasn’t dead. Someone who was alive but felt like breathing reeking air.

You could come to touch him but not to caress him anymore?

How big was the damage you had done to him to make him hate you this much to push you away as if your closeness had burnt his skin, his broken bones.

The tears couldn’t stop falling. You stood up, walking towards the closet where you kept the test and onesie hidden beneath your clothes.

You had never wanted to become a mother. In fact, you had never thought about it. This world was too cruel to bring little babies to it. To have their innocence stolen or tainted by creeps committing horrors.

Joel had also gotten older. Being a father again at his age wasn’t part of his plans and you knew it, but nature didn’t stop because the world has it. But for him, being a father again wouldn’t be a source of happiness when the girl he had taken as a daughter and committed more than thousand of mistakes to keep her alive, didn’t want to be close to him.

That had scared you that much you couldn’t utter the truth for weeks.

But the moment you had found the truth, the idea of holding a baby, your own baby, started to consume your thoughts. You had started dreaming of it, of the life growing inside you. About how that baby would look like.

And that was the exact moment you had become a mother. ´

You could remember one day patrolling with Joel, and as usual, he didn’t allow you to be paired with another person who wasn’t him. Not that you complained. In the way, the both of you found a store you decided to scavenged, expecting to find something that would serve to community.

Joel was busy roaming some old stuff that would help him to fix something at home, while your gaze had lingered over a little onesie hidden under some worn out papers.

The same one you were holding now, yellow with a duck in the middle of it.

You had become a mother and you hadn’t had the chance to taste it and you couldn’t help but ask yourself a constant why.

Why you?

Why him?

Why the baby?

What have you done to lose them both?

You came back to the room but it felt too quiet now, too strange. It was too cold for you now. You sat on the ground by the bed and you started crying, but not the silent one. The kind of crying that came with tears no one couldn’t hide.

 It was a sob that tore out of you in ragged, broken sobs, your chest heaving like it was being split open.

The tears weren’t just for Joel but for everything you had gain and lost in a flicker of time. For what you’d lost. For what you still had. And for the awful truth that loving Joel Miller would never be easy.

The last remnants of twilight slipped through the window, broken glass catching the last of the light like dying stars.

Perhaps they weren’t the only losing the spark.

After going to hell and clawing your way back. After sleepless nights at his side, after forcing breath inside his book, with blood-stained hands. After watching him fight for every inch of life he didn’t want, while you begged the universe not to take him from you.

And in the middle of all that, you lost that tiny baby.

A tiny life that you hadn’t even let yourself imagine until it was gone. And no one knew. No one but Tommy and Maria. And you’d buried it so deep, let the grief fester beneath your skin, because there was no room for grief when Joel was dying.

But now, sitting there on the floor of your now ruined bedroom, surrounded by the wreckage of the quiet life you had built with him, the weight of it hit you like heavy force.

There was gnawing fear that maybe Joel Miller wasn’t coming back.

At least, not to you.

The house was dark, save for the weak, flickering light glowing from the window.

Ellie hesitated at the front door, her stomach twisting in that way it did when something wasn’t right. She wasn’t even sure what had brought her here, maybe the quiet stillness, maybe the aching pull in her gut that told her to check. She hadn’t been here much since she moved into the garage behind. Since everything had changed.

The door creaked open under her hand.

“Hello?” she called out your name, softly, but no one answered.

The stairs groaned beneath her weight as she climbed, the flicker of light guiding her like a warning. And then she reached the bedroom.

Glass crunched under her boots. The room was wrecked, drawers pulled out, shattered picture frames. And in the middle of it all, you sat on the floor, your back against the bed, face buried in your hands, shoulders trembling with the kind of grief Ellie hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Shit,” Ellie whispered, rushing forward and dropping to her knees beside you.

“Hey—hey, it’s me,” she said, voice rough as she reached for your wrists, trying to pry your hands away so she could see your face. “Talk to me. Please. Hey, please.”

But you just shook your head, a sob left your throat, while tears streaked your cheeks.

“I can’t…” you choked out.

And for the first time since she had met you, Ellie felt something crack open in her chest. She’d spent all these weeks worrying about Joel, she hadn’t seen how bad it had gotten for you too. How lost you seemed, how your eyes were nothing but a reflection of sadness.

Without another word, Ellie pulled you into her arms, holding you like Joel used to hold her when the world outside was throwing pebbles at her.

“I got you,” she whispered against your hair as if her words could soothe you into a lullaby, in a way a daughter must console her mother the first time you saw her breaking in front of you the realization that her isn’t an indestructible hero.

You didn’t even hear or flinch when Tommy and Maria came inside the room. You didn’t say a word when they gently coaxed you to your feet. Ellie stood back by the door, arms crossed tight around herself, her face pale as she took in the mess you had made.

And you, there with your hands bloodied, a yellow onesie crumpled in your fist like a scrap of hope you didn’t know you were still holding onto.

Maria stood beside you, her face etched with concern, one hand reaching for your wrist. She sucked in a breath.

“You cut yourself pretty bad,” she murmured, brushing gently at the drying blood.

You just looked past her, no crying, no speaking. There was something eerie about it, about the dead quiet in your expression. Like the light behind your eyes had gone out, and no one knew how to bring it back.

Tommy exchanged a look with Maria, something heavy without words between them. Ellie saw it, felt it settle in the pit of her stomach like a stone.

“You’re coming home with us,” Tommy said softly, like he was telling a wounded animal it was okay to come out of hiding. “We’ll clean up the-”

“The mess I made,” you finished, voice flat, detached, and it made Ellie’s stomach twist.

She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but her eyes fell to the scrap of fabric clenched in your hand. The tiny onesie. It was old, worn soft from time, a faded duck stitched onto the chest.

Ellie’s throat tightened. She hadn’t known, but now she understood.

She stepped closer; her voice quiet, thick. “Hey… can I… can I hold that for you?”

But you didn’t even look at her. Just kept staring out the window as if something far beyond it was pulling you away.

Tommy gently pried the fabric from your fingers, and Ellie took it, holding it to her chest like it was the most fragile thing in the world. She felt her own eyes sting.

Maria helped you to your feet, one arm around your shoulders. “We’ll get you cleaned up,” she murmured.

And as they led you out of the ruined room, downstairs to the kitchen. Ellie stayed behind a moment longer, holding the onesie tight in her hands, the weight of what you’d lost settling over her like a second skin.

The warm sting of water hit your hands as Maria guided them under the tap. The blood had dried, leaving dark stains in the creases of your skin, around your fingernails. You didn’t flinch when the water touched the cuts.

You said nothing. Just stared at the wall behind her like it held some answer you couldn’t quite see.

Maria’s hands were soft, careful as she dabbed at the cut with a clean cloth.

“You should let me stich this one,” she murmured, like speaking any louder might shatter what little you had left.

Out in the hallway, Ellie stood with Tommy, the dim light from the kitchen bleeding across the floor between them. She clutched the tiny onesie in both hands, her fingers fisting in the soft fabric.

“Is she…?” Ellie’s voice cracked, and she didn’t finish the question.

Tommy let out a long, tired breath, leaning one shoulder against the wall. He scrubbed a hand down his face before shaking his head, his voice low and rough.

“She lost it that night.”

Ellie’s stomach twisted. “What night?”

Ellie’s throat closed up, her chest aching sharp and tight. “And nobody told me?”

Tommy’s eyes flickered toward the bathroom where Maria worked in silence. He swallowed hard.

“The night we brought Joel back. Yes, she was pregnant. None of us knew. She lost the baby when she got here.”

Tommy looked at her then, his gaze softening. “It wasn’t about you, kid. It was hers to carry.”

Ellie looked down at the onesie in her hands, stained by the blood of your hands, her eyes stinging at the thought of the storm you’d been drowning in. The hollow in your chest. The way you hadn’t been able to let Joel go, because you’d already lost too much.

That maybe the blood in it was the closest thing you have had to caress the baby that should be wearing that in a few more months.

Her thumb ran over the soft, faded stitching of the onesie clutched in her hands. She could still hear the distant sound of water, the quiet murmur of Maria’s voice, trying to coax you back from wherever you’d gone.

She swallowed hard. “Does Joel know?”

Tommy’s jaw worked, his eyes dark and lined with exhaustion. He shook his head, a weight behind the gesture. “No,” he said quietly. “And he won’t. Not yet.”

Ellie’s throat tightened. “But he should—”

“I said no.” Tommy’s voice was firmer now, though it wasn’t mad. He was just tired. “He is not in any place to carry that. Not with the way things are between then, and not while he’s looking for reasons to push her away.”

Ellie bit her lip, blinking fast. “Maybe this it’s the reason he shouldn’t.”

Tommy’s gaze softened a little. “Maybe. But people like us… sometimes we don’t get to heal things in the right order.”

Ellie glanced down at the onesie again, her grip tightening. The house felt too still, too quiet, a space heavy with things unsaid.

Boston QZ. 6 years ago

The apartment was too quiet when Joel got back. The thrum of soldiers passing by, talking’s, FEDRA looming over, it was all swallowed up by a stillness that made his skin crawl.

Tess was sitting by the door, with her arms crossed tight over her chest, and there was something in her eyes that snapped every nerve in Joel’s body to attention.

“Where is she?” he asked, already moving past her before the words even left his mouth.

Tess caught his arm. “I gave her something to sleep,” she said carefully, her voice softer than he was used to hearing it. “You don’t want to-”

But he was already inside the bedroom. And there you were, curled under blanket on that old bed, a faint swell of bruises marking your cheek, your lip split. The dim light made your face look paler than it should’ve been, but you were breathing. You were here, that was the most important thing for him.

Joel’s knees hit the floor by your side. He reached out with calloused fingers, brushing your hair back from your face, his touch so gentle it barely stirred the strands.

“Jesus, baby…” he rasped, swallowing hard. “Who did this to you?”

Your eyelids fluttered open at his voice, hazy and slow from whatever Tess had slipped you. And when your gaze found him, even though the busted lip, you smiled, faintly.

“Joel,” you whispered.

“Hi, baby.” He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m here. I got you.”

And in that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the filth outside these walls, not the people who’d done this to you, not the bloody trail Joel would leave in his wake come morning. Only this. Only you.

“The thing went wrong” you murmured, emphasizing the “thing.” When it came to you, he was always protective. He didn’t like you were doing his business by yourself, not because he didn’t trust you or thought you weren’t good by yourself, but because he couldn’t prevent.  

“I can see.” he told you, brushing your cheek with his fingertips. “Rest, baby. I got you.” He kept caressing the skin there until your eyes closed again.

“I’m always going to be next to you, baby.”

Jackson, hospital, present time.

The transition between winter and spring was going slow, the grey of the days bleed through the blinds in thin, reluctant slants. Joel woke up to the sharp, familiar ache on his chest, the one that made his breath difficult to leave his lungs. His heart felt heavy.

His hand instinctively moved to his side, expecting the familiar warmth, the weight of your head resting there the way it had every morning since he came back from the death.

But there was nothing but just the cold stretch of empty mattress, and the quiet silence of your absence.

For the first time, you weren’t there.

His throat tightened as his gaze flicked to the chair beside the bed. The blanket you always used was draped neatly over the back of it. No cup of cold herbal tea on the nightstand, no faint scent of your shampoo clinging to the air. The room felt wrong without you in int. Heavy in a way he hadn’t noticed until it was stripped of him.

Joel rubbed a hand over his face, the weight in his chest something different now. Something he couldn’t blame on busted ribs or torn muscles.

He told himself it was what he wanted, what you needed. But the hollow in the room, in him, said otherwise.

The door creaked open and Mara stepped inside with her usual clipboard and soft expression. But the moment she saw the look on his face, her steps slowed.

“She’s not coming today,” she said quietly, as if testing the weight of the words before speaking to them.

Joel’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t ask.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Mara crossed to the other side of the room, busying herself with the medication tray, giving him the space to be what he was. But Joel didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He sat there in the quiet, and for the first time in weeks, the nightmare that haunted him wasn’t some bloodied memories, that fist beaten his face, or the disappointment on Ellie’s eyes.

It was your face, your tears falling down your cheeks.

It was the fear of you leaving him forever.

Mara lifted her gaze, looking at Joel’s brown eyes and there was hurt written all over them.  “I haven’t seen her, but if she isn’t here must be because she doesn’t want to.”

Joel’s voice was rough, catching on the words before he could fully get them out.

“Is she… is she okay?”

Joel’s gaze broke, but he tried hard to hide the pain.

“I’m coming back later to do the exercises, okay?” Mara said, changing the subject.

“Okay.”

Mara lingered a moment longer than she should’ve, her lips pressed into a tight line, as though she wanted to take the words back, but she didn’t. She just gave a small nod, then turned and left, the soft click of the door closing behind her sounding louder than it should have in the quiet room.

Joel let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, his hand coming up to rub his face, the coarse scrape of his beard rough against his palm. The ache in his chest wasn’t from his injuries, it was deeper, old and new grief twisting together.

He looked over to the empty chair by the bed again.

You weren’t there and his stomach turned, the air too heavy in his lungs.

Some minutes had passed, heavily quiet, that thick, oppressive quiet that Joel had come to dread in the last few weeks. He sat in that bed, staring out the window as the light bled from the sky, the colors outside turning from grey to light blue in mere second. Every now and then, his fingers twitched, aching to hold something, to fix something. But there was nothing left in the room except the steady silence torturing him.

When the door creaked open again, Joel’s heart stuttered.

Tommy stepped inside, his posture tense, the lines of exhaustion deeper on his face. He looked like a man who was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and Joel knew he was responsible for most of it.

Joel cleared his throat. “How is she?” It came out rougher than he meant, but the need in it was sharp.

Tommy didn’t answer right away. He just crossed the room, setting down a bundle of clean clothes on the dresser before finally turning to face Joel.

His silence stretched, thick and weighted.

Joel’s stomach twisted. “Tommy,” he rasped. “Just— tell me.”

Tommy let out a breath, running a hand over his face.

“Well, she’s finally sleeping,” he said quietly. “First time since…you know.”

Joel closed his eyes, the ache in his chest like a fist tightening around his ribs. “Is she… eating? Is she talking?”

Another hesitation.

“She’s quiet,” Tommy admitted. “She didn’t react very well to whatever thing you told her.”

Joel swallowed hard, his eyes burning. “Did she… ask about me?”

Tommy hesitated, and that alone was answer enough. “You don’t get to do that, brother.”

Joel’s throat worked around a knot of grief. “I deserve that,” he muttered.

Tommy didn’t argue. He just stepped closer, his voice lowering.

“Listen… whatever happened between you two, whatever you think you were doing by pushing her away…you’re killing her, Joel. How could you do that to her after she…?”

Joel’s gaze stayed on the floor; his jaw clenched tight.

“I didn’t want to hurt her,” Joel whispered. “I was trying to…” He trailed off, not even sure what excuse he was reaching for anymore.

“You wanted her to stop loving you,” Tommy finished for him, bitterness in his tone. “But it doesn’t work like that. You don’t get to decide when someone gives up on you.”

Joel flinched, the words cutting deep because he knew they were true.

Tommy stared at him for a long moment, then finally spoke, softer this time. “She already lost—” He stopped himself before he could spill your truth.

“What?” Joel pressed. But he was met by Tommy’s silence

“What did she lose?” Joel pressed further.

“You should rest, brother. Because one way or another you’re going to have to face her soon.” He said, changing the subject. As much as Tommy loved his brother, he also loved what you were, to him, to this community, to his family and he owned your loyalty and secrecy.

“I’ll come back later, okay?” He said before leaving Joel alone with his guilt and the quiet.

You woke to a dull, deep ache in your muscles, your head pounding like you’d been dragged through hell and back, and maybe you had. The dim light in the room felt too sharp against your eyes, and a low groan escaped your throat as you shifted, your body stiff and sore like you’d been fighting ghosts in your sleep.

It took a second before you realized you weren’t in your bedroom and another before you noticed the figure sitting quietly beside the bed.

Ellie was there.

She was perched on the edge of a worn armchair, legs pulled up to her chest, eyes shadowed but sharp as they fixed on you. There was a guarded kind of worry in her face, the kind she usually tried to bury under jokes and sarcasm.

You blinked at her, throat dry, words slow to form.

“Ellie,” you rasped.

You tried to sit up, but a fresh bolt of pain shot through your whole body and your hand, you winced, hissing out a curse.

Ellie let out a breath you hadn’t noticed she’d been holding, her shoulders sagging a little.

“You scared me last night,” she muttered, but there was no bite in it, just something soft, frayed at the edges.

Ellie moved fast, steadying you with gentle hands on your shoulders.

“Easy, easy. You’re got your hand pretty banged up,” she said quietly.

Your gaze drifted around the room, not yours, you realized now. Tommy and Maria’s guest room. A glass of water on the nightstand. A blanket draped across your legs you didn’t remember pulling up.

And then you noticed the little bundle in Ellie’s lap. The onesie.

Your breath caught. Ellie followed your gaze and swallowed hard.

“I, uh… I thought you might… I didn’t want to leave it there,” she said, voice small.

Your chest twisted, a sharp, awful thing. The grief pressed so tight against your ribs you felt like you might break open again.

“I’m sorry,” Ellie blurted, her words rushing out now. “I… I didn’t know. I— when I saw you like that, I thought… fuck, I don’t know what I thought. But I should’ve been there. Before. I should’ve noticed.”

You closed your eyes, a tear slipping free despite yourself.

“It’s not your fault, Ellie,” you murmured hoarsely.

“It’s not yours either,” Ellie shot back, voice firm, a little desperate.

A long, thick silence settled between you, broken only by the sound of the clock ticking somewhere in the room.

Finally, Ellie spoke again, quieter now. “Tommy told me not to tell Joel.”

You opened your eyes, looking at her. “Why?”

She shrugged, a bitter edge to her voice.

“Because you don’t need to see him right now. Not like this. Not when you’re barely holding it together.” She hesitated.

Your heart twisted painfully in your chest.

Ellie let out a sigh, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on between you two,” she said. “But whatever it is… it’s eating you alive.”

“He told me to leave and that he wasn’t sure if he even loved me.” You replied.

Ellie’s head snapped up at that, like you’d struck her with a thunder.

For a second, she just stared at you, her expression caught somewhere between shock and fury.

“He what?” she spat, her voice sharp.

Your throat tightened again, fresh tears burning at the edges of your vision, but you forced yourself to swallow them down. You were so tired of crying.

You let out a humorless, broken little laugh, wiping at your face with trembling fingers.

“Yeah,” you rasped. “He said he wouldn’t have done for me what I did for him, what he did for you in Salt Lake. Told me to go. Like I was a burden to him.”

Ellie was silent for a long, thick moment, her jaw clenched so tight you could see it ticking.

“That’s bullshit,” she finally ground out, voice low and shaking with anger. “That’s not true. I don’t care what the hell came out of his mouth — it’s not true.”

You didn’t answer. Because maybe part of you knew that. Knew Joel Miller didn’t have it in him to stop loving you, not after everything. But pain makes people cruel. And grief? It turns them into something else.

“He’s scared,” Ellie said, like she was trying to convince herself as much as you. “He’s scared and stupid and he’s pushing you away because he doesn’t know how to deal with any of this shit.” She gestured toward the onesie still clutched tight in her lap.

You closed your eyes, breathing through the ache.

“It doesn’t matter,” you whispered.

Ellie’s face crumpled, her eyes stinging. Ellie’s throat worked as she swallowed hard, her voice rough when she finally spoke.

“How… how far were you?” she asked, so quietly it was almost a breath.

You opened your eyes but didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. The ceiling above you blurred, swimming in a fresh sheen of unshed tears.

Your voice cracked when you answered. “Six weeks.”

Just two words, but they felt like a scream.

Ellie let out a shaky breath, her hand tightening around the fabric of the onesie in her lap.

“Jesus…” Ellie murmured, like the air had been punched from her lungs. She didn’t know what to say. What the hell could she say?

You gave a dry, humorless laugh, shaking your head.

“It wasn’t planned. Wasn’t… anything. I didn’t even tell him.”

That made Ellie flinch. She wiped at her face, trying to keep herself steady for you, but her eyes were glassy.

“I wish you’d told me,” she said softly.

“I couldn’t,” you whispered. “I didn’t want to make it feel real.”

And for a while, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the clock on the wall ticking too loud in the quiet.

“I pictured her,” you cut the silence, voice raw, like it hurt to drag the words out. “I pictured her as baby girl, how she would look like, with dark hair, brown eyes just like Joel’s. Maybe his crooked smile. I used to—” your breath hitched, but you pushed on, eyes still fixed on the ceiling, “I used to imagine him holding her in the mornings, making him coffee while she slept on his chest.”

Ellie swallowed thickly, blinking fast as her heart splintered.

“I’d think about how he’d grumble about diapers at his age, or how he’d fall asleep on the couch with her on his chest.”

You let out a shaky breath, a ghost of a laugh, so heartbreakingly sad it barely sounded human.

“And now I keep wondering if it would’ve hurt less if I’d never let myself imagine any of it.” You sobbed, “If I wouldn’t have gone there I would have her growing inside me, but I would have lost Joel.”

“And now anything of that matters because he doesn’t even love me.” Ellie was crying now, though she tried like hell to pretend she wasn’t. She reached out, hesitating, then carefully slid her hand over yours.

It was cold. Your skin rough and cut, but she didn’t let go.

“You’re not alone, you know,” Ellie whispered. “Even if he’s too fucking broken to remember how to hold you right now. You’ve still got us.”

Your jaw trembled; your free hand still clutched tight around that onesie.

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“I know.” Ellie’s voice cracked. “But I’m not going anywhere from you.”

You stared at her for a moment before hearing the steps outside the bedroom, Tommy stepped inside, worry evident on his eyes.

Worried about you, about Joel.

He was the perfect image of a helplessness man watching two people he loved tearing themselves apart.

“Hey,” he greeted softly.

You didn’t answer right away. Ellie’s hand still gripped yours, her thumb brushing against your skin in small, grounding circles.

“How’re you feeling?” Tommy asked, voice rough.

You shrugged; the onesie still balled up in your fist. “I’ve been better.”

A sad huff of air left Tommy’s chest, and he rubbed a hand down his face before sitting on the edge of the bed. “Of course, you have.” Then, he cleared his throat “I… uh, I told Joel you weren’t feeling really well. That you were resting.”

Your stomach twisted at his name. “And him?” you asked, your voice barely there.

Tommy hesitated, then finally spoke.

“He asked about you. First thing when I saw him.” He glanced at you; his gaze gentle but heavy. “He didn’t say much. He just asked if you were okay.”

Your throat tightened.

“Is he mad?”

Tommy shook his head. “No. Not mad. He is scared and lost as hell without you, if you ask me. I know that face of him. I know him” He let out a breath, leaning forward on his knees. “I think he doesn’t know how to deal with all of this.”

A sharp ache flared in your chest. The silence stretched, thick with everything no one could fix.

“I don’t know if it matters anymore,” you whispered, voice catching.

“It does,” Tommy said firmly. “You matter to him. He is broken to say it right now. And I know it don’t make up for what you’ve been through. But you aren’t alone, alright? Me, Maria, Ellie, we all got you.”

Ellie squeezed your hand, her eyes shimmering again but her jaw set.

And though it didn’t fix the hollow in your chest, for a moment the thought of having a family warmed your heart.

The room went quiet again.

“I’ll check on him later,” Tommy said, rising to his feet. “You just rest, okay?”

You nodded, your grip loosening around the onesie at last.

As he stood up, you could hear his thoughts roaming inside his head, “I think you should keep seeing Gail.”

You let out a tired, humorless breath through your nose. “I don’t need a shrink, Tommy.”

Your voice wasn’t sharp, it was flat, worn down like something eroded by the tide over too long a time.

Tommy hesitated by the doorway, one hand on the frame. “Just keep talking to her.”

You looked away, your eyes tracing the ceiling. Ellie still held your hand like she was afraid to let go.

“I’m not good at talking about that.”

“No one is,” Tommy murmured. “That’s why it eats people up when they don’t.”

The quiet stretched again, thick with everything you didn’t have the strength to argue.

Finally, Tommy gave a small, weary nod. “Sleep more, you need it.”

“Okay, at the count of three?”

“Okay.”

Joel held Mara’s hand tightly. His breath coming ragged, muscles in his arms trembling as he forced himself upright.

Mara stood beside him, steadying his elbow with one hand, the other curling tight around his rough, calloused palm.

“Come on, Joel” she teased gently. “You’re not dying on my watch.”

Joel huffed out a dry, breathless laugh as he finally managed to stand, his weight swaying just a little before he found his balance.

“Fuck” he rasped, “I didn’t think I’d miss feeling my own legs.”

They both laughed then, the kind of laugh born from something new blossoming.

Mara smiled up at him, her hand still around his. For a second, it felt like the heaviness that clung to his chest loosened, just a fraction. Like maybe, in this one brief moment, he wasn’t carrying quite so much grief inside his heart.

He laughed so much he didn’t even notice Ellie standing on the door, watching all this interaction happening with her hand on the frame, watching them.

The way Mara’s head tipped back when she laughed. The way Joel smiled, really smiled, for the first time in what felt like weeks. And something sharp twisted in Ellie’s gut.

I felt almost like a betrayal because while you lay at home, alone in a bed, clutching that onesie to your chest, Joel was here with someone else. Smiling as if he hadn’t broken the love of his life heart.

Like he could learn how to laugh without you by his side.

“Am I interrupting?”

Joel’s head snapped up, that smile on his face faltering from his face as he saw her standing in the doorway. Mara’s hand dropped from his arm, her expression shuttering into something serious.

“Hey kid.” Joel rasped, like he hadn’t expected to see her there at all.

“I came here to check on you.” Ellie said, her tone carefully neutral but her eyes didn’t hide the bitterness. She flicked a glance at Mara, then back to Joel. “Didn’t realize you were getting so close with your doctor.”

Joel opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, to stop her maybe, but the look Ellie gave him made him hesitate.

Mara took a careful step back, brushing her hands together as though dusting them off.

“I was just helping him with his exercises,” she said quickly, trying to defuse whatever tension was thickening the air. “I will go.”

Mara gave a brief nod to them both and slipped out, the door clicking softly behind her.

The room felt heavier after she left.

Joel let out a slow breath, sitting back against the bed with a wince. “What’re you really here for, kid?” he asked quietly.

Joel’s gaze dropped to his hands, the scars those palms emotionally held, the way they trembled just a little.

Ellie’s arms crossed tightly over her chest, laughing bitterly at the tone on his voice.

“I told you I came to check on you” she muttered. “Perhaps, you could ask about her, you know?”

“I asked Tommy.” It sounded weak, even to him.

Ellie wanted to shout angrily at him, to tell him the truth you hide beneath your heart but even in her anger she understood better, she was aware it wasn’t her place to tell the truth.

“Yeah? Well, maybe you should’ve asked her, Joel,” Ellie shot back, voice breaking.

“Before you lost your fucking chance.”

“Did you really stop loving her?”

Joel’s gaze met Ellie’s, his eyes teary, shaking his head. His voice came out ragged, raw.

“No.” A beat. His voice cracked. “God, no.”

Ellie’s throat tightened, the ache in her chest spreading throughout her body. She looked away, trying to steady her breathing, to hold back the sting in her eyes.

“Then why did you say it?” she whispered.

Joel scrubbed a trembling hand over his face, like he could wipe away the memory of those words. Of the way your face had crumbled. “Because it hurts not being the man she needs now, I didn’t know what to do but push her away. I thought that if I was cruel enough, she’d stop loving me too.”

Ellie let out a shaky breath, her stomach twisting. “You’re so fucking selfish, Joel. You broke her.”

Joel’s face crumpled as the tears finally spilled, his head bowing under the weight of it. 

“I’ve always admired the type of love the both of you share. How you’d always been there, are there for each other. How well she knew you were in danger that day that she dragged me with her in middle of a fucking snowstorm just to save you…”

Joel’s chest heaved, his shoulders shaking with the force of the guilt he could barely contain. The image of you that day, blood on your hands, refusing to let him die, it gutted him. It had changed him as a person.

Ellie’s voice cracked, the memory of that day hitting harder than she expected. She swallowed hard, fighting the lump in her throat. “I’ve never seen anyone love someone like that, Joel.”

Her hands balled into fists trying to contain the anger she felt. “And you…you threw it away because you were too fucking scared to hurt.”

“Ellie…” he whispered, voice breaking.

“She held your hand the whole time. She didn’t sleep for weeks, sitting at your side, praying to God or whatever was out there for you to wake up. And when you started coming back, even just a little, she smiled again because the world made sense to her again.” Ellie’s throat wobbled a sob. “And then you broke her.”

Joel looked away, not being strong enough to face Ellie.

She took a step closer, her voice softer now. “She was waiting for you.”

Jackson, the day of the attack, dawn.

The snow had stop falling by the time you arrive to Jackson. Dawn was breaking into the horizon, and your body felt like it had been dragged back and fort through war. Your entire body hurt, your heart was breaking at the sight of Joel on that stretcher, as Jesse and some others were helping him.

You saw Tommy first and run, holding onto him, your hold body shaking now that the adrenaline had begun to fade. You could finally breath for a second, you had made it back to Jackson.

But then Tommy pulled back, looking at you, at his brother, and his brow furrowed as he looked down.

There was blood on your thighs, dark, smearing on the fabric of your jeans.

The air left his lungs in shock.

“Hey, what—?” Tommy started; his voice soft, terrified to ask what he already suspected.

But you shook your head, eyes lost beneath tears, throat too tight to utter words.

“It’s fine. It’s—” you croaked, your voice breaking as your arms clutched around yourself.

“We need to get you inside,” Tommy said, waving over Maria, his hand on your arm. “Come on—"

“No. Him first,” you rasped, pointing at Joel, who was unconscious now, as they began to wheel him toward the hospital “He is first priority.”

Tommy’s throat worked as he nodded, but he didn’t miss the way you swayed on your feet, or the blood trailing down your legs.

He caught you on time when your knees buckled, holding you up as you clung to him like you might disappear if you let go.

“We’ll take care of both of you, alright?” Tommy promised, his heart breaking as he realized what it meant.

+++++++

You stood beside Joel’s bed. The room was too quiet you could hear the thoughts running around your head. Tormenting you, torturing you. How much you had done to have Joel laying on this bed with a tiny chance of surviving.  His face was barely recognizable beneath all the swelling and bruises, blood still crusted along the edges of his hairline, lips split. The sedatives had him still, too still.

your hand wrapped around his, though you weren’t sure if you were holding him or holding onto yourself. The tears wouldn’t stop. They ran hot down your frozen cheeks, leaving tracks that burned.

Tommy stood in the doorway, watching you with a knot in his throat. He’d never seen you like this, so small, so crumpled. He had always known the strong version of you but amidst the storm this is what you were now.

“Hey,” Tommy murmured, approaching slowly, crouching beside you. “You should rest, you both need—”

“The baby is gone.” You spoke, your voice was barely a whisper, cracked and raw.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Your gaze stayed fixed on Joel’s face, your thumb brushing along his knuckles, as if trying to memorize every ridge of bone and scar before it was ripped out of you too.

Jackson, present day

“How do you feel?”

You let a chuckle, as if that question was a joke. But Gail’s eyes kept looking at you with stern on her gaze, perhaps there was a bit

“I feel I lost the baby because I murdered those guys” you confessed, “And I thought it wouldn’t hurt because Joel was going to survive, which he did but you now see how it turned out.” You paused for a moment, gathering your thoughts. “And I don’t know if he despises me for bringing him to life or for what I did.”

You lifted your gaze to meet Gail’s.

“The day he finds out about the baby, I don’t know what is going to happen to me.”

“Do you feel betrayed by him?” she asked, trying to make you talk, to ease the pain. The truth was that Gail wasn’t very fond of you due to your relationship with Joel but she felt pain when looking at you now.

After all she knew you were a woman in love who would have burnt the whole world to bring to save Joel.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I do.” Your voice cracked at the truth, but you force yourself to keep going “I feel like I died out there, too. That day, I saved a man that is not Joel anymore. Not the man I—" You stopped yourself, but it was already out there between you.

Gail’s gaze softened. She wasn’t good at this, at being soft by someone else, but what she saw in front of her was just another woman bleed in a different way.

Both of you had lost the love of your lives in different ways.

“I know you love him,” Gail said quietly. “I never doubted that.”

You met her eyes again, not making the effort to mask the ache that had settled in your bones “I love him so much it scared me. you admitted, voice trembling. “And I still do. Even if he can’t look at me. Even if he resents me. I’d still do the same thing over and over again.”

A long silence stretched between you. Gail took a breath. “You didn’t lose the baby because of what you did.” She said it firm, leaving no room for doubt.

But you didn’t believe it. Not fully. Not yet.

“When he finds out,” you whispered, the dread sinking, “I don’t know if it’ll break him or if he’ll break me.”

“He has no right to ask anything from you right now.” She said, trying to make you understand.

“What do I do now?” you asked, changing the topic, “What do I do with all the love I was holding for that baby?”

Gail was left speechless. Ever since she met you, she had known the strong force of a woman you were, but what she got in front of her now, was a glimpse of her.

You were losing the spark, your willing to live and she didn’t know how to help you.

You wiped your tears, streaming down your face, feeling the exhaustion of the past weeks taking a tool on you, pression down on your heart with a force. Heavy. “And I don’t know how to live in a world where he hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Gail said quietly. “He hates himself. That’s a different kind of grief.”

Jackson, two week later

Joel had lost the count of how much time he had spent inside the four walls of this room at the hospital. Every time he opened his eyes it was the same view, blue walls, white covers, a small window, an empty chair where the only person he wanted truly see was you.

Joel was struggling more than anyone wanted to admit. His body was healing slowly, but his mind wasn’t at all and that was a different story.

Mara was trying so hard to get him through his physical therapy, guiding him through some stretch and light exercises to help him to recover the strength he had lost. His face pinched tight in pain and frustration.

Ellie was looking at him, sitting in the corner of the room, with arms crossed, jaw tight, with worry and simmering resentment she hadn’t managed to let go of yet.

Because she was glad, he had made it. She was glad they would have time to fix their bond, but she still couldn’t stop looking at him as the man who had stole her choice from him.

Tommy was also there, standing by the doorway, he felt helpless watching his brother falling apart. How easy it was for him to walk to steps and then not being able to truly improve anymore.

It felt like time stopped. Joel’s breath hitched; his hands started trembling violently as Mara tried to coax him through a simple movement. His chest heaved, eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal. The walls closed in on him all at once, the smell he was sick of, the blinding light from the window, the ache in his bones, the emptiness inside his chest.

His voice cracked, “I—I can’t—I… I need her. Where is she?”

Mara heart went heavy, she tried to calm him, assuring she was here by placing a hand on his shoulder, but he recoiled like the touch burned.

“Not you, my girl. I need her.”he choked out, panic lacing his voice, his breathing ragged and uneven. “Nothing works without her. I can’t—I can’t fucking breathe without her.”

Ellie’s stomach twisted. She stood abruptly, “I’ll get her.”

But until what point this was fair to you? 

“Please, Ellie,” Joel rasped, eyes glossy with tears, “tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I… tell her I didn’t stop loving her. I don’t know how to do this without her.”

Ellie found you by the stables, hands buried in the hay, eyes unfocused, staring at nothing. She called your name four times until you finally looked up, there was so much exhaustion in your face it made her chest ache the same way it ached for Joel.

“Joel is asking for you”she said, voice hoarse by looking for you everywhere.

You didn’t answer. Not at first. The weight of it sat between you both like something heavy and jagged. Finally, you shook your head, eyes stinging.

“No.”you whispered.

“What do you mean no?”

“I can’t face him.”

Ellie’s jaw clenched, the sharp burn of frustration rising in her throat. It wasn’t anger, but she was really grieving the love you and Joel share. She didn’t know how to carry the pain you both have.

“He had a panic attack today. He couldn’t breathe. He only asked for you.” She said, stepping closer.

You closed your eyes, a tremor running through you. Her words dug into your chest.  

“I can’t face him, Ellie.” Your voice cracked. “I can’t see him and not tell him. Not tell him what I lost. I don’t know if I can carry it in front of him because he will resent me even more.”

Ellie swallowed hard, her hands trembling at her sides. She wanted to grab you, to shake you, to hold you, she didn’t know what, “Then tell him. Or don’t. But he’s drowning without you, and you are too.”

You didn’t answer. The only sound was the quiet shuffle of the horses behind you, the sun faintly making the pain on your face glow.

Ellie’s voice softened. “I don’t want to lose you both, please.

Jackson Hospital, at night.

The hospital was silent at night, the kind of silence that felt almost sacred in the dead hours while everyone slept. Most of people in Jackson was asleep, including the nurses in the front room, curled in their chairs, a single lamp flickering.

You moved slowly through the hallways, the ache in your chest making every step feel more difficult than the last. It had been two weeks since the last time you had seen Joel and your heart somehow knew you were about to see his face again.

And when you reached his room, you lingered at the door.

Joel lay there, still, chest softly rising. His face had recovered color. It wasn’t pale and bruised. Now it was almost the same man you had loved for so long.

You stepped inside the room without doubt and sat down beside him, at the edge of the bed. For a long moment, you just watched him. You draw traces of his face inside your mind. Then, your hand reached for his, trembling a bit as you took it into both of yours. His skin felt you achingly familiar still it made your heart burst. You brought his knuckles to your lips and kissed them, the salt of your own tears catching in the corner of your mouth.

“Please, don’t hate me” you whispered against his skin. “I can’t live with that.”

Your voice cracked, the words breaking free from the cage you got them under.  I don’t know how to live in a world without you in it, Joel.” You squeezed his hand tighter. Your forehead dropped to the back of his hand, your tears hot against his skin.

And you felt the faintest, instinctive squeeze of his fingers around yours.

A soft shuffle at the door made you lift your head, eyes blurry with tears as you blinked toward the sound.

Mara stood there with her arms crossed, the faintest edge of tension in her jaw. Her hair was loose, eyes tired, expression unreadable.

“You can’t stay here,” she said quietly, stepping inside the room.

You stared at her, your hand still cradling Joel’s as if letting go might broke you.

“But he asked for me,” you whispered, voice rough.

Mara sighed, a flash of something like sympathy darting across her face before it hardened again.

“I know. But you’ll confuse him,” she said, softer this time, glancing toward the still form of Joel in the bed. “He doesn’t know what’s real right now, what day itis, where he is. You being here…”she hesitated, “I just… it isn’t good for his recovery.”

You felt like your heart was unraveling thread by thread. “You think I’m hurting him.” you said quietly, a bitter ache rising in your throat.

“I think you’re both hurting each other,” Mara admitted, not unkindly. “And I think right now, what he needs is stability. Familiar routine. No surprises.”

She approached, kneeling slightly so you were level. “I’m just staying tonight.”

You looked at Joel again, at his face again.

“No.” she said, this time sternly.

Your body ran cold, but you nodded, brushing Joel’s knuckles with your lips one last time before slowly setting his hand back down.

“If he asks for me again…” you started.

“He won’t” she said, looking at you as if you were poising threatening to hurt Joel.

Outside Jackson, the next day.

Spring was making it presence noticeable. Landscapes were greener and flowers were blossoming everywhere on the route. You and Nick were riding in silence, the breeze caressing your skin with a delicate ease.Nick gave you a wary glance as he rode his horse beside you. He was younger that you, a few years maybe, with a heart too big for this world. You’d always appreciated that about him. Sometimes he felt like the little brother you never had.

“Are you sure you are okay about this?” he asked, frowning.

You forced a tight smile. “Yeah. Better than sitting around.”

He didn’t press it, just gave a short nod, and the two of you keep riding in silence, looking around your surroundings.

The route was quiet for a while, too quiet. You barely spoke, and when you did, it was small things. Nick trying to make you laugh, you giving him some fake smiles.

You should’ve known it wouldn’t last. You should have known it wouldn't last. Three clicks came quickly, emerging from behind a fallen tree just as you turned onto a trail. Nick yelled, grabbing his rifle. You dismounted, but something inside you, you didn't move the way it should. You didn't reach for your weapon. You just stood there.

You could hear them, the horrible, wet smacking, their bodies jerking with hunger. And a sick, empty part of you felt calm for the first time in weeks.

You could let them take you.

You barely registered Nick's voice, distant and panicked.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” he screamed, shooting one clean in the head as it lunged.

The others came closer, too close to you and you still didn’t move. Still mounted on your horse watching as them came to take you.

Nick fired again, blood spraying the ground, then stabbed another with his knife as it crashed against him. The last one came for you and you didn’t even flinch.

Nick got it first, turning to face you with fury on his face.

“What the fuck was that?! Are you out of your fucking mind?

You opened your mouth, but no words came out.

And then you felt dizzy, the world lurched, wobbled, before slipping beneath you. You fell off your horse, hitting your head on the ground. A sharp pain, and then nothing but darkness.

The last thing you heard was Nick’s voice breaking, desperate.

“Follow me, it’s clear,” Joel murmured, pulling you through a gap in the fence.

The both of you had ended up in the middle of the woods, laying in the grass staring up at a sky you rarely got to stop to see.

Joel stood up, disappearing into the brush for a moment. When he came back, he was holding a little white wildflower and he knelt beside you, grinning at you.

“I can’t get you a diamond, darling, but I can make you this.”

You laughed, sitting up to look up at him better, “Joel, what are you doing?”

“Marrying you,” he said like it was the most obvious act.

Your breath caught when he looped the flower turning into a ring, a small, crooked one, from the flower’s stem, around your ring finger. His hand lingered in yours, warm.

“There,” he murmured, a bit shy now.

I’m always going to be there, I’m always going to have your back,

Where you go, I go, always.

until the day death tears us apart.

tags 💌: If you want to be removed or you're not interested in the story anymore, please tell me so I can remove you. :)

@heartpatch @jasminedragoon @picketniffler @grayandthyme @ccmoonshine

@theoraekenslover @stcrrjoon @stupidthoughtsinwriting @officialjellydoughnut @dshc99 @eleganthottubfun @mystickittytaco @fvispunk @daydreamzsworld @comicccc

@nosebeers @whirlwindrider29 @person-005 @bunnyofribbon

@ainhoetaaa @missladym1981 @keileighr @callofdiva @pinkcabinet

@tomie-it-girl @shadowpheonix @unknownomgg @22thumbs

"Really, it is just one afternoon, nothing extravagant. Just coffee," Lori says and her nervous gaze tries to focus on your face. It has been a hectic day to say the least. The guy who was supposed to auction off a tarot reading apparently lost his psychic abilities and has fallen through. So now Lori needs another act for the whole spiel.

"I told you, I can totally wing it," you say. "I'll just get one of those card decks and talk a lot about mercury in retrograde."

She shakes her head. "Zain is a medium, love. You cannot just wing that. You are born with these abilities." It feels like Lori has taken this thing very seriously and probably was the one usually bidding for a precious hour with Zain.

"Didn't he quit because he lost his abilities?"

"He goes through phases," she explains. "He told me that I would meet my second husband in a WholeFoods near the spices and I always feel a particular sensation whenever I pass that special aisle."

"Oh," you say. "And did you? Meet him, I mean?"

"Oh honey, no. I am still in my first marriage," she replies. "But please don't try to read cards. Just give them some minor, non liable, legal advice or whatever they feel like talking about, yes?"

You shrug. "Sure, I can do that."

She presses her palms together and gives a little bow. "Thank you."

You mirror her gesture and grin. "My pleasure, Lori."

A couple of hours later, you're standing next to Daniel and his friend Mark talking about spear fishing and you wonder how on earth you got into this conversation.

"It is so thrilling, I am telling you," Daniel says and leans over to you. "You totally need to come the next time we head out."

"Thanks," you say. "I'll totally think about it."

The station is filled with an incredible amount of people you didn't even know could fit inside. It is packed. Everyone is talking, drinking and eating little sliders and sweets that one of the officer's sons made for the day. You haven't seen the chief at all. Not that you were looking for him. That would be weird. You definitely weren't. You're just concerned that the person in charge of this station hasn't deemed it appropriate to grace ya'll with his presence.

"Have you seen the chief?" You ask Daniel, who shakes his head.

"He's probably outside with the mayor. He usually only comes in for the auction," he explains.

Lori's voice resounds from the back of the room, calling everyone to the little makeshift stage. You huddle next to Daniel, trying to get a good spot, but get pushed a little to the back by some very eager elderly ladies. The first item for auction is a mug with the police station's logo on it. So we're starting quite low. The second one is a basketball signed by the high school team. Both items get auctioned off to the two older ladies in front of you, who, for whatever reason, are having the time of their lives.

"Do you have your eyes set on a prize?"

You could point out that voice that trails down your neck from anywhere. The low rumble against your right ear and the hot breath against your skin. You don't turn your head, just lean back slightly, checking how much space he has left between you two. By the feel of his chest grazing your back, not much.

"Maybe," you say. "But there's lots of competition." You subtly point to the two women in front of you.

The chief chuckles almost inaudibly and leans forward ever so slightly. You can feel the buttons of his shirt press into your shoulder blades. If you weren't surrounding by a crowd of people, all pushing against each other, this might be outrageous.

"Nothing you can't handle, I assume," he says.

"They seem very determined to me," you reply.

"I wouldn't have thought you'd be afraid of two senior citizens," he says.

"Clearly you have no idea what damage two women over 70 can do."

"Maybe I just have a lot of faith in you?"

You turn your head and meet his eyes. The brown is warm and inviting, nothing like before. Golden specks dart inside of them, showing off their dance. His hair is combed back, but his beard isn't trimmed, making him look rakish. He isn't wearing his usual white button down, but a flannel and a jacket you've seen him wear a couple of times.

"Maybe you should talk to a priest about that," you say.

"Nothing I haven't considered before," he replies and a small tug appears at the corner of his mouth. The seconds pass like the lazy ticking of a clock. If you weren't a reasonable women you would almost say it's hypnotising having him looking at you like that.

"Hi," the chief says softly, holding your gaze.

"You're late," you reply.

"Briefing with the mayor," he says and cocks his head.

"Do you have your eyes on anything particular?" You ask him.

His brows furrow. "I need you to specify that question for me, Darlin."

You roll your eyes and sigh.

"Are you bidding on anything today?" You say.

He shakes his head and is about to say something when you hear your name called from the back. You turn your head and Lori is standing on the little stage, waving eagerly. Everyone has turned to face you.

"Oh god," you say and immediately moving forward a bit, putting some distance between you and the chief.

"What in Jesus name-," Joel whispers and then Daniel is there to grab your hand and pull you towards the back of the room. In a matter of seconds you're being pushed up on a couple of boxes next to Lori, who is beaming at you.

"This is our lovely new assistant for the summer. She's a big lawyer from the city and has kindly offered to pitch in for the sake of the station." Her exaggerated introduction gets a round of applause.

Your eyes search for familiar ones and once found can only spot Joel's face of disbelief. This turned out to be weirder than you thought it would be.

"We're auctioning off a special dinner with her. She's kindly offered to also help with some of your legal questions, but we all know that spending an evening with this lovely lady should be enough of a prize as is. The first bid is 50$," Lori shouts.

Your head snaps to the side. "You said coffee, Lori."

You try to keep your voice down, but can't help hide your surprise.

Lori pats your arm and whispers, "Sorry dear, you're a lovely girl, but nobody is going to spend 50$ on coffee and we really needed to make up for Zain's part."

You look at her, stunned.

"You'll be fine," she says and turns back to the crowd. "Can I hear 50$?"

There is a stretch of silence that feels like two hours and then all of a sudden near where Joel is standing, Tommy raises his hand and shouts. "Here for 50$".

You mouth a silent thank you towards him. He gives you a thumbs up and you're almost relaxing, when another hand goes up further back near the door.

"60$!" A guy in a polo shirt with the most severe sunburn on his face shouts from the side.

Oh Lord. This is going to be a tough one. You try to search for Joel's face and maybe telepathically tell him to step the fuck up, but his face has morphed back into his usual stern expression, giving away nothing.

Tommy raises his hand again and goes for 80$, but the guy matches him at 100$. The man looks at you with a grin that is definitely giving creep vibes. When you're about to convince yourself that he's probably just a normal guy, he actually licks his lips while making full eye contact. Hell nah. You're about to abort this mission, when someone shouts from the back of the room.

"500$!"

The whole crowd gasps in unison.

"Do we hear 510$?" Lori shouts and after a couple of seconds of silence she claps. "The mayor has just donated 500$ to the station!"

The whole crowd cheers. The mayor? What on earth is happening here. People are still cheering, when Lori guides you off the stage into Daniel's arms.

"Did you just see that?" He shouts and pats you on your shoulder.

"I literally was standing up there."

He shakes his head. "Wow, that is so cool. To be able to spend a whole evening with the mayor. You're so lucky, he is the coolest guy ever."

Daniel apparently has a crush you didn't know about.

"What makes him so cool?" You ask and Daniel starts rambling on about how he has worked his way up all on his own bla bla bla - you get the gist. From what you're hearing is that the mayor is literally just a guy.

"Sounds like a real shooting star," you say, sarcastically.

"Please, only my mother calls me that," someone says from behind you. You turn around and there he is - the famously cool mayor.

You didn't expect him to be so.. young? He looks about mid 30s, with a neatly ironed blue button down on and some dark blue slacks. Without a tie and his sleeves rolled up, he looks not much older than Casey or Daniel. His hair is so dark, it makes the green in his eyes even more striking. You can tell from the way it is styled into a perfect side swoop that he probably spends more time in front of a mirror than at work. He is, besides the dramatic hairdo, uncomfortably good looking. And then he smiles only to reveal a set of perfectly straight white politician teeth.

You can't help but smile back. "Your mother sounds like a real supporter."

"You can never outgrow your parents, can you?" He says and offers his hand. "I don't think we have been introduced yet."

You shake your head and take his hand. "Nice to meet you, sir."

"Oh, let's leave the formalities to the rest of them, shall we? I'm Sebastian."

You say your name and let go of his hand. "You didn't have to do that by the way."

"Do what?" He raises his eyebrows.

"The bid," you say. "That's a lot of money you spent there."

He shrugs. "It's just money."

"Bold thing to say in this economy," you say and he smiles.

"You don't think an evening with you is worth at least 500$?"

"I might think so, but you have no idea who I am, maybe I am unbearable and only like to talk about particular species of tropical insects?"

Sebastian laughs. "And maybe the possibility of getting to know that about you among other things is worth much more to me than 500$ in my pocket."

That shuts you up and Daniel elbows you in the side. "See, I told you he is cool. So suave."

"You should start putting him on your payroll," you say pointing at Daniel. "He's really been advertising your role."

"Has he now?" Sebastian raises his eyebrows. "And here I was thinking I wasn't the station's favourite."

Daniel scoffs. "Of course not, I've been rooting for you for years now. I actually think what you did for our town has been incredibly necessary."

"I'm glad you think so," Sebastian says, running a hand through his hair.

"I've been meaning to ask you," Daniel says. "Would you like a tour of the station?"

Sebastian grins. "Sure, I'd love to. Would you like to join us?"

He turns to you, expectantly.

"Sure," you say and follow them through the crowd. Daniel first shows the archives and the offices as well as the staff kitchen. You make your way down to the basement, which harbours the equipment closets and the shooting practice range.

"I don't think I've ever been down here before," you say.

"That's because it's usually only open for officers," Daniel says and opens the door to the range. "But today I'll make an exception."

You follow the men into the room. It is quite dark and even once Daniel turns on the lights, it doesn't really get any brighter. There are three stalls next to each other, with a long table about hip high. In the back you can see the practice papers showing prints resembling figures and large crosshairs.

"Nice plays you got," Sebastian says and steps up to one of the stalls. "How often of you get to practice down here?"

"Whenever I want," Daniel says. "The chief doesn't really use it."

"He doesn't need to practice?" Sebastian asks.

Daniel shrugs. "I don't think he likes it much."

Sebastian hums.

"Do you want to try it out?" Daniel asks you both, grinning.

Sebastian takes a step forward. "You think that's fine with your boss?"

Daniel nods eagerly. "Told you he's never down here and I don't really care what he thinks."

You frown. "Okay Brutus, calm yourself down."

Sebastian laughs and Daniel opens up one of the closets, which, as you now see, are stacked with firearms.

"Funny," Daniel mumbles and takes a gun out of the cabinet. "Which one do you want, sir?"

"He'll have mine pointed at him if he takes one step toward the one you're holding right now," the chief says from behind you.

He's leaning against the door, arms crossed, lethal stare ready to kill. Fuck. His hair is a little dishevelled like he has run his hand through it quite a few times and the top of his shirt is unbuttoned one button too far. He breathes a bit too heavily for having just waltzed in the door.

You and Daniel both take a step back away from him.

Daniel almost trips as he staggers back. "Sir, I was just-

"Put the gun down, Riley," Joel says calmly.

"I'm sorry, Chief, I was just-"

"Get out," Joel barks and takes a couple steps into the room to open up the doorway he was blocking.

"I am so sorry, I really didn't mea-" Daniel starts again and Joel just stares at him. He cocks his head and like a bad behaving child, Daniel puts the gun back into the cabinet, struts out of the room and almost runs up the stairs.

"Now to you," Joel says a after a second and his eyes land on Sebastian, who has taken a seat on one of the tables, seemingly enjoying the show. He does not look at you once.

"You're gonna tell me off too, Joel?" Sebastian smiles mockingly.

"You should go back upstairs and do your job," Joel replies.

"And what might that be, huh?"

"Shaking hands, making empty promises, kissing ass," the chief answers. "You know, whatever you're good at."

Sebastian's grin fades quickly. "Bold statement coming from a person that's serving my office."

Joel's expression stays blank. "Bold statement coming from the only man in this room who's not armed."

He uncrosses his arms, to reveal the gun strapped to his shoulder holster. "Or are you hiding something under that hair of yours?"

"Are you threatening me now?" Sebastian says nonchalantly, but moves off the table to stand.

"I am giving you an order," Joel says.

"It's cute that you think I take orders from you, Miller."

"Let's see how cute you think being escorted from the station for trespassing is then."

"Daniel let us in here. That is not trespassing or do you need to refresh your police academy education?"

"Do you see Daniel anywhere here?" Joel asks and looks around him. "I sure as hell don't."

He takes a step toward Sebastian. "This is a secure room, only to be entered by people who are employed at this station. As the operating chief of police it is in my power to enforce these regulations and to remove any threat to this station and its employees. I repeatedly told you to vacate the premises. If you do not follow this order I will personally make sure you get a personal tour of one of our holding cells for the night, how does that sound, Mr. Mayor?"

Sebastian looks at you.

"Don't look at her, look at me," Joel growls.

"You should know when to stay in your lane, Miller."

"If you think I am above carrying you out of this station then you think entirely too highly of me," he replies and after a moment steps out of the mayor's way. "It was a pleasure having you, please come again."

Sebastian hisses the most subtle fuck you, you've ever heard and gets out of the room. Right as he passes you buy, he turns to you.

"If you ever want to work for someone sane, you give me a call," he says and then smiles mischievously. "I'll call you about that dinner."

The mayor steps out of the room and walks slowly up the stairs.

The silence he leaves is deafening.

"Close the door," Joel says slowly.

You do as he says. The heavy metal door closes with a loud thud and you turn back around toward him. He is leaning against the table Sebastian was just sitting on, staring back at you.

"Listen-" you start, but he raises his hand to stop you.

"Do I look like I want to hear your explanation?" He says, sternly.

He's looked at you angrily before, but never like this. His features have hardened into the mask you've gotten to know better over the last few weeks. The mask that has only slipped for a couple of moments here and there. Moments that make their way to the forefront of your mind whenever you're all by yourself, whenever your eyes close, you're trying to focus or falling asleep. Moments that feel so fleeting that remembering them feels like trying to trap a hummingbird with your bear hands. You drop your gaze.

"Two things," he says slowly, ripping you out of your thoughts. "One, you will not be going to that dinner and two, you will start listening to what I say or you're out." The chief holds up two fingers in front of him.

"You can't tell me not to go," you say. "I'm not your property."

"That's right," he says. "Much worse. You're my employee."

"Which means you should actually do as I say," Joel leans forward and almost growls when he says, "If you go to that dinner, you're done here."

"That's blackmail," you whisper.

"That's an order," he insists.

"I don't take orders from you," you snap and Joel lowers his head, threateningly.

"Did you not just see what happened to the last guy that tried that shit with me?"

You shrug. "Did you not understand the first time I told you that?"

"You will be taking a lot more than just orders from me, if you keep up this tone, Darlin."

"Is this the part where you tell me off like the boys or do I get the usual "I'm the chief of police and what I say goes"- speech?" You say. "Or does that come later?"

Joel exhales sharply. "Why were you down here with them?"

"Were you looking for me?"

"Just answer the damn question."

"Daniel asked if he could show Sebastian around and he asked if I wanted to join and I said sure," you reply.

"It's Sebastian now, is it?" He spits out the name like its some fruit gone bad.

"That was how he introduced himself to me," you say.

Joel nods slowly. "And you thought it would be a good idea to shoot some guns with Sebastian, huh?"

"Daniel said it would be fine, if we wanted to try it out," you argue.

"Christ," Joel says and rubs a hand over his forehead, freeing a lock that falls into his face.

"I didn't think it would be a that big of a deal," you say.

"You didn't think that's for sure," Joel snaps.

"I wasn't going to do it alone, Daniel was here," you reply, getting annoyed.

"Daniel had to take his shooting tests three times. He needs regular training to keep up with the rest. Did he tell you that as well?" Joel barks. "Did he also tell you that almost 30,000 people hurt themselves each year due to accidental firearm injuries? People get killed by not thinking."

You cross your arms. "I am around guns here all day. Maybe if someone would show me how to properly use one, I wouldn't be the liability I apparently am!"

Joel shakes his head. "You might work here, but you still are a civilian. Not a police officer."

"Daniel would have shown me," you say. Joel cocks his head to the side.

"Daniel would do a lot of things if you let him," Joel says, his eyes darkening.

You raise your eyebrows. "Does that make you angry, sir?"

He scoffs. "If you're asking if Riley makes my life harder the answer is yes."

"But does it bother you?"

"You should know that it takes more than that puppy to make me angry," Joel mutters.

"So it's me," you say. "I make you angry."

"You get on my nerves, there is a difference."

"Maybe if you stop treating me like an incapable child and more like a person with a functioning brain it might stop," you say.

"Maybe if you start acting like a person with a functioning brain I might start treating you like one," Joel replies.

"Then show me how to shoot and I won't need to rely on Daniel to protect me if I get into trouble," you say.

"Let me make a couple of things clear to you right now," he says. The strand of his hair is dangling into his right eye, making you slightly loose your focus. "First of all, you will not ever rely on Riley to protect you and second, as long as you are working here at this station, you will not ever get into anything that even resembles the kind of trouble you are talking about. Because I will make sure that that stays as far away from you as possible."

"So other trouble is allowed?"

He frowns, his eyes widening for a split second. "What kind?"

"What do you think?" You say and Joel huffs out a breath.

"Don't even st-"

"The kind that might come from me asking you to show me how to use a gun?"

Joel groans and pushes himself off the table. "Jesus Christ, fine!"

He walks toward the closets on the side of the room and he grabs a gun from the shelf. A couple of clicking sounds resound and then he turns back to you.

"Stand in front of the table," he says.

You grin and step up to the shooting stall, facing the paper figures in the back. You feel him even before you hear him coming up behind you. His breath blows against your neck and you can't help but think if this is another moment that is going to bite into your brain later and never let go.

"That is the safety," he says, pointing to a little lever on the gun, he's holding out in front of you. "You release it, the gun is hot, you close it, it won't fire."

Joel lifts his hand and holds the gun up to you. "Take it."

You wrap your fingers around it, slowly. It is heavier than you thought it was going to be. The cold metal a weird feeling on your skin.

"Lift it up and aim," he says and you follow his instruction.

He leans back a little. "Spread your legs for me," he says.

"Sorry?"

"Your stance needs to be wider," he says, tapping your outer thigh. The slight touch of his fingers feels like they're burning a hole through your pants right down to your skin, leaving a mark. When you keep looking at him, he adds, "Eyes on the target."

You move your legs to a wider stance.

"Shoulders back," he says and you pull back your shoulders, only to have them press into his chest. The materials of your shirts audibly scrunching against each other.

If you were concentrating on anything but the feel of his chest against your back, you might have noticed his breathing getting heavier. But when he lifts his arms and wraps his hands around yours, holding the gun steady in your hand, you finally loose all focus, wondering if this actually was the stupidest idea ever.

"Lock your arms," Joel utters. "Whenever you draw a gun, you should always have your body in this position to protect your shoulders from the recoil and to have a secure shot."

You nod, trying to concentrate on anything else than the sensation of his belt against your back. Christ, it's like you've never been close to a man before. But now you're close enough to sense his smell and you kind of don't want to move away, ever.

"Once you're ready to shoot, you take a deep breath in," he says and you inhale, shakily. "Take a deep breath out." You slowly exhale.

"And shoot," he says.

You pull the trigger and the sound that comes from the gun is nothing but a click. You pull the trigger again, but the only thing that resounds is the clicking sound of an empty gun.

"What?" You say and turn your head to find Joel grinning.

"You didn't give me a real gun?"

"Oh, it is a real gun," he says. "Just not loaded."

"Are you serious?" You say.

"You didn't actually think I would let you shoot a gun, did you? Are you out of your goddamn mind?" He says, stepping back, making room for you to turn around.

"I can't believe you," you exclaim and let the gun fall onto the table.

"This ain't some movie bullshit, Darlin. You can actually hurt yourself and I am not putting you in a position where you are able to do that."

"How could I possibly hurt myself when you're literally standing right behind me?"

"You don't need to fire a gun to know how to handle one," he says.

"So you just wanted a little feel up close behind me, did ya?" You hiss and cock your head. "Maybe you should have bid at the auction so you could have gotten your money's worth. But no, Sebastian got there first, too bad."

Joel slams his hand on the wall next to your head, separating the shooting stalls. "If you think even for a second I'm gonna take that guy's money and let you go to that dinner, you're dead wrong, Sweetheart."

"Don't Sweetheart me, Miller," you say. "And it is not up to you whether or not I go. At least it's not that creepy fucking dude in the polo."

"Oh", Joel raises his hands mockingly. "The mayor to the rescue."

You narrow your eyes. "Did it even for a second occur to you that you could have been the one bidding on that stupid dinner to save me from going out with that weird dude?"

"It did not, no."

"Wow," you say. "Thanks for that. I'm auctioned off like some fucking horse and you did not bother to think about helping me. Real nice, Miller."

Joel sighs. "I am not allowed to bid at the auction. None of the staff is. And I am your superior. I can't bid on an evening alone with you. That would be highly inappropriate."

"Right," you say, crossing your arms. "Because that's the one thing to happen now that would be inappropriate. Sure."

He rolls his eyes. "And if I had known that you were up there, I wouldn't have allowed it in the first place."

"Allowed it?" You say. "Who are you? My school principle?"

"Why on earth did you even agree?" He asks and ignores my jab.

"I agreed to a coffee. Lori said it would just be a cup of coffee."

"Christ," Joel groans. "Does no one ever run anything by me at this fucking station anymore?"

"That feels like a you-problem to me."

"Thanks for the input," he says sarcastically and you silently stare at each other. The golden specks in his eyes have been replaced by a stern darkness. His face has hardened again, leaving no room for any funny business.

"And unlike the mayor I do not need to pay 500 bucks to spend some alone time with you," Joel says. "I just wait until the next time you stumble into my bathroom in a bikini."

You inhale sharply. "That was an accident!"

"Okay," he says. "Then I'll just show you how to really shoot. Turn around again for me, honey, so I can get a good feel, huh?"

"You're such an asshole, Miller," you hiss and raise your hand to push against his chest, but he grabs your wrist before you can hit him. With one quick tug he pulls you tightly against him and turns your arm around your back. One step forward and he has you trapped between his body and the shooting table. You're breathing heavily and he's close enough for you two see a single bead of sweat trickle down his neck over his tan skin into the front of his button down.

You lift your chin in a challenge. "You can just tell me if you want to take me to dinner. No need to get all riled up."

"Imma take you to a lot of places," he says, his southern drawl slipping through, "dinner won't be one of 'em."

You laugh. "Uhh, I'm shaking in my boots."

"You so desperately want to be taught a fucking lesson, don't you?" He hisses and his eyebrows narrow, his grip fastening.

"And you so desperately want to teach me one, don't you, Mr. Miller?"

He lifts his free hand, placing it on top of the table, pushing you to lean back onto it. For the first time your bodies are consciously fully pressed against each other and almost as if it is a reflex, you slowly open up your legs for him. Joel's head snaps down to your hips, his eyes widening. You think he's about to say something but his lips just part slightly as he moves to step in-between your legs. He's towering over you, still holding on to the wrist that's pinned to your back. This cannot be good. Your mind goes completely blank as his eyes trail up from your hips over your body and fasten on yours. They're like a gloomy dark sky harbouring the promise of a storm.

"What did I tell you about calling me Mr. Miller?"

"Last time I checked, I'm not wearing a bikini and this isn't your house," you whisper.

"Exactly," Joel says, "so it's Chief for you."

"Does that only apply when you're between my legs or also when you need to scratch that power itch again?"

Within the blink of an eye he lets go of your hand and pushes himself away from you. "Who says these are two separate things, Darlin?"

You sit up, scrutinising him.

Joel narrows his eyes. "Now get out, before I change my mind about that lesson."

You push yourself off the table. ""Look who's talking now."

"You need me to spell it out for ya?" He says and walks toward the door, opening it, motioning for you to get out.

"Thanks for the instructions, Chief," you say sarcastically as you make your way out of the room. "Really helpful. Especially the practical part."

His fingers imperceptibly brush against your lower back as you pass him by the door. "For the rest of the day," he starts and lowers his gaze to yours. His eyes giving him away for the quickest second. "Be a good girl now, will ya."

You step out of the room and turn for the stairs. One last glance over your shoulder. "Yes, sir."

You point towards the ground — horse tracks, two sets — that head up the mountain.

"Maybe they found shelter there!" she yells, pointing towards an abandoned ski lodge. Years ago you remember clearing it of infected but it isn't part of your usual patrol routes. You nod and dig your heels into the sides of your horse, urging the poor thing through the blizzard and up the treacherous terrain.

You ride the rest of the way in silence. Not that you could hear her anyway, but you both seem to have the same heavy pit in your stomach. You haven't checked out this place in a long time. Anything or anybody could be in there. But Joel and Dina might be in trouble. You had to go.

When you approach the lodge, you bring your horses inside. It's quiet when you slide down from your horse. You exchange glances with Ellie and jut your chin upwards.

"They'd go up high," you say softly. "So they could get a good look at the land."

She nods in agreement before equipping herself with her rifle. You each check that your guns are loaded — long range and side arms — and double check your knives are still hidden in your boots and belts before advancing towards the massive staircase.

Foolishly, you allow yourself to think everything is fine. That they just came in to warm themselves up and wait out the storm. But as you approach the double doors, you hear voices. Ones you don't recognize.

You look at Ellie once again and she shoulders her rifle. You press a finger against your lips and she nods as you creep quietly over the ancient floorboards. Holding your ear up to the door, you listen.

"Because it doesn't matter if you have a code like me, or you're a lawless piece of shit like you," you hear a woman's voice say. You swallow nervously and grip your revolver tighter in your hand.

"There are just some things everyone agrees are just fucking wrong."

You hear footsteps slowly cross the room. It sounds like they are heading in your direction, towards the doors. Your heart slams loudly against your ribs but you are laser focused. The adrenaline in your body sharpens your senses and it's like you can practically see through the doors. You can imagine whoever this is stopping near something by the wall, just feet away from the door where you stand ready on the other side.

You give Ellie one more nod, confirming you're both ready to do what it takes to save the ones you love, and you take a deep breath.

Ellie is first. She kicks the door in and almost immediately gets knocked down by some man standing guard, but somehow you know it's fine. She's not hurt, she just got the wind knocked out of her.

You don't even see Joel or Dina yet. You only see the girl in a grey henley shirt, tucked into her oversized khaki pants, standing in front of a set of golf clubs.

She swivels around in surprise and you lock eyes for one devastating moment. She seems to understand her fate before you. Maybe she sees the pure rage and anger written on your face, one that she herself harbored for five years. Maybe she always knew it would end this way, same as her father.

You raise your revolver and slide one eye shut. It feels like it takes an eternity but it's really only a split second. The girl in front of you no older than Ellie holds her breath. You see fear and helplessness flicker across her eyes before your finger curls around the trigger and a loud bang echos through the vast, open ski lodge.

Blood sprays everywhere and her body drops to the floor with a thud. It seems to have shocked the other four members of the group because there's a moment of hesitation. A small hole burns right between her eyes and thick, sticky blood begins to pool underneath her braid. Her eyes remain open, staring lifelessly at the ceiling.

Ellie is still on the floor, but the man who knocked her down isn't paying attention. You shoot him in the knee and step into the room. Behind you, the man shouts and drops to the floor. You hear the sickening sound of Ellie's switchblade sink wetly into his ear, then the yelling stops.

It feels like you're on autopilot. Like you are barely aware of what you're doing. You feel shockingly calm. Looking back on it, you chalk it up to some primal, baser instinct. You've always heard people are capable of doing impossible things when they are under extreme duress.

This was one of those times.

Ellie clambers to her feet behind you. You can hear her fumbling with her gun, but you pay it no mind.

Three people left.

There's a woman with no hair reaching for a gun leaning against the fireplace. You exhale steadily and take aim — another loud blast, dark red blood sprays the light stone wall, and another heavy body hits the floor.

The last remaining man and woman begin to scream.

The girl with the black hair and bangs charges you with a knife. You turn, expression blank, and raise your gun, but Ellie gets there first.

A bullet lodges itself into the side of her head. You see her face go slack and her eyes roll back before she crumples to the ground. Warm mist sprays you, covers your face and neck, but you don't care.

You swivel on your heel when you hear footsteps running towards the door. The last man. He kind of looked like Tommy, you notice idly. You roll your shoulder, loosening it up, and raise your gun.

You feel completely at peace when you pull the trigger and your bullet sails through the final man's cheek. He yelps and falls to the ground. He stays alive for about thirty seconds, howling in pain, until finally his body stills and silence fills the room.

It was done. Not what you expected to do today, but it's what you trained for — the unexpected. To do what it takes to save your own.

"Oh, shit," Ellie says, holstering her gun and rushing across the room. You turn, heart rate spiking when you snap out of your haze. Ellie is crouching over Joel on the floor. She is hovering over his leg and it's only then when you notice blood pooling underneath him.

"Joel!" you cry out, dropping your gun to rush to his side. With an indescribable amount of relief, you notice aside from the fucking shotgun that blew a hole in his knee, he's otherwise untouched.

"They— they wrapped it up," he stammers. You look and see the belt wrapped tightly around his leg for the first time. You frown, confused, but shake it off.

"Okay," you breathe, "can you walk?"

He nods but his face is prickled with sweat and he looks pale.

"We got the horses downstairs. We- you can ride back with me. We'll be alright," you assure him with a small smile. Next to you, Ellie jumps up. She rushes over to Dina and begins to shake her shoulders, yelling her name.

"She's gonna be out for a bit," Joel grits. You lean down and offer him your shoulder. He wraps an arm around you and you hook your own arms under his to pull him up with a loud groan. He makes a pained sound but he finally is able to stand, leaning against you with his wounded leg hovering in the air.

"They sedated her," Joel explained when Ellie shot him a panicked look. Dina looked pale too, but she was breathing.

"Why?" Ellie asked. Joel shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Can we talk 'bout this later?"

"Ellie, help me get him down to the horses," you say. She begrudgingly stands and gives Dina one more look. "We'll get him on mine and then come back for Dina," you assure her. She nods and ducks underneath Joel's other arm, supporting his weight as all three of you slowly make your way down the stairs to the horses.

It takes a while, but when you have both of them ready, you finally are ready to leave behind the nightmare you almost walked into.

"Jackson," Joel says weakly behind you. You're leading your horse down the mountain, towards the town currently engulfed in flames. You swallow and square your shoulders.

"Tommy's there," you say confidently, "he knows what to do. I'm— I'm sure it's fine."

Half a mile passes in the worst blizzard you've seen in years before Joel speaks again.

"You saved me."

You stiffen but otherwise remain silent, focused on the trail ahead. So he speaks again.

"She was gonna kill me," he continues. Tears well in your eyes and you shake your head.

"But she didn't."

His grip around your middle tightens.

"I killed her father," he adds solemnly. You shrug.

"We've all killed people."

A beat passes between you.

"Her father was— was the doctor."

It takes you a moment, but you connect the dots. You remember what Joel told you about that day in Salt Lake City. What he did to save Ellie. What he swore he would do again, if given the chance. A decision you agreed with and still do.

"Well," you sigh, "it was either them or us."

"I deserved it," he says firmly. You nearly turn around a deck him, but you stop yourself.

"Shut the fuck up, Joel."

"It's true," he urges.

"I don't give a shit," you seethe over your shoulder. "We all do bad shit to save the ones we love. It's the world we live in now. Anyone in your position would have done the same thing."

Joel goes quiet again and you glance to the side. Ellie is nearby but the wind is too loud. She can't hear you. Besides, she's too worried about Dina to care.

"Would you have done it?"

"What?" you scoff, "kill whoever stood in my way to protect the one I love?"

You feel him nod against your back.

"Isn't that what I just did?"

You steer your horse through the trees. You're about halfway to Jackson now. The fires have almost been put out. Whatever happened is coming to an end. The next few months will require a lot of work, a lot of rebuilding. Your lives are all once again forever changed, but you've been through worse.

Everything will be fine.

He comes to you every Friday, in the loneliness of your room, in the hollow space of your life, through the cold hard rectangle of your phone. 

Hey, baby.

Hey, Frankie.

How’s my girl doing?

The caress of his voice convokes the memory of his touch, of the bedspread’s synthetic fabric, stained and slippery, and the rough material of the brown rug abrading your knees. 

You close your eyes, so you can see it better. His freckles, his dimple. The dip between his collarbones. His skin of gold, the smoothness of his curls, gliding between your fingertips. 

His cold hard stare. His soft sad eyes. 

I’m good. 

You close your eyes and smile, because he’s there, still, another week, true to his word, and the modulated sound in your earpiece lets you hear his own relief, breathed out in a smiling exhale. 

Through space and distance, through memories, his hands ghost your skin. 

Sometimes, the round accents of his low husk guide your hand downward, down between your legs, wringing wistful waves of pleasure out of you. 

Let me hear you come, baby. 

It’s a distant echo. A forlorn imitation of what his body did to yours in the motel room. Outstretched shadows on a cave’s wall. 

And afterward, his voice sounds pained, hurting the same way your heart feels bruised. 

Sometimes, most times, he just wants you to talk. 

Tell me. What’d you do this week? Learn anything new?

Is it worth it? What you've learned in this seven day gap, this open wound of a time-stretch, waiting for his voice to fill your ears like his body once filled your life, is it all really worth it? 

Your bones are worn out, your skin feels too big. Your heart is shrunk, aching, heavy like lead, blackened like coal, near the wild creature crying ruby tears. 

And yet, you learn. Every week, you have something new to tell him. Every week, intently, he listens. 

In the loneliness of your room, in the hollow space of your life, through the cold hard rectangle of your phone, your love continues to grow, nurtured by words and silences. 

—

In a surprising turn of events, you don’t entirely dislike New York. 

The city still mildly scares you. Its buoyant history feels like a sparkling secret you’ll never be let in on. Its mythical aura makes you feel small and provincial. It’s definitely too big, too noisy, too stressful. And, you’ve learned at your expense, ridiculously pricey. 

But it is also completely, blissfully anonymous. People don’t only ignore who you are, they also do not care. Since you got here, your name hasn’t once elicited the silent gasp or double take it never fails to provoke down in Tampa. 

And instead of drowning, forever disappearing, you wake up every morning and breathe in a big gulp of saturated New York air, making the conscious choice to tame the current. 

Spring is undecided, imprecise. It oscillates between chilly mornings and warm afternoons, cumbersome jackets and disorientation. 

Your shabby blue suitcase stands out like a sore thumb in a corner of Polly and Ava’s living-room, styled with slick 1950s furniture, straight lines, confidential art pieces, and quality material. 

Thrown from a life sentence in a glass tower into this transient condition, you vacillate, but hang on tight, and you wait, in between Fridays, to be tethered by the thread of Frankie’s praise and encouragement. 

On weekdays, from 9 to 5, you sit behind a black square desk on the third floor of a modest Manhattan publishing company, proofreading copies of psychiatric essays for typos. 

The work is dull, tedious, an entry-level position hardly above an internship, but the task is concrete, its results tangible. It provides you with a decent salary you might owe entirely to your connection with Polly, and the priceless satisfaction of a job accomplished when the working day is done. 

You miss him. 

Summer is unforgiving. The entire city smells like hot trash, melted asphalt, car exhaust and overwrought engines. The combined heat from millions of strangers' bodies pressed together in urban proximity is otherworldly. 

The nearby presence of the Atlantic Ocean, centuries of waves, dark and unfathomable, is impossible to conceive. Your frazzled eyes search the city sky in vain for the line of the horizon. 

The commute from your furnished studio apartment in Jackson Heights is uncomfortable and never-ending. You read voraciously, to prevent your mind from wandering to the square window with the yellow curtains, the black-edged mirror and the one dollar store painting of the Appalachian. Your lost paradise. Your unexpected home.

At night, you’re too tired. Too tired to eat, too tired to read any more, or even watch television. You stumble onto your empty bed and pray for an empty sleep.

On weekends, you seek refuge in air-conditioned museums. There, in the bustling silence, among crowds of eclectic tourists snapping performative pictures in square format, your life is suddenly, quietly upturned: art understands. Art heals. Art is the key to translating your raw feelings. A catharsis for your searing emotions. 

You miss him. 

With fall come crisp winds, clear lights and yellowing leaves, and the city turns another kind of spectacular. You finally seem to find your bearings. 

At work, you’re given more responsibilities, along with your very own intern. A tall, polite young man in an awful suit that hangs off his lanky frame, he stops blinking every time you address him, hungry eyes snapping to your lips every now and then. It makes you smile, what you do to him. 

In your kitchenette, which is really more of a narrow corridor than anything else, you’ve taped a world map on which you pin a round, colourful thumbtack for every new cuisine you taste. Cold burritos shared with Frankie on the motel’s dirty carpet are hard to beat. But Columbian chicharrón ranges at a close second. 

Forsaking rest, you spend your Sunday afternoons in a 1st Ave cinema, which specializes in pre-war films. In the solitary darkness of the red velvet-lined theater, you fall in love with Louise Brooks, with Pabst’s German realism, and Murnau’s Sunrise. New names and faces crowd your thoughts during your daily commutes: Bette Davies, Theda Bara, Marion Davis... Slapstick comedies have you kicking your feet, and you devour every book and article you can dig out on the Hays Code. 

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, you clock off early and hurry uptown, where you attend evening classes in art history in a small overheated classroom decorated with faded museum postcards from all over the world. 

The attendees form a small mismatched crowd of second-chancers, seeking meaningful connections more than a proper education.

Thierry is the first to approach you. A stupidly handsome, late twenty-something man, sporting a dark Mohawk and second-hand bespoke shoes matched with a leather perfecto, Thierry claims to be French Canadian, and you know better than to call him out on the obvious fib. If anything, you’re more than willing to play along. Thierry takes you out as often as you’ll let him, sometimes to cafés and thrift stores, but more often to gay bars. He says you’re the best wingman he’s ever had, with your distant demeanor and the melancholy in your gaze. 

“My peers love your brand, bébé,” he says.

On one of these drunken late-evenings turned early-mornings, in a Brooklyn dinner with greasy pleather benches, over eggs Benedict and burnt filter coffee, Thierry tells you he was born Travis, in Nowhere, North Dakota. His voice remains surprisingly steady when he explains how, tired of living in fear, he ran off to New York with less than 18 dollars to his name. But his eyes won’t meet yours. Too shiny. Too liquid. 

He tells you about the straight man, married with children, who once broke his heart, and asks you about the one who broke yours. 

“I didn’t need a man to do that,” you answer in earnest. You watch the tears brimming in his dark blue eyes. You hear him say, “I love you, Lee. You’re the best friend I have,” and you believe him.

Around mid-October, Vera joins the Thursday evening class. She’s prompt to initiate conversation, and soon, you spend every other Saturday afternoon in her quaint Brighton Beach apartment, eating blini with homemade jam, mesmerized by her deep gravely voice as she recounts tales of her life in the USSR. Of how she fled the country, back in 1986, with nothing but grit, a suitcase full of photographs, and a heart bleeding memories. She speaks, you find, simply because you are willing to listen. Before you leave, she hugs you strong enough to crack your spine. 

Vera was a mother, once. To a blond boy named Igor, who died of undiagnosed leukemia not long after he’d learned to walk.   

When you leave her place, your clothes are impregnated with her scent, bergamot tea and vanilla tobacco. You take a long stroll to Coney Island in the brisk dusk, clutching your scarf high on your face. The sharp Atlantic wind makes your eyes water. Shivering, you sit on a boardwalk bench, and marvel at the Wonder Wheel’s lights, brightening the crepuscular fall.

You miss him.  

Ava seldom has time for you in her ever busy schedule. Sometimes, the two of you meet for a quick lunch, and every once in a while, she takes you to an art performance where young adults with edgy haircuts douse their naked bodies in paint in front of a live audience to protest climate change or human trafficking. You don’t always understand, in truth, you rarely do, but you always welcome the opportunity to broaden your horizon. 

Polly makes sure to have you over for dinner at least once every two weeks. The regularity is touching. Some nights, you feel like indulging, and take a cab back to your place.

You learn. Every day, you learn. Through sweltering heat and ice-sharp cold, through lively chatter and the crackling of dead leaves. Through loneliness, yours and other’s. You learn. 

Home isn’t always a place. Sometimes, home is people. 

And you miss him, you miss him, you miss him… 

—

Twenty-nine Fridays. 

Frankie once more sat down behind Lupe’s desk at the dispatch center, to count down the weeks since your departure on the large cardboard calendar. 

There’s 29 of them now. Soon, those empty Fridays will outnumber the ones you filled with your skin and your scent. 

Your absence has torn a gaping hole inside his chest, and loneliness came pouring in to fill it. The feeling is alienating. It’s worse than shame, worse than fear, fear of hurting and fear of dying. The grief is all encompassing. It’s worse than everything he’s ever been stricken with. 

“Time will help, hermanito,” his sister had said shortly after you’d left. “Time is gonna make it better, don’t worry. Paso a paso.” 

Will hadn’t said anything. Will would never lie to his face. 

Frankie knows, just like Will does, that time ain’t gonna do shit. If anything, time will only make it worse.

Time has forsaken him. Everywhere around him, people go on with their lives, moving forward, making plans. 

Lua’s curls grow longer, her babbling evolving into fully formed words, and her balance becoming surer as she explores the world around her with her big bright eyes wide open. His beacon. His pride. His little miracle. 

Marcus moved in with Lupe. There was a proposal, quickly followed by talks of a spring wedding.  

Tess’ll be starting college soon, sponsored by the Redfly Family trust, her little sister already attending middle school.

Will went back to Colorado, where he found a counseling position at the VA office in downtown Aurora. 

Benny quit the MMA circuit and followed his brother, like he always does. Met a girl back home, a brunette with water-clear eyes, a kind heart and a sharp sense of humor. Now, they work together on her father’s tree farm, and he says things like, “she gave me a purpose.”

And Frankie’s stuck here. Stuck inside his pain, locked up within his loss with a hole the shape of you inside his chest, surviving on the promise of your voice every Friday at 7pm. Of your cheery tone when you talk about what you’ve discovered and learned, your new friends, your new tastes, your unassertive victories. Your steady healing. 

Only he knows your life up there can’t always be milk and honey. But you won’t tell him about the hardship. Bottling it up for his sake, he assumes, but then, where’s his fucking purpose? 

His longing just follows him everywhere, dimming the sun, turning his food all wrong, turning his friends to enemies, places that once brought him solace no longer meaning relief. The cab of his truck devoid of your scent, a song on the radio that you’re not here to hum, and his blood turns to lead. The whole world around him, a reflective surface to reverberate his grief. 

So Frankie waits. Minutes, hours, and days. He aches and simmers and he waits. He’s cut for grit and patience and restraint, anyway. He waits for time to remember about him, to let him hop back onto that fast-paced train, he waits to be alive again. Hold your body close to him, feel the coolness of your touch, breathe in the scent of your perfume. Be your man. Keep you safe. Forever and always. 

He waits, until one afternoon in early December, when Lupe approaches him in the break room after his shift. 

“We need to talk,” she says. 

The following morning, a Thursday, an incoming call wakes him up. The sound of your sobbing comes in shaky and muffled through the receiver, and his spine grows rigid.

“I need to see you,” you say.

And Frankie knows he’s done waiting. 

—

The front door rattles with three successive knocks. Like a bloodhound, you still, head perking up, a near white-knuckle grip on the vacuum handle. You press the tiny button on your headphones to pause the music, and Kate Bush’s voice fades to silence, allowing the vacuum’s roar to resurface. You kill it, too. 

It’s impossible you could have heard anything over all this din. 

You balance the vacuum handle against the dresser to grab your phone that’s lying there, and check the time on it. 

Noon. Frankie’s plane just took off. He isn’t due here for another three hours. Leaving you just enough time to finish tidying up the apartment, take an everything shower and hop on a cab to go pick him up. You purposefully postponed the cleaning until the very last minute, so you wouldn’t go insane waiting for him in these last hours.

A little pang of guilt flares hot across your neck and cheeks, quick and sharp, at how shamelessly you begged over the phone, a couple of days prior. Letting him hear your sniffling, the sound of your tears rolling down your face, if you could have, just because you couldn’t bear the misery of crying on your own anymore. Unabashed and so very selfish in your need of him. Of his hold and his warmth. His eyes and freckles. The weight of his body, the low thrum of his heartbeat. Petulant like a child. Please, please come here.

You snatch the headphones off your head. The room is silent. Three floors down, the neighbor’s yelling at her husband again, their baby crying. No one in the hallway knocking on your door, then.  

“Damn it,” you mutter, tossing the headphones on the dresser and padding over to the minuscule entryway. Wearing nothing but your sleep shorts and ragged college t-shirt, all of which should have been in last week's laundry load. If someone’s here, they’re in for a smelly treat. 

You wrench the door wide open, like a dare, like a vain wish, and you’re met with the solid wall of Frankie’s broad chest. 

A gasp, yours, short and high-pitched, and he collides into you, his arms circling your waist, pulling you flush against him. His face burrowing in the curve of your neck, his hat knocked off his head with the force of the collision. A hard press, a sharp inhale, he’s hoisting you up and carrying you inside, kicking the door shut behind him. 

Your heart, black and shrivelled, is suddenly too big for your rib cage. The wild creature’s purrs are deafening. Dopamine floods your brain, you’re madly happy, a relief so intense you’re trembling. 

“I’m not leaving this stupid city until you’ve given me this t-shirt,” he says, his mustache grazing the tender skin behind your ear. 

He smells like cold air, and underneath it, him. Old leather, a hint of sawdust, blond and taffy-sweet, and you smile through the tears lumping the back of your throat, wrapping your arms over his shoulders, fingers threading through his curls, digging into his thick jacket, socked feet dangling an inch above the floor. 

“It’s gross. I’ve been sleeping in it for a week, at least.”

“Yea, well, that’s the point, baby.”

You laugh, a choked up sound, half elation half sob, the curve of his own grin felt against your throat. 

“I’ve missed you. Fuck, Lee, I’ve missed you so much,” he groans, and his words, rasped and warped, bear the weight of his loneliness. Months worth of sleepless nights. 

His large hands span your back in all directions, a needy grasp at the soft curves of your hips, back up to your shoulder blades, and down to your waist, making sure —Are you real?— making up for everything that’s been lost. Your back arches into his chest, into his pulsating life force, your leg hitching up along his cold denim. 

There’s all of his strength, all of his need in this embrace. Forever imprinting the shape of you into his flesh. 

“I’ve missed you, too,” you whisper. 

His right hand leaves your back, barely, just long enough to slide the strap of his black rucksack off his shoulder, before it returns to you. Fingers curling around your nape, his forearm aligning with your spine. The metal of his belt digs into your belly as you push into him with a near matching strength, no space left between your bodies for anything but this bright beaming bliss. 

Entwined like honeysuckle and ivy, you stand there, in the entryway, under the dangling naked bulb. Basking into each other’s scent. Bodies thrumming high and strong like a power line of the highest voltage.

“Let me look at you,” he says after a while, hands cupping your face, dark eyes raking over your features under his creased brow, “how are you feeling, baby?”

His gaze flicks over to the thin scar in your hairline before it locks with yours, and it’s a binding spell, again, always, intact and unaltered. Black magic and fate, things that aren’t even real except he makes them. 

“I’m good!” you laugh, your fingers curling around his forearms, a stubborn little tear hanging from your lashes. “I’m good, now.”

“Yea? Good,” he nods. “You look good. You look fantastic.”

Your lips pinch down a bashful, incredulous smile. He leans back into you and presses a pointed kiss to your lips, greedy, wet, open-mouthed, and you respond in kind, eager, starved. He tastes of coffee and him, and you might lose your sanity with how content you are feeling, how happy, how frighteningly complete.

His hands snake under the hem of your t-shirt, and there’s the cold tip of his fingers, the warm cup of his palms, spanning the expanse of your back, roaming over your shuddering skin and your body ignites in their wake, coming back to life, inch after inch after touch.  

You’re the first to break the kiss with a sudden concern, irrelevant, futile, and he’s holding your face again, his eyes hooded with want, drinking you in. 

“I thought your plane landed at 3pm. I wanted to come pick you up. I’m not even done cleaning, I’m sorry.” 

“No, no, I’m sorry. I got to the airport too early,” he chuckles. “Figured I could change my flight. I should’ve texted you.”

“Oh no, it’s fine,” you start, but his face slots back into the curve of your neck, and you flinch with a new sensation, as he nuzzles his way up, his plush lips a soft caress over the shell of your ear, his scruff a soft tickle. A dark shade of amber pooling down inside you. The thinner hair on your nape standing up. 

“I’m so glad you’re here, Frankie,” you breathe out, voice weighed by that thick and sticky thing coiling in your center. “It must have cost you a fortune.”

“Got a veteran discount. And even if I didn’t, I couldn’t fucking care less about the price,” he murmurs into your skin.

A veteran. A pilot. Once more, always, the notion turns your blood to mush, thick like molasses, saccharine like a schoolgirl crush. And then, a thought, overwhelming, terrible: this man, a veteran, a pilot, dropped everything to fly across the country and make sure you were okay. Because to him, you are worth it. Because he cares. Because you’re his.

Pride, fierce and territorial, tightens your belly. Pride and that something else. 

“Do you want something to drink?” you manage to ask, a reminder that you’re still very much your mother’s daughter. “Coffee? Something to eat? Do you need to rest?” 

“Thanks, baby,” he says, straightening up to let you see the wicked grin dimpling his gorgeous face, “I got everything I need right here.”

—

Through the density of his body, tense and giving, through a need stronger than the both of you, in the stifling intimacy of a closed motel room, month after month, week after week, you’ve learned him. 

Out of necessity, you’ve allowed time and physical distance to come between you and him, only to find the knowledge is still there, constituent to your very being. Ingrained, ineradicable. Like an instinct, like the sun’s fiery circle burnt into your retinas through closed eyelids. 

Mellow inside and out, lightheaded and boneless, you follow him to the kitchen. Standing close to him by the steel sink as he washes his hands, enraptured, enamored, chest pressed to the back of his arm, cheek rubbing the brawny swell of his shoulder. Humming, like a cat purrs. 

You lead him into the room where you eat, sleep, and dream of him, bare walls, sparse furniture you never chose, a single narrow window. It’s supposed to be home but doesn’t feel like it, until he steps in, and everything changes.  

He looks massive in here, just like he did in the kitchen, too large for your everyday life, all proportions distorted, your perspective reframed by the scale of his shape. 

You watch him undress, and the details of him resurface. The plane of his solid chest, the breadth of his shoulders, when he removes his jacket. The graceful arabesque of his wrist tattoo, his lean forearms, when his flannel slides off his frame. The dip of his collarbones with its firework of sparkling freckles. His tanned skin, his softer belly, his scars and old wounds, when he tugs off his t-shirt. The trail of darker hair underneath his navel. His thighs, as he slides down his denim, thick and strong, his knees, his calves, the harmonious shape of him, the sum that surpasses the parts, everything so perfect, and you realize just how much you remember, how delusional you had been, thinking you could go on without it.

Everything pushed to the back of your consciousness, so the separation could be bearable. 

As he stands before you in the gray midday light, your desire is tinged by mute apprehension. You fled Tampa moved by the urgent necessity of your own survival. Now that you've shed most of your scarred skin, now that the danger no longer feels imminent, how will you survive his absence, once he’s gone?

Frankie calls your name, his round husk roping you out of your head, and you ask, “Should I keep my t-shirt?”

“Not today. Today, you take off everything.”

Sat on the edge of your bed, he beckons you, guiding you to stand between his spread thighs with firm, tender hands. The reverence that softens his mahogany eyes, the love and want you find there, it’s all yours. Yours to keep and treasure. 

The tip of his fingers thread along your curves in a delicate touch, brushing down the back of your legs, up to the small of your back, along your spine. Then down your arms, his lips nestling into the inside of your wrist, smooth and fragrant. A soft trail of love, light kisses and caress, shedding weeks of longing in their wake. 

You cup his face, thumbs slotting in the bare patches of his scruff jaw, and relish in the way he leans into your hold. 

He bends into you, his mouth a wet press to your soft belly. The scrape of his teeth, gently teasing. 

Twining your fingers into his thick curls, your fingernails scrape over his scalp. The echo of his groan reverberates deep into your center, slick leaking warm down your folds. You tug his face back to look at him, and ever so quiet, he hums, the sweetest sound, the greatest gift, eyes flickering shut under the pleading arch of his brow, a smile curling the corner of his lips. So much abandon. So much trust. You’re falling.

A fleeting memory tugs at your heart, wistful, indelible. Yours for the night only, and your breathing falters, you’re sinking deeper. 

Yours forever, if you’d only say the word. 

“Do you remember when you wouldn’t let me touch your hair?” you tease, but there’s hardly any air left in your lungs. 

His smile broadens. 

“Remember when you told me your name was Marion?”

Your laughter rushes out of you and his eyes flash open, his smile fully bloomed, transforming his face, all dimples and crinkly eyes. 

“Come here, Marion,” he chuckles, sitting you over his sturdy lap. 

All at once, you’re crushed against his chest to the music of his rumbling mmhs, before his embrace loosens, head dipping, nipping at your collarbone, calloused palm skimming up the underside of your breast.

“Fucking perfect,” you hear him growl before his mouth latches around your nipple.

You keen, quiet, grateful, eyes fluttering close as his tongue twirls around the hardening bud, hanging on for dear life to the breadth of his shoulders. So many sensations, after feeling so little for so long. There’s a live-wire buzzing down from your sternum to your core, and your pulse’s a desperate staccato, you struggle to remain afloat.

With an appreciative sound, he sucks on your nipple, a rough hand squeezing your breast, and when he bites into the soft flesh of it, it shoots straight to your clit. Your hips bucking forward of their own volition, seeking more.

Under your folds, his cock twitches, exquisitely stiff for you, already. 

“I could come like that, you know?” you pant, rolling your hips into the bulk of his want.

A shake of his curls, and he lets go, his mouth releasing your breast with a wet sound.

“No,” he husks, teeth ghosting the column of your neck, “you’re coming on my cock. Put it in.”

Your heart stutters, skips a beat, or two, or several. 

His fingers dig into the meat of your thighs but he’s not moving you away, and there’s no space between your sealed bodies, no leeway for any movement. You’re trapped in his hold, pinned to his skin, glued to the amber golden light of him. And your hips keep rolling, and your heart keeps tripping, and your want keeps swelling. 

His lips wrap over the beating vein in your neck, sucking on the tender skin, sharp and stinging, teeth sinking into the surfacing blood. You lean into him, lean into the bite, lean into the pain.

You give yourself to it, all the love and the want and the affection, lose yourself in it, limp and pliant as it pours inside you, and everything has a name, now, everything is right, as his touch dissolves all the hurt calcified around your heart, all the fear you wouldn’t let out, all the failures and the doubt. 

You breathe out his name, and he breathes out yours, and you’re whole, bright, in bloom. Brimming with life.

He fits in your hand, warm and hefty, smooth skin and bulging veins, throbbing under the caress of your thumb, leaking thick and tangy over your knuckles, and you’re desperate for a taste, but you can’t let him go.

“Put it in, come on” he grits, but there’s no bark to his words, only need, bleeding into the bruising furrow of his fingers into the plush of your ass. 

A lift, you’re weightless in his hold, and he’s pushing thick and stiff at your entrance. Your face hanging above his, lips parted, trembling, and it’s already too much, the way everything within you pulsates and tingles. 

His gaze levels with yours, and his eyes spear into your eyes before he lowers you onto him with an unyielding grip and a shaky exhalation. And with each splitting inch, the searing girth of him stretching you blind. 

Fingers curled around his biceps, forehead pressed to his, you sink down to the hilt. The coarse hair at his base grazes your clit and sweat beads over your temple. 

With measured breaths, he pauses, giving you time to adjust. Eyes skittering over the small line splitting your brow, the quiver of your lip that you're too full to bite down on. 

For the first time ever, there has been no Stop me. This is something else. 

This is what comes next. What you’ve earned, what you’ve prayed for. 

There’s a tremor in his frame, the only evidence of his waning control, and he grabs at your ass, rocking you onto him, languid, scorching, a deep grind, perked up nipples grazing his solid chest, and you're already ascending. 

“Frankie,” you whine, plead, beg, walls a frantic flutter as his cock slots right into the center of you in rolling waves.

“Let go, Lee” he rasps, “let go, I got you.”

With the hushed assurance of his words, round and sincere, your release crackles and tenses. You slump in his arms, undone, rebuilt.

“I’ve missed you, Lee,” he presses into the slope of your shoulder, “God, I’ve missed you.”

—

He’s insatiable. Some of it is reminiscent of your first encounters at the motel, when his hunger was indiscernible from his rage. 

Tied up, with your arms behind your back and your face buried in the mattress as he holds your ass up with a bruising grip on your hips and pounds into you hard, rough, relentless. 

His fingers tangled in your sweat-damp hair, your knees on the hard tiles of the shower as he fucks your throat until you forget how to breathe. 

And suddenly reverential, his gentleness nearly too much when he wakes you up to cover your body in kisses and strokes. Overwhelming, the desperation with which he seeks the contact of your skin, his gaze spearing into your eyes as he grinds deep into your heat. 

The urgent, low husk of his voice when he murmurs, “Tell me what you want, Lee, let me give you what you need.” 

When he sits you on his face and relents control, when you pull on his curls to press him closer to where you want him, shameless and wanton, riding your release.

—

“And what about the Russians?” you ask, propping your chin on his chest. “Have you ever fought against the Russians?”

“Jesus, woman,” he laughs, “how old do you think I am?”

“I’m not talking Cold War Russians, I’m talking CIA stuff. I know you lot, Delta operatives.”

“Oh yea?” he grins, cocking an eyebrow. “What have you heard?”

A mischievous expression dances on your face and he chuckles again, a wider grin pulling his lips. Lightheaded, is one way to put it. Melting inside is another. Giddy like a teenager with your levity. 

Your eyes flicker down to his dimple and you lift your hand off his chest to brush your finger into the dip in his cheek. You keep it there for a beat, seemingly absorbed, enthralled by the touch, and then it’s over. You lower your head back onto him, cheek resting right over his scar, he knows there’s no coincidence to it.

Frankie lets out a silent sigh. His head lolls back on the fat pillow. Twenty-nine Fridays, carved out and hollow. Twenty-nine weeks, 1123 miles, carrying his love and hunger like a penance, and then this. Your naked body tucked against his, under the thick downy comforter, in this tiny room saturated with your scent. Your taste on his tongue. Your easy laughter. Your gaze sinking into his eyes. It's a blessed sensory overload. That old slicing ache in his chest singing another song. 

Somehow, you look younger than when he last saw you. Maybe not younger, just more carefree. Understandably so. Those last weeks in Tampa, you had become so frail. But you’ve put on some weight since. It sits harmoniously on your figure, suits your features and brightens up your face. Means there’s more of you, too, and he can’t keep his hands from roaming your curves. 

He knows he’s gotta talk to you at some point. It’ll kill the mood, probably. Inform you of that decision Lupe took that will affect his life for the foreseeable future. Affect yours as well, maybe. To some extent at least. That insane rippling effect. His past choices always breathing down his neck, when he’d give everything for a clean slate.

But you look so fucking delicious. He went so fucking long, too fucking long without you, now he cannot get enough. It’s too soon to risk it. 

There were plans. An itinerary you had drafted in the short lapse of time it had taken him to organize his trip here, and that you’d texted him on the night before his flight. Things you wanted to show him, places that matter to you. The Coney Island boardwalk, the Guggenheim, and some marine paintings in the Frick Collection you were excited to share with him. He’d texted back with some requests of his own: your office building, the place in Brooklyn where you attend the evening classes, your favorite places to eat. 

But since he arrived, he’s kept you in, or you have him, he cannot tell. Either way, the two of you haven’t left the dim apartment, and any notion of time has been reduced to the alternation of semi-dark urban nights and stonewashed winter days. 

He tries not to dwell on the fact that your apartment barely looks lived in. Bare walls, save for that map in your kitchen, if he can even call that a kitchen. Your suitcase standing beside the dresser, like you’re ready to take off. No curtains, no rug, no lampshade. It’s almost like you don’t really want to settle. Like you’re still trying to decide if you truly belong here. 

The only evidence of you is taped to the mirror above the dresser. A Polaroid of a kid in pigtails blowing raspberries, washed out yellow and blurry by the years. Your sister, if he had to guess. 

And that receipt tucked between the pages of a leather-bound book on your nightstand. From the cantina. That very first Friday he brought food to the motel. He checked the date stamp. 

It breaks his heart, the way you’re torn and scattered. Neither here nor there. His guilt might be irrelevant, misplaced, but it churns his insides nonetheless.

Still, New York is where you live now. You’ve made some good friends, work a job you seem to like enough to give it your best. It’s probably just a matter of time before you store away the suitcase. 

Part of him wants to go out and explore this city that has robbed you from him. Learn everything he can about your life here, so that when he flies out on Saturday morning, he can picture you in your environment, going about your daily life. Anything to try to survive your absence. 

He wants to meet your family. A dinner is scheduled sometime this week with your sister and her girlfriend. He’d like to meet your friends. Further explore the mixed emotions and feelings he experiences whenever you mention these people, whenever he thinks of them. Gratitude, for the affection and comfort they give you. Envy, for the parts of you that are familiar to them and that himself will never get to know. 

The person you are when you’re with them. 

“Frankie?” you call quietly, your leg a smooth brush against his as you hitch it higher.

“Yes, baby?”

“Have you ever thought about how people are like… made of layers?”

“That’s funny, I was just thinking about it.”

“Really?” you exclaim. 

Your head pops up comically, and his jaw tenses. Why can’t he bring himself to let you see the dopey smile that melts his face whenever you look at him like this? Until now, he’s never felt vulnerable demonstrating his affection. 

But things with you are different. That living pull between you is too big, bigger than him. He senses it thrumming behind your lungs while it whirs inside his chest like an answer, constantly, it might bleed him dry with its intensity. Like first love. Pristine. Brand new. All encompassing. 

“Mmh,” he grunts, gathering his brain. “Yea. Or maybe like puzzles?”

“Yes,” you agree, your tone serious, and you scoot up a notch, propping your head in your hand, so you don’t have to crane your neck to look at him, “puzzles, exactly. And everyone you know holds a different piece of you.”

“Yea, pretty much, I guess.”

“And so the puzzle of you is never truly complete because the pieces are never all together at once.”

You pause, pondering over your reflection. 

“Do you think all the pieces could fit together, if they were assembled?” Frankie asks after a moment, a strange sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, like his center of gravity has suddenly shifted. 

“Probably not,” you muse, head shaking imperceptibly, your gaze lost somewhere in the distance.

The memory of the motel room resurfaces, stifling heat, amber lighting. The distance that sometimes clouded your eyes, your silent retreat within yourself, that inner world of yours, your island. Week after week, getting closer, within his reach, yet never fully accessible. He swallows thickly. 

“I think you got all my pieces,” you say in a casual tone, in contradiction with his thoughts.  

He tightens his grip around your waist.

“I don’t think I do, baby. But it’s okay,” he lies, as if he’s not free-falling from the sky, plummeting straight into your ocean. 

Slipping out of his hold, you sit up on the rumpled bed, your naked back turned to him. 

“Do you think I’ve got all your pieces?” you ask.

“God, I hope not,” he sighs, running a palm over his face. 

Hugging your knees, you lean forward, away from him. The room is thick with a compact silence, as if all the sounds were absorbed by fresh snow.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?” he asks, brushing his knuckles along your spine. A shiver fizzles under his touch.

“I was wondering… Is it important? Do you have to know someone to love them? What’s the right balance between knowing your partner, and knowing yourself? What’s the tipping point?”

His hand splays over your lower back.

“The tipping point to what?”

You shake your head in frustration, straightening your back, your knee bumped against his thigh. Offering him your profile, but not your direct gaze.

“I don’t know how to explain. When do you start losing yourself to be what others… what people expect you to be? At what moment do you start feeling isolated? Misunderstood? In a relationship, I mean? Because that’s the beginning of the end.”

“Fuck, Lee, I don’t– I don’t have those answers,” he frowns, sitting up with a cinch. “I know I love you, all of you, even the pieces I don’t know. I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to be someone else.” 

Reaching behind you, you take his hand and weave your fingers with his. Your fingertips are cold, and he squeezes his into the back of your hand, to imprint some of his heat into you. Some of his words, too. 

At last, you fully turn. Under your scowl, something darkens your gaze. Something Frankie cannot decipher. His face close to yours, his eyes boring into your eyes, the moment tightens his throat, decisive, important. The pregnant silence. The gray winter light painting shades of blue on your pale skin. The old pain spears through his heart, sweet and beaming. It’s gonna split him in half. He knows he’ll never forget it. Never let go of this sensation. 

“I trust you, Frankie.”

“I trust you, too.”

Your brow shifts, the tiniest inflection, and your eyes widen, luminous like a rising sun, like a summer morning.

“I promise I’ll always be honest with you.”

“I promise I’ll always be honest with you, baby,” he rasps, the weight of his secret sitting on the back of his tongue. 

—

On the fourth day, at last, you venture outside, ushered by your sister’s and Polly’s dinner invitation. 

The itinerary had to be stripped to the bare minimum. Frankie will be flying out in two nights. Your heart stutters and sinks every time you think of him leaving. 

The cold is unforgiving, the sky a gray shade of white, heavy and full like a quilted blanket. Against reason, you offer to take him to Coney Island, where the Atlantic wind will freeze the ears off your head. You’re not sure why it’s important for you to take him there, but he says he’s game. 

Bundled up in your thrift store coat, your face half concealed between a scarf the size of a tablecloth and a wool hat, you watch him brave the cruel temperatures with nothing more than a Sherpa lined trucker jacket over a fleece shirt, and his ragged Standard Heating Oil cap. 

As you stand and shiver, waiting for the bus —the first act of an interminable route— the tip of his ears poke out from underneath his curls, reddened by the frosty air. Sliding your numbed-out hand in his, you’re surprised by the warmth of his palm. Your mind wanders to the harsh conditions his former life has trained him to endure. You squeeze his hand with all of your strength. 

Later, sitting side by side on the subway’s hard plastic seats, you rant to him about your love-hate relationship with the NYC Metropolitan Transportation Authority. The never-ending rides, ideal for reading, listening to music, or idle contemplation. The welcome aloneness of anonymity, in a sea of indifferent strangers. 

He listens, his sharp profile tilted down in concentration over your words, and you’re mindful to downplay the downsides, the maddening time-consuming sprawl of the city, the promiscuity, the last-minute route changes and the undecipherable PA announcements. 

It’s not a lie as much as an omission. You can’t send him back over there with the knowledge that despite all its perks, you’ve failed to make this place your home. 

Thinking of your earlier promise, you fall silent, the deafening thunder of the train’s wheels over the tracks ringing out in your ears like a metallic injunction.

Your head lolls onto the round slope of his padded shoulder. His large hand curls over your thigh with a strong squeeze as he presses his lips to your temple. 

“What are you thinking, baby?”

“I was thinking that I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to living here,” you confess.

His shoulder slumps under your cheek. 

It’s another hour on the F train before you make it to the ocean. 

On the boardwalk, by the deserted amusement park, the wind slices through you, biting the exposed skin of your cheeks and chilling your bones. The defunct Parachute Jump stands erect like a skeletal sentinel, guarding over the memories of summers past. The graceful Wonder Wheel’s silhouette stands out in bright colors against the bleak December sky, like a benevolent promise, the assurance of continuity and the return of better days. 

“I think it’s my favorite season to be here,” you murmur.

“I can see the appeal,” Frankie rasps against the wind, eyes trained on the line of the horizon over your head. His arms circling your waist, the wall of his solid heat at your back.

“What have you told your sister about me?” he asks after a moment.

“Not much. Are you nervous?”

“No, not really. Wait, should I be? Her girlfriend’s a shrink, right?”

You laugh heartily, and immediately regret it when air made of pure frost rushes inside your lungs, freezing its way to the very end of your bronchioles. 

“Polly’s nice, don’t worry about her. Don’t worry about either of them. I love them, but I’m not waiting for their blessing.”

You’re done abiding that collective “we.” Another resolve rising up to the surface without your conscious knowledge of the process. 

“Oh shit, look at that,” Frankie exclaims. 

Above you, snowflakes descend from the white sky in a fast-paced twirl. Your very first New York snow. It’s neither fluffy nor cute, though, more like fierce little icy shards barreling toward you like small crystalline weapons. 

Your first thought is of his child.

“Has Lua ever seen the snow?”

“No.”

You squint against the wind and the stabbing snow, against the white daylight and all of your past hesitations.

“I can't wait to meet her, you know.”

He pulls you in closer, reaching out for your body through layers and layers of winter clothes. 

For a while now, the feeling has grown steady and strong inside of you, taking up more space each day. Nurtured by the pictures and many stories you’ve asked Frankie to share with you. This time, you’re better equipped to name it, from the very beginning. And it’s strange, in a tranquil kind of way, the unconditionality of this love. The irrationality of it. You love her, without any reason for it. You love her, just because. 

“How is it, being a parent? Did you know from the start what to do?”

“Oh fuck no,” he scoffs wryly. “Most of the time, I feel like she’s the one teaching me how to be her dad.”

The honesty of the statement makes you smile.

“Do you think you could bring her, next time?”

“She’s gonna have to get used to it.”

Frankie’s words reach your ear as you’ve already spoken yours. You whip around in his arms to face him, struck by the look on his face. Like he’s trying to chew his molars.

“Wait, what? Used to what?”

“She’s gonna have to get used to the snow.”

—

Your eyes are fucking blazing, so big they eat up half your face. A single teardrop clings to your lashes, from the near polar gale, probably, and you’re shivering cold. 

He can’t stall any longer. Not again. Not this time. Not when he just gave you his word to always be honest with you. 

“Lua’s mother's getting married. They’ll be moving to Rochester in the spring. Her fiancé’s from there. His father passed away a couple weeks ago, and his mother has ALS. He wants to move back to take care of her.”

“Rochester… New York, Rochester?”

Frankie nods. Against his chest, your lean figure grows stiff. 

“She’s taking Lua with her?” you ask in a thin voice. 

Frankie nods again. The wind picks up in gusts, those sharp snowflakes falling down obliquely, murderous, whipping your faces relentlessly. He wants to get you somewhere inside, somewhere warm. What if you get sick when he’s about to leave? 

Why you seem to fall for the things that are the most arduous to love is a complete mystery to him. This place in the winter. Him.

Your fingers curl around his lapel. 

“She’s taking Lua, yea. We talked about it. I’m gonna have to relocate. There’s no way I’m seeing my kid less than I already do. I started scouting for jobs in the area.”

“Is that why you came here? To tell me?”

“I came here because you said you needed to see me, Lee,” he answers, the hint of a scowl sharpening his tone.

You tilt down your face and furrow into his neck, your woolly hat a fuzzy tickle against the scruff of his chin. Your unrelenting tenderness, that brought him back from the darkness.

“I’ve checked the flights here from up there. It’s a short trip, a little under two hours. I could come down to visit every other weekend. If you want me to, of course” he adds, his voice warped with sheer fucking terror, his heart thumping in his throat. 

“I don’t like it,” you shoot right back, rising your face to look him dead in the eye. 

It’s that same look again, the one from that very first night at the bar, feverish, lost, hopeful against all odds, against your better judgment. Instinctively, his hands fly to cup your face. It’s cold as marble, and his palms ignite at the contact of your skin, again, still, always. Your eyes pool with something dark and dense, your fingers leaving his jacket to cuff his wrists. 

“Every other weekend isn’t enough, Frankie. It’s not enough.”

“What are you saying, Lee?”

“I'm saying I want to go there with you.”

His pain huffs out of him. Disbelief in a puff of white breath. 

“You want to follow my ex and her new husband to fucking nowhere up north, when you just settled here?”

Brow pinched in a stern expression, you nod frantically between his palms.

“Yes. I want to be with you.”

“What about your sister? Your job? Your friends? What about–”

“I can find another job,” you cut it, words punching out of you and landing straight into his gut. “You said it’s only two hours to fly here, I can visit them, I want to be with you, Frankie, please, please, plea–”

His mouth crashes over yours, silencing your plea. Your lips are icy-cold as you press back into his kiss. He feels your arms rounding his back, your little fists bunching his jacket, clinging to his shoulders. He could swear he feels your heart, too, pounding loud against his, leaping out into his rib cage, exactly where he wants it, where he needs it, next to his, to keep it warm and safe. 

How did he get here, on this freezing boardwalk, facing the dark immensity of the Atlantic Ocean on the cusp of a second chance? On the verge of everything he never dared to long for? Everything he has ever truly wanted? 

“You’re gonna come with me, baby?” he chokes, the words rolling thick over his tongue. 

“Yes,” you sniffle, a tear running down your cheek.

“You’re gonna let me love you? Gonna let me build you a home?”

“Yes, Frankie,” you nod again, a smile tugging your lips, more tears slipping down your face, and he’s surprised the wind doesn’t turn them into pear-shaped diamonds. 

“Okay. Okay, alright,” he smiles. “Can we get somewhere warm now?”

You laugh, leaning into his hold. Blue lips, red cheeks, pink scar. Eyes of gold. 

“Yes,” you agree with another sniff. “Remember when we wished for seasons?”

The End

****

End notes: alright, Orange bedroom besties, raise your hand who thought they wouldn't end up together? I tried, this time I really tried, but there's nothing I can deny this man... or you, I guess? This series took a big chunk out of my life. It consumed a lot of my heart, time, energy, brain, emotions... Wow, look at that, not unlike therapy, huh? Anyway, enough about me, my point is, THANK YOU. Thank you for your patience, I know I'm the slowest and I feel terrible, thank you for reading, or for just passing by, thank you for bookmarking for later, engaging, lurking, liking, commenting, reblogging, sending an ask, reccing, thank you for supporting me in any way and manner, thank you thank you thank you, Ily and I appreciate you, genuinely, so very much 🧡 Thank you Kelli my love, for beta reading that whole damn thing with so much kindness, for teaching me so patiently, for holding my hand every step of the way, for listening to my endless rambling, for being you, smart and talented, selfless and gracious, for being my friend. This is a story about hope, and your stories brought back hope into my life. I love you, I like you, I admire you, until the end of times 🧡 Thank you Lua @pedrit0-pascalit0 for letting me love you on main, oops I mean use your name! Thank you for sharing your thots on the Pilot™ with me, thank you for being a menace in DMs and keeping me alive and alert with your smart and talent and humor. Ily. Big loads 🧡 @dreamymyrrh you know what you did, and everything you gave this story. I'm so grateful for you 🧡 I love you more, I don't want to hear anything, shhhhh 🧡 Now I'm gonna go lie in the dark utterly terrified that I won't ever have another idea or write another word rest a little bit and get back to work as soon as inspiration strikes again!

I used to think about how young you were in comparison to an old man like me, how you were only a little younger than Sarah would’ve been, and how stupid I would’ve felt if Sarah was always outsmarting me. Until I remembered all the times that Sarah did just that, and how much I loved her for it, rather than in spite of it. (Note to self: tell Sarah this in your letter to her). 

That’s not to say I loved you, not yet. I did love you, but I realized that a little later. I had to learn to like you first. 

Do you remember our first day out on patrol together? I begged Tommy to change my schedule. I would rather have spent my time with anyone else in the community -- Hell, I would’ve asked Tommy to give you a day off if it’d get me out of having to work alongside you. 

You overheard me talking to Tommy, and said to me, “You could at least wait until I’m out of earshot to bitch about me, you know?”

“I know,” I said. 

And we didn’t talk for almost the whole shift. Well, I didn’t talk, but you kept on talking, almost like you were talking to yourself. You didn’t even care that I was ignoring you. 

“It’s okay. I don’t like people either.”

“Who says I don’t like people?”

“Your face, your voice, basically your whole demeanor.”

You were so honest, and you had every right to be. It shut me right back up again. I don’t know if that’s what you wanted. Maybe you thought provoking me would make me talk, but I’m a stubborn, old asshole. I don’t think you need me to tell you that.  

“What did I do to piss you off?” You asked, after I gave you what you viewed as the silent treatment, and what I saw as peace and quiet. 

“Nothing. I just think you’re a little bit... egotistical.”

“So are you. You think you know everything.”

“No, but I know more than you. You haven’t got half the experience I have, and believe me, kid, you don’t want it.”

“You’re so melodramatic. And for what? Has the brooding bad boy behavior gotten you laid yet?”

For your information, yes, it had absolutely gotten me laid.  

But before I could tell you that, you stopped me, looked me dead in the eye, and said, “and by the way, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Tell me, then.”

“Tell you what?”

“About all the horrors you’ve experienced. If I’m so wrong, then prove it.” I challenged you because I thought you wouldn’t be able to come up with anything. I wouldn’t have said that if I’d known what I do now. 

You were so angry that you laughed at me. “Fuck you. You don’t deserve to know shit about me.”

A couple weeks later we knew each other’s whole life stories. I told you more than I’ve ever told anyone else, more than I think I ever will tell anyone else. It started when we got lost in the woods together. We were arguing as usual, and we only got ourselves even more lost. The sun was starting to go down, and I could see it in your eyes - you were getting scared. Maybe, for a second, I took some sort of satisfaction in knowing that you were the one who couldn’t handle it, but I’m still human - it feels a little cruel saying that now - so I wasn’t gonna let you suffer. 

“It’s not gonna do us any good to keep arguing, so can we agree to drop it?”

“Truce,” you said, holding out your hand, and when I shook it, you added, “but let it be known that you surrendered.”

“Don’t push it. You know if we stay out here long enough that we have to resort to eating each other’s flesh, you’re gonna be my dinner, not the other way around.”

“I hope I taste good.” 

You did, baby. You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. 

I think we had our first date that night. Sort of. It was late when we got back. Most people were asleep, and the bar was closed, but you had the key. 

“Tommy gave you a spare key?”

“Uh-huh. I assumed you had one too, but I guess I’m the favorite.”

“You’re prettier than me. Of course, you are.” 

I still can’t believe I said that -- I wasn’t even drinking yet. I can be a real idiot when I’m talking to a beautiful woman. 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You looked very pretty when you bothered to wash your hair last week.”

“I wash my hair, okay? Sorry I’m old and don’t wake up looking like a supermodel.”

“Who does?”

“I know you want me to say ‘you’, but I’m not taking the bait.”

“That’s okay. I know you’re thinking it, and that’s what matters.”

I was thinking much more than that, darling. 

You walked behind the counter, and asked me, “what do you drink?”, and I think that was the moment I knew I liked you. You could’ve --should’ve -- told me to fuck off. You had other friends (not that we were quite ‘friends’), but you chose me that night. I was a real fixer-upper of a companion, but maybe you liked a challenge. 

“Whiskey. Neat.”

You gave me that look -- that fuckin’ look -- that raised eyebrow and a tiny smirk. And it made me feel like a teenager caught staring at his crush. 

“Please and thank you," I added. 

You got up on the stool behind the bar, grabbed the bottle on the top shelf, and said, “you deserve it.”

“No, I don’t,” I said. “But I’ll take it.”

You sat beside me, and sipped your whiskey. (And you looked pretty hot doing it.) After a good minute of silence you said, “thank you for not killing me and eating me in the woods.”

“I’d get pretty goddamn bored if I didn’t have you yapping in my ear constantly.”

“I thought you hated it.”

“Only sometimes.”

“Then, why don’t you ever talk to me?”

“I’m talking to you right now.”

“Barely.”

So, I turned to you, put my elbow on the counter, laid my head in my hand, and gave you the same face you were giving me. I tried to pretend I was mocking you, but I think you knew I was trying to practice being more likable, being more like you. 

“Tell me something,” you said.

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“Tell me about you.”

“My name is Joel Miller-”

“We’re not at AA.”

“You’re goddamn right we’re not. This would be the shittiest AA meeting ever.”

“Okay, okay. How about you tell me when your birthday is?”

“September 26th, 1981.”

“So, you’re a Libra.”

“Oh c’mon, tell me you’re not into that shit. I was finally starting to tolerate you.”

“I’m a Cancer.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Cancer like the crab, not like the disease!”

“Mm-hmm. I’m sure you’re familiar with crabs as well.”

I got a laugh and a smack on the arm in return, and the laugh was worth the smack. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I know you can’t help being an asshole, so at least you’re making me laugh.”

I didn’t realize your hand was still on my arm until you asked me, “What’d you do before this? You’ve got nice arm muscles.”

“I worked in construction, I was a contractor.”

“Like a carpenter?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what Jesus was. I bet he had good arm muscles.”

“I don’t think that’s his most notable feature, but sure, why not?”

Despite the fact that we were talking all things Jesus, you were feeling me up. And you weren’t subtle about it at all. 

“Do you wanna play darts?” you asked, breaking the tension.

“Okay.”

You walked up to the dartboard all confident, and I expected an instant bullseye. You’d only had one drink and you were focusing so hard, practicing the swing of your arm like a golfer would. The first shot missed the board entirely.

And that’s when I learned you were awful at darts. 

“You’re terrible at this.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Then, why’d you ask me to play?”

“For fun. Plus, how else am I gonna get better?”

You weren’t even close to the bullseye. You weren’t even hitting the board at all half the time. Over the next couple of years, you got better, not a lot better -- I still won every game we ever played -- but you got closer. But, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, as they say. It probably counts in terms of people too -- I like to think our closeness counted for something, even if it couldn't last forever.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty," I said.

“You’re lucky you’re good at darts," you fired back.

“Is that an insult? Because I’m holding a sharp object and I’ve got good aim.” And with that, I threw the final dart, hit the bullseye, and won. “What do I get?”

“For what?”

“Winning.”

“You get to keep your pride.”

I was happy with that, but you turned back to me, stepped closer and whispered, “and this,” before you kissed me. 

I don’t know which one of us was more nervous. All I knew was that I liked you a lot more when you were quiet. All I heard from you was a little gasp when I lifted you onto the counter so I could keep kissing you without having to lean down and hurt my back ‘cause I’m an old man. I really thought my brooding bad boy look was gonna get me laid again that night, but you stopped me before I could get your top off. 

“Uh-uh,” you said. “You’re gonna have to do more than beat me at darts if you want more than a kiss.”

“Fair enough. What’s your price?”

“I’m not a hooker.”

I didn’t understand why you looked so upset until that day by the water when you told me. I’m sorry I said that, I really am.

“Sorry. What I should’ve said is, ‘Can I take you to dinner on Friday?’”

You gave me a nonchalant ‘sure’, and I assumed you’d keep it hush-hush, but you bragged about getting asked out. Why would you brag about me? That's something I still don't understand.

The next day, I went and asked Tommy for advice because I hadn’t dated in a long time, and he’s more of the romantic type. I thought our dinner date would be news to him, but you’d already told him. 

“Yeah, I know. She came in here asking for advice too actually.” 

He’s got a bigger mouth than you do. That’s why you two got along so well -- you were like those little old ladies gossiping at the hair salon. 

“What’d she say?”

“I’m sworn to secrecy.”

But Tommy always had a certain loyalty to you. He keeps your secrets to this day -- some of ‘em. 

“Give me some advice, please.”

“You were married once. You won a woman’s heart. Just do what you did back then.”

“I think you’re forgetting the fact that my marriage ended in divorce.”

“Just be yourself.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Yeah, it is. How about smiling for once?”

I tried, but I’d almost forgotten how to over the years. 

Tommy feigned disgust and said, “I take it back. Keep your usual pissed-off look.”

You taught me how to smile again. I don’t know that you meant to do it, but you did. Tommy says he knows when I’m thinking about you because of the way I smile. 

When I came over to pick you up for dinner, you opened the door wearing a bathrobe with your hair in curlers. I guess I was looking at you funny because you made sure to tell me, “Don’t worry, I’m not wearing this out. Go sit in the living room.”

“I’m not worried. You look beautiful already.”

“I do not. I look like my grandmother.”

“I imagine she must’ve been a hot commodity then.”

“She was actually -- or at least, that’s the story she used to tell us. She was Prom Queen and all that jazz.”

You could talk for hours, about anything. I could say one word and you could give me a tangentially related 20 minute long monologue. You were a good storyteller. I don’t think I ever told you this, but I used to think about how you’d be great at making up stories for our kids one day -- if we ever had them. I know I told you I didn’t want to have any, but that’s one of the few lies I told you. I was too scared to imagine that kind of a future with you. 

I had you in the present, and that’s what I cared about. I don’t remember what you wore that night because I spent most of our date looking at your face, trying to memorize every dimple, freckle or scar I could see. All the details.

I’m sure your dress fit perfectly, but what I cared about was how your hand felt when I took it in mine as we walked to the restaurant -- it felt right, more so with our fingers intertwined on the way home. 

It was one of the longest dinner dates in my not-so-long history of dating as it took you quite a while to finish your meal because you don’t talk with your mouth full (usually). I think our waitress was mad that we were there for so long. They were cleaning up by the time you were done eating. 

I don’t remember all the things you said. Even if I did, I don’t have enough paper to write it all down. But I do remember when you asked me, “Can I tell you a secret?” 

“Sure.” 

“This is my first date.”

I would’ve been less surprised if you’d told me you’d killed someone.

“Mine too,” I said. 

“Liar! Tommy said you were married... before all of this.”

“Does Tommy tell you everything about me?”

“No. He wouldn’t tell me when your birthday was. That’s why I asked you.”

“That’s ‘cause he forgot it.”

Really, I wanted to know if he told you about Sarah, or if I’d have to do it myself. Both. As it turned out, he told you before we ever really met. I told you by the river, but that came later. 

When I walked you home, we lingered by your door, and when I leaned in to kiss you goodnight, you turned your head, and I should’ve realized how special you were to me ‘cause I felt my heart sink. But, you asked me to come inside. You were always shy about kissing in public, but not on your living room couch. 

When we were inside, you let me take off your dress, but only after I agreed to take off my shirt. 

“Jesus,” you said when you watched me undress. 

“We talked enough about Jesus last time. It’s about you and me now, baby.”

I learned to be a gentleman growing up in Texas, that wining and dining a lady includes putting her first in the bedroom too. But you called the shots -- that night and all of the others we had together. You got down on your knees and gave me the most irresistible face. It was embarrassing how quickly I came. It’s still embarrassing, and you’re not even here to tease me about it anymore. I thought I’d get the chance to prove myself to you that night, but you stopped me. I remembered what you said, ‘this is my first date’, and I assumed you were a virgin. 

It was about a week later when I was trying to teach you how to skip rocks in the river that I asked you if you were one. 

“It’s not a big deal if you are -- not to me, I mean. I just figured maybe because you said that was your first date.”

“It’s kind of a long story, so take a seat if you want the answer.”

I don’t know what I expected you to say, but I already felt like I’d fucked up by asking. I didn’t want to make this mess I’d gotten myself into worse than it already was, so I sat next to you and waited for you to speak. 

“It’s not actually a long story, I guess. Just a sad one.”

It was the first sad story you told me, and you told me more stories than I’d ever been told by anyone else at this point. It was impressive how many happy ones you held onto, especially after everything that you told me that day. 

You didn’t look at me while you spoke. You mumbled and picked at the grass beneath you. Like a child. 

“I’m not a virgin, but I wasn’t lying when I said that was my first date. There’s just some stuff that you don’t know about me... ‘cause I didn’t want you to know these things about me. But it’s not like I was ever gonna get away with not telling you. It’s better that it happens now anyway.”

You started to cry, so I put my hand on your shoulder, but you shrugged it off. I was so used to the one doing the pushing away that being pushed away was jarring. 

“Before I came to Jackson, I used to do things for money. Those sorts of things. It’s not like I wanted to, ‘cause I’m not like that, you know.”

You explained how you’d lost both your parents by the time you were 16 and didn’t have any siblings, so you ended up with whatever friends you could find. Some of the few good people that were left. 

“There was a group of men who killed my friends just to loot their pockets, but they realized that it’d be more profitable to keep me alive.”

“So they forced you to...”

“Have sex for supplies, yeah. One of them was my first time, I guess. They did that stuff for a while, but once I’d been with a decent amount of men, they decided I was too ‘used up’ or something to be worth having sex with. I can’t decide if that made me feel better or worse. On the one hand, I didn’t have to have sex with them anymore, but I was also too gross to be wanted.”

“’Used up’ is bullshit. Back when the world was a little more civilized, those bastards could’ve gone to jail.”

“They’re dead.”

“Did you kill ‘em?”

“No, but I thought about it all the time. I remember thinking about strangling a man once. He was alone, so no one would’ve seen me do it, and the guys could’ve taken all of his shit too. They probably would’ve been happy if I had. I think that’s why I didn’t.”

“If you didn’t kill them, then how did they die?”

It probably wasn’t appropriate for me to pry, but the sadistic part of me needed to know that they got what was coming for them. I needed to know there was some justice left in this world. 

“They wanted food from some guy who’d gone hunting and they tried to sell me to him, but he said ‘no’. He looked so offended that I thought I was pissed off ‘cause they’d given him a bad deal... but he shot the one standing in front of him. Then, he yelled at me to turn around and I was sure I was gonna die, but I heard him walk into the other room, another shot, and when the third walked in from outside, another shot. He walked over to me, and I started crying and begging him not to kill me. He told me he wasn’t going to, but he made me close my eyes while he led me out of the house.”

“’Cause he didn’t want you to see the bodies.”

“Yeah... and I still thought he was going to kill me, even when he took me with him on his horse, and said he was taking me back to some place called ‘Jackson’.” 

I don’t know if I would say you got a happy ending, at least, not the one you deserved, but I saw a hint of a smile when you mentioned Jackson. And you didn’t have to tell me who the man was -- I know him well. 

“Tommy,” I said, confident in my guess.

“Yeah.”

After I dropped you off at home, I went by his place and thanked him. And then I went home and cried. For the first time in a decade.

“You know it doesn’t change how I feel about you, right?”

“How do you feel about me?”

“I like you… most of the time.” 

What I meant was, I love you. I just didn’t know it yet. 

“I guess I owe you a story too, then.”

“You don’t owe me anything... but you can tell me whatever you want.”

I think part of me wanted to tell you, or at least, part of me wanted you to know. “I had a daughter.”

“I know.”

I should’ve known, considering how close you and Tommy were.

“Tommy told you, didn’t he?”

“To be fair to him, he told me he had a niece.”

“Yeah, he did. She’d be a little older than you. It’s crazy to think that she’d be in her 30s when the last time I saw her she was 13.”

“I know saying ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t really do anything, but I’m still sorry”

“In a way, I’m glad she doesn’t have to see all these things. All the infected. She died before we ever had to go to a QZ.”

When you told me about the first QZ you lived in as a kid, it confirmed that for me. It pained me to hear about you watching your dad get bitten and leaving him behind, saying goodbye without knowing he was dying -- in one way or another. 

You told me later about how the only person you’d ever killed was your own mother, how she used to sell herself like you did, how you missed the first shot and you saw how scared she was to die. I think you had it worse than I did. 

“I think she was mostly scared because she knew I couldn’t do shit with a gun, and that I’d end up surviving the way that she did... and she was right.”

“Neither of you deserved it, and I bet she’d be proud of you now.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I’m proud of you.”

You cried, but you finally let me hold you. You cried so long that I thought you’d never stop. 

Do you remember your last day? I told you I wanted to be with you until the end, but you reminded me about your mother. You told me that even if a shot to the head had to be the way you went out, I wasn’t going to be there to give it to you. We had two choices: either wait until that day came or let you go before then. I said I wanted to go with you. I wanted to ask Tommy to give me the same cocktail he was gonna cook up for you. You said no. It was your last wish that I stayed. 

“I don’t wanna live without you.”

“I don’t wanna die, but I don’t get to choose. If I could live longer, I would. But just because I’m dying doesn’t mean you get to leave everyone else behind.”

Yeah, you brought Ellie into it. I wanted to tell you not to bring her up. I’m glad you did because as much as it hurt to think about her watching me die the way that I watched you die, it made me stay. I’m glad I stayed. Things are okay, but our last day is still my favorite day. 

We got up early and watched the sunrise, and I told you I loved you for the first time.

“I know,” you said with a smile on your face. 

“How?” 

You just lifted your coffee cup. When you moved in -- something I didn’t realize was happening ‘till it had already happened -- I started making coffee every morning before you woke up, and I started buying that French Vanilla bullshit creamer. I hated it. It was so sweet it made me nauseous. I could’ve gone and bought my own, but I’m still stubborn, I’m still a cheapskate, I’m still me -- even without you (which is something I thought I’d never be able to say). But that wasn’t why I started taking my coffee the same way you took yours.

It was one day when you’d already left for work but my shift didn’t start until later. I hadn’t slept at all the night before -- and not for any good reason, not for more time with you -- so I was tired when I woke up. I made myself some coffee, but I wasn’t even thinking straight, so I hadn’t noticed that I had put that creamer in my mug until I tasted it. But I wasn’t disgusted. I thought maybe you’d left yours behind and I’d absent-mindedly picked the wrong one up off the counter -- I very well could’ve gotten caught up in putting the toaster on the right settings (that’s something we could never agree on) -- but when I looked down, it was my mug. Yours was dirty in the sink. You were gone for the day. I was stupid to think otherwise. I was fantasizing. That was new. 

So, just as I am right now, I take my morning coffee like you took yours. It tastes like you, like you kissing me. 

I waited anxiously for you to say you loved me too. 

“Are you not gonna say it back? Do you not-- do you feel the same?”

“What do you think?”

“I hope so.”

You gestured for me to come closer so you could whisper in my ear and I thought maybe you’d give me a wet willy. But you said, “Joel Miller, I have loved you for a long time.”

I didn’t say anything. I don’t think I’ve ever been very good with words -- talking was your thing. I grabbed your hand and squeezed. We went out onto the porch and sat in silence. I wonder what you were thinking about. 

“Will you sing me something?”

You know I don’t take requests, and you know I don’t like an audience, no matter how small that audience is. 

No one would refuse the wish of a dying woman, but I couldn’t refuse you even if I knew you’d be there tomorrow and every day after. I only protest because you look cute when you beg. Not in that way -- you look hot when you beg like that. 

“What song do you want?”

“Surprise me.”

I sang Peaceful Easy Feeling because, as much as a part of me felt a sense of urgency, knowing our time was running out, most of me was just thinking about you, and I love you. Simple as that. 

You gave me a standing ovation just to see me blush. 

We all planned something special for your last dinner. I know you like simple things, so I tried to make it as simple as I could while still making it special for you. Maybe it was selfish to make it a night to remember when I’m the one who gets to remember it. 

Tommy and Maria were chef and sous-chef (you can guess who was who in that scenario), and Ellie was the waitress. 

“What are your specials tonight?” you asked. 

“We have either the steak and baked potato or the steak without the baked potato.”

“In that case, I’d like it with the baked potato.”

We probably lit a hundred candles to fill the room with enough light to see each other -- we had time while you were getting ready, since you’re a bit of a slowpoke. We picked flowers from the garden and put them in an empty wine bottle because we couldn’t find a vase, and conjured up a decent tablecloth. We had ice cream sundaes for dessert -- or at least, you did. You know what I had for dessert. 

“How about you, sir, would you like anything for dessert?” Ellie asked. 

“No, I think I’ll be having dessert when we get home.” I tried to subtly wink at you. 

“Ew! That’s disgusting. I don’t wanna hear about your sex life.”

“You’re the one assuming I was talking about sex. How do you know I don’t have a tub of ice cream waiting for me in the freezer at home?”

There was ice cream in the freezer, but the sweetest thing I’d ever tasted was between your legs. The moment we got home I picked you up bridal style and carried you up to our bedroom. 

“Baby, I know how long you spent getting ready, and I’m sorry to do this to you, but this needs to come off,” I said before I yanked down the zipper of your dress. You laughed as I ripped off your clothes. 

You gently undid my tie and when I watched you fumble with the buttons on my shirt, I said, “Just rip it, baby.”

“I don’t wanna ruin your clothes.”

“I don’t want you to worry about me or my clothes tonight. I want you to have me however you want me.”

“You’ll do whatever I want?”

“Within reason.”

“How do you feel about roleplay?”

“I suppose it depends -- what are the roles?”

“Husband and wife.”

“As long as I can be the husband.”

And then you kissed me -- with your typical tenderness but a new level of dedication. Slow and passionate, showing me what our lives could’ve been like. 

“I’m an impatient husband, and I want my beautiful wife to lie down because I think I’m gonna lose my mind if I don’t get to taste her.”

My mouth is useless when it comes to talking, but we both know I have other uses for it. I tried to go slowly, but I couldn't help myself. I swear your pussy was so perfect it made me reconsider my views on God. Though, I don’t think I am a man deserving of an angel. I think I just got lucky. 

That night I couldn’t care less about how loud you were. “Joel- fuck- you’re gonna have to slow down, or, or, put your hand over my mouth ‘cause - oh!”

“’Cause you don’t want anyone to hear? What’s the problem with them hearing, darlin’? Married couples make love all the time, it’s what we’re supposed to do.”

Without a condom, too. We weren’t worried about you getting pregnant, so we went out with the best bang of ‘em all. I think the last time I’d done it like that was when Sarah was conceived, and based on how easy that was, I was always cautious. 

Husband and wife roleplay wasn’t very different from the sex we typically had. I guess we were really only a piece of paper and wedding bands away from being those ‘characters’. 

Earlier that day, I was worried I wouldn’t sleep that night. I didn’t want to sleep. I wanted to savor every moment with you but when you curled up in my arms I fell asleep before I could even consider staying awake. 

Waking up next to you was my last clear image, even our goodbye kiss was a little blurry ‘cause I was already a little teary-eyed. 

But before that, over breakfast, you mentioned something that I’ve thought about every day since. 

“You know how sometimes people see a bird or something and they’re like ‘oh, that’s my dead relative’?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll come back as a butterfly. One of the blue ones. You don’t see those too often. I don’t want to be something too common, like a bird, then you’ll probably mistake someone else for me.”

I don’t think I had seen a blue butterfly in Jackson until after you’d left us, but there’s one outside my window right now. 

In case it’s you, I’ll read this all aloud. 

Forever yours, 

Joel