empress

the moment john sees her, he abandons his reading and swings off the bench, opening his arms to her.

she puts one wobbling foot after another, babbling as she slowly crosses the floor. neither of you breathe. her tiny arms windmill as she closes the distance to her father, at last pitching forward into his waiting arms with a squeal. john laughs, delightedly hauling her up against his chest while she giggles and takes big handfuls of his beard. she swivels toward you with a big smile, and john catches your eye over the crown of her head.

here it is. the future john dreamed of and whispered to you night after night for years.

you both spend the day coaxing her to wander around the cabin. he takes her outside to walk the garden and along the fence at the property line.

later, after supper and a bath, you lay her down in her crib and soon enough, she's fast asleep. she sprawls, mouth stuck open, one tiny fist curled under her chin. you watch her for a long while, still in a daze of how your life has changed yet again in the span of a single day. tomorrow, john'll have to check every room with fresh eyes, reassessing all his baby-proofing so far. he'll think about what she can reach now, what she'll pull herself up on, and any escape route she might discover.

he's leaning in the door frame when you turn to leave, backlit with the hallway light. you go to his side and tuck into it like he likes, and together you stand in silence for a few minutes more. eventually, he presses a kiss to your head and takes you to bed.

it's better because he's happy. slower and gentler.

"remember when you used to cry an' cry about this? used to beg me to not come in you," he grunts as he bottoms out. "hard to believe, isn't it."

he slows to slip his hand beneath your chin, tilting your face up just enough for his thumb to rub along the collar locked around your neck. it's long since softened from years of wear, so soft that you often forget you're wearing it.

It's been a long time since you've felt this thrill—this need. Let yourself get pulled away from your friends in a crowded bar, pressed against cheap vinyl in a secluded corner as a man you barely know grabs your hips to keep you still, keep you tucked against him. Sloppy kisses beneath a framed picture of Elvis. Smearing. Wet. The scratch of stubble. The nip of teeth. A sting soothed with the lash of a soft, fleshy tongue. Fingers diving beneath the hem of your pants because he can't get enough. He's solid against you, warm—burning like a furnace. A heat you can feel, pulsing, between your hips.

You feel the buzz of alcohol a lot more, too. A potent thing in your veins—syrupy and thick; your head feels full of it, heavy and liquid. Your whole body is just that—liquid. A slow ooze. He's the only thing keeping you up, holding you steady. Without the press of his fingers, the nudging rolls of his hips, you'd melt into the sticky linoleum.

You thank him with a slurred murmur, a clumsy kiss, and he laughs it off. Tucks you tighter against him as he says to thank him later, when he brings you back to his hotel—

This isn't like you. You can't even remember his name—a laugh, and he whispers it again with an edge of teeth that feel like a reprimand; so you won't forget it this time—or how you got here, in this corner, with a man you vaguely remember offering to buy you a drink at the bar. His accent stood out, like it does now when he says come on, let's go, and just as suddenly as you ended up pressed against the wall, you're being pulled into his arms. Breathless and clumsy. Cute, he says, and it's a hazy, dimpled thing that tugs at the corner of his mouth.

You came here with friends. Know better than to leave without them, with a man you don't know—a man they don't know—but when you slur this into his chest, he peels away. Steps back. And that chasm makes you whine. Keening in the back of your throat because the space, the distance feels too big. Too wide. Your struck, suddenly, by thigmotaxis. A small, soft-bodied thing that's too vulnerable without the hard lines of his body propping you up. He fits like a corner for you to hide inside, and you miss that more than you should. Need it more than you can understand with your thoughts stuck in a gauzy web. In this state, the sheer size of him, the solid wall of skin-warmed muscle and meat, is anxiolytic.

He shushes you—more dimples. The edge of teeth. Steps back into place, and let's you melt against him, a safe nook, but his words rake across that part of you that knows this isn't normal, that this isn't like you. You've only had four drinks. Three of which he bought.

But when he says c'mon, doe, let's get outta here, all of the things you should say are damped by that ooze. That slick, sticky thing in the back of your head, cradled between your thighs. You nod, a slow, dizzy thing, and watch the shape of his maw shift up into a wide, sharp toothed grin.

It stays—a permanent etch across his too-handsome face; lingers in the spill of daylight when you wake up to something heavy, tight on your ring finger. There, pressed into the corners, all teeth and deep dimples, when the slow, steady drip of the night before comes back to you and you realise that instead of leading you back to his hotel, he took you to a sleazy, twenty-four church. The license signed—your messy, drunken scrawl on the paper confirming that you did, in fact, get married to a man you knew for less than an hour, with the bulk of that time being kissed senseless in a corner and told drink up, doe.

You slip out of the room when he's in the washroom, hurriedly running back to your apartment to scrub the night off in the shower—the phantom touch, the ghost of his words (am catholic, he'd said in the cab after telling the driver to head to the nearest, sleaziest church. cannae fuck before the ring, doe, no't' a good Catholic boy like me)—trying to find some fix for this mess you'd gotten yourself into. It can't be permanent. It can't be real.

The only place you feel safe is with your friends, family, but that charm he laid on so thick last night shows itself in a new light when you find him sitting at their table already. Oozing a sweetness that makes your teeth ache when you see the approval gleaming in their eyes as the story he tells is wrapped up in romance. In love at first sight. And the problem is that he's cunning. Too smart for his own good. He can see the vulnerability, the weakness in your family—in their penultimate dream for you: happiness, a family, one of your own—and he pounces. Convinces them that he's so good for you. That this spur of the moment decision wasn't as sudden as you keep telling them it was—chalking it up to embarrassment, of all things; that you were too shy to admit to having an online relationship with a man you'd never met before—and despite everything, they believe him.

Maybe it's wilful ignorance. Maybe he's just such a catch, a good guy, that they want this work out for you more than they want to see the cracks in a good man's veneer. Whatever the reason, it culminates in them welcoming him into the fold as your unexpected husband. Inviting him places as mean to get to know him—an opportunity for him to ooze as much charm as he needs to in order to sway them to his side. Spreading like a spore amongst your core group with the intention of sticking. Even going so far as to have your friends talk you out of a divorce, siding with him on the (manufactured) reasons why you two should stay together. Or—

give him a chance.

But it won't last long. Soap knows this. Eventually, the cracks will appear. Someone will look beyond what they wish you really had to see how unnerved by the situation you are—something he won't be able to chalk up to shyness or embarrassment for much longer. Not when you're so against this "sham" marriage.

Which is why he sneaks around to plan a "honeymoon" with your friends and family, getting them involved in a surprise trip back home with him.

Despite your misgivings about him, there is a brightside to this—a vacation you don't have to pay for. And what is the worst that could happen in a small cabin nestled in the Highlands, really.

“C’mon, it wasn’t even close. You,” his gaze swings accusingly towards Simon, “were letting her squirm around too much.” Simon shakes his head.

“Didn’t want to break her.” You’re fragile. A little kitten in the jaws of wolves. Breakable like a pane of glass. Even more so now, since you’re sick. The bond corroding away inside your body hasn’t done you any favors.

The smallest amount of guilt pinches in his stomach. They’ve made a mess of everything.

Only right they clean it up.

A small cough echoes from the bedroom, and Simon frowns. You should be asleep. There was enough sedative in that water to knock out a horse. He jerks his head towards the sound. “Johnny.” His mate nods, and silence fills the kitchen as he disappears down the hall.

“So what’s your plan here?”

“Ger her on the plane, get her home, go from there.” There’s more, a methodical step by step plan, but he doesn’t care to elaborate. Kyle can infer most of it already. He’s familiar.

A hand rests on Simon’s shoulder, thumb working slow circles into the tense muscle. “She’s in the closet,” Johnny murmurs, “passed out. Must’ve been feelin’ really anxious, poor thing.” The sympathy is dripping with something darker, something sinister. You’re anxious, you’re fearful, and though it’s their fault, they don’t truly care, not in this moment. Once they get you home, get you settled, they’ll work on it, right the ship. But for now, it’s fuel for a machine that has to keep churning, has to carry you across the finish line. Fear is a powerful motivator, they know. If you threaten someone’s life, scare them into thinking they’re in real danger, they’ll do anything to protect themselves.

Anything.

“Closet again.” Johnny shoots him a mischievous grin. It’s been hours since you retreated back to your room after dinner, tucking yourself away in your nest. “Gonna be a tight squeeze.”

“‘m not crawling into that closet unless it’s to drag her out.” He tells his mate with a flat look, trying to curb his frustration. He knows it wasn’t a conscious decision to build your nest in there, more so your biology urging you to find somewhere safe, your omega trying to retreat, protect herself, but bloody hell do you make everything so difficult. “Did you take her temp?” Johnny hums.

“Borderline high. Think we’ve got one more day before it hits, maybe two.” His mate is almost giddy, the overwhelming happiness flowing down the bond like warmth, filling an empty space in Simon’s chest.

And why shouldn’t he be? They’re getting everything they ever wanted, everything they’ve dreamed. All their planning, their strategizing, everything put into motion finally paying off. If they’re lucky, they’ll get through this unscathed, they’ll bite you, bond you, keep you forever, and you’ll never know the truth. He can taste it, taste you, on the back of his tongue, and it’s more than just perfume, pheromones. It’s clean and buttery and sweet…

and made for his mouth.

Made for their mouths.

There isn’t a gift quite like having a mate. Someone predestined for you, a mate is the only thing in the world that belongs to you before you ever see them, lay a hand on them. There is no ownership greater than the bond, no claim stronger.

There is no choice.

Only fate.

“Bleedin’ christ.” Johnny swears, laser focused on the rear view mirror. He’s rattling in the passenger seat, shaking from the amount of energy it’s taking to restrain himself.

“Stay calm.” Simon grits from a clenched jaw. He’s clinging to shreds of control, his alpha instincts surging to the surface, trying to break free. Johnny sits frozen in the passenger seat, still locked onto the mirror watching you fade into the distance.

“Ghost, Soap. Status?” The earpiece chirps, John’s voice echoing between them.

“Clear. Lost the target, we’re returning to base. There’s been… a complication.” The line is quiet for a moment, no doubt their captain weighing their words, trying to discern their meaning. Eventually, he just acknowledges them, but it hardly registers.

“Copy.”

“I cannae believe this.” Johnny hisses, half mad. His scent has turned feral, rimmed in rage, in confusion, as Simon’s teeters on a similar edge. They’re a powder keg right now. “Of all places…” Simon grimaces.

“Nothin’ we can do about it now.” It’s rotten luck, at the end of the day. Finding their scent match, their omega, should have never happened while they’re on a mission, in some unknown in a foreign country. It’s the perfect storm of wrong place, wrong time, and all he can do is hope that their little show was enough to convince whoever is tailing them you’re not of interest. “We’ll get clear of this, ask for leave, come back for ‘er.” Johnny’s eyes are dark as they flick towards him.

“She’s no’ gonna come willingly, not after that.”

“No.” Simon agrees, his hand coming down to lay atop Johnny’s, their fingers intertwining. “She won’t.” An unspoken certainty settles between them, a silent promise to do what it takes.

Whatever it takes.

Johnny is out for a run during breakfast.

It’s his normal, and they’ve tried to get back into their usual routines, their normal life, without exposing themselves as much as possible. They’ve scrubbed the house clean, anything personal or meaningful loaded into storage crates, cardboard boxes and bags, all of their belongings that made this house their home hidden away. Everything from photos to tea towels, all of it crammed along the walls of their bedroom.

It makes Simon’s skin itch.

The sooner they can move on from this, the better.

“Johnny’s gone on a run,” he tells you, not surprised at the answering silence. You try not to speak to them, insisting on kicking and screaming, digging your heels in like a petulant toddler.

He wishes you’d just give it up already, but he can’t deny he enjoys your stubbornness, your strong will.

It makes everything more interesting. More fun.

You’re worse for the wear this morning, listless, slightly swaying in your seat, pushing food around your plate, scent tinged slightly sour at the edges. Just enough that his alpha bristles, an overwhelming need to fix it, fix you, rolling through his blood like a wave.

“Feelin’ alright?” You blink at him, brow furrowed for a moment before it smooths away and you shake your head.

“I’m fine.” You croak, reaching for the pill bottles. He feigns disinterest as you shake them into your palm, watching you from the corner of his eye. You’re a dutiful patient, clinging to the hope that the medication will help you, ease your suffering, completely oblivious to the truth.

They tossed that poison weeks ago, and what’s left of it is currently burning through your system. The last line of defense disintegrating before his very eyes, castle walls collapsing into dust around you.

He smothers his smile.

It’s not that he’s taking pleasure in your suffering, because he’s not, but he can’t help but silently celebrate the inevitable. Every second, every hour brings you closer to the finish line, to the moment where you’ll be so overtaken by your biology that you won’t be able to fight it, or them. Your protests, your fear, your rational thought will fade away as your instincts take over and you beg them for bites, knots… bonds.

You’ll become theirs, and they can leave this entire mess in the past where it belongs.

“She has it..” Johnny scrubs a hand over her face. “She’s sick, Si.”

They watch from the SUV as you come out of the clinic, zipping your jacket up to your chin. Your eyes are dull, lifeless, and a chill runs up Simon’s spine.

Bond corrosion. They’ve felt the effects too, the rot festering under their ribs, their biology slowly turning on them, punishing them. They’re just too strong to succumb.

Johnny taps away at the keyboard of the laptop balanced on his knees, your medical records spread across the screen in a dozen different windows. “Been gettin’ treatment for it for months. Suppressants, blockers, painkillers. The whole lot.” Simon grits his teeth. “Says here she had…” He trails off, focuses through the windshield to where you’re standing on the sidewalk.

“Had what?”

“A heat. After we left.” Regret tinges Johnny’s scent, and it pinches his heart. It shouldn’t surprise him, considering they went through a rut around the same time, but at least they had each other. They always had each other. You had no one.

You look over your shoulder for a second, eyes sweeping across the street. Simon freezes.

“Can she…” Johnny whispers, Simon shakes his head.

“No. She might feel us, maybe. But if she’s this sick, I doubt her instincts are reliable.” The moment passes. You turn away, flipping your hood up over your head, walking in the opposite direction, walking away from them.

“We need to move in. No more waiting.” Johnny pulls his phone from his pocketing, opening their text thread to Keller. A hot flare of jealously rises in his stomach. His alpha is possessive. Alex has no right to see you, smell you. You’re theirs.

“He doesn’t touch her,” Simon warns. “We only want him to spook her. Make sure he understands.”

“Tonight?” There’s hope in Johnny’s eyes, excitement. A little bit of worry too, for you, but overall, this is a good thing. An expedited timeline just means they’re one step closer to bringing you home. Sick, but they’ll fix it. They’ll take care of you. Simon nods his affirmative.

“Tonight.”

“Dove?” A small crease forms between your brows, as Johnny gently shakes your shoulder. “Dove, ye alright?”

“Mmm?” You shake him off, pressing deeper into the cushions of the couch. Simon’s fingers find your cheek, backs of his knuckles brushing upward, over your temple, across your forehead. Hot. Your skin is hot, nearly burning, damp with sweat. Dark satisfaction burns through his veins. How long will it be before you’re begging for them? Crying for them? How long will it be before you forget how they’ve hurt you, all the suffering you’ve endured because of them, and crawl towards them on your hands and knees?

Your scent blooms, flowers into something sweeter as you lean into his touch, lashes fluttering as your eyes open.

“What is it?” You mumble, pushing yourself up on an elbow, shaking your head like you’re trying to shed the clutch of sleep. It’s no use. It’s not sleep that has its hooks in you but heat, biology building to a crescendo, an overwhelming symphony drowning out your rational mind, your logical thoughts.

“You’re sick, sweetheart. Think you’ve got a fever.” He lies easily, and you try to push him off, but there’s no strength in you, your effort feeble.

“No, ‘m fine.”

“Ye’re not.” Johnny argues, propping you up with arm around your shoulder. “Did ye take yer meds?” Simon swallows his snicker.

“Y-yeah, I don’t know why they’re not working.” You moan, attempting to pull away. All it does is give Johnny an opening to hold you closer, and his mouth brushes across the top of your head when you instinctively turn your face into his neck, seeking his scent. “It’s so hot.” You complain, and Johnny smiles, unabashed since you can’t see his face.

“Aye. Want to get in the shower, try to cool off?” You nod miserably, and Simon urges you up, supporting your weight as you struggle to your feet.

“Take it slow,” Simon murmurs as you tackle the stairs, one painstakingly drawn out step at a time. Johnny’s behind you, fingertips at your waist, as Simon shoulders your lack of balance from the side.

Your scent is overwhelming. Burnt sugar turning to caramel, it mixes with Johnny’s excitement, his joy, tangling together in a perfect, heady combination that nearly has Simon’s mouth watering. He can’t wait to taste you, can’t wait to spread your legs and bury his face in your pussy, taste your slick.

The bathroom in their room is large, more than enough room for them to maneuver around you as Simon holds you upright where you’re sitting on the closed toilet lid and Johnny tests the temperature of the water.

“Let’s get you out of these clothes.” You shake your head, try to pull away as they curl under the hem of your t-shirt.

“It’s alright dove,” Johnny reassures you, now kneeling at your feet. “We’re jus’ gonna get ye cooled down.” They synchronize their movements, Simon lifting you slightly so Johnny can hook his fingers in the waistband of your shorts and pull, Johnny holding you at the waist so Simon can get your bra off. You’re left only in your underwear, listing weakly to the side into Simon. “Such a good girl,” he croons, rubbing your thighs, “such a good omega.” You mumble something into Simon’s stomach, an objection maybe. A last line in the sand. “Up ye get.” Johnny pats your waist, and they herd you into the shower, supporting your weight, carefully holding you under the spray.

“Don’t…” You protest, but it’s fruitless. Your body is bared to them, naked while they're clothed, and Johnny grins with a full mouth of teeth, the widening maw of a predator. He drinks his fill, sweeping over you from head to toe, his fingers lightly brushing your nipples as he soaps your skin. When you shudder, Simon can't help himself, can't stop from splaying a hand across your belly, feeling your softness, the goosebumps rising beneath his touch. 

“You’ll feel better after this,” He promises, moving you deeper into the shower, rubbing your back as water cascades over your shoulders. This won’t do much to keep you cool, not for long. It’s a temporary balm, but until you’re panting and presenting, they need to stay the course. Try to keep you cool, keep you comfortable, until you’re overwhelmed by your heat and unable to fight it.

“Cold,” you whimper under the lukewarm water, instinctively pressing yourself into Simon. You fit there so perfectly, and Johnny smiles, sweet and sharp, the loofa in his hand sliding down your spine, soap working into a lather.

“I know dove, I know.” Johnny keeps his voice even toned, pillow soft. “Jus’ a minute more.” You shake your head against Simon’s chest, your nose turning inward, dragging across his wet shirt like you’re searching for him, seeking his scent. You sniffle, fists clenching and then relaxing, a battle unfolding inside your head, your body, a whine growing in your throat as the shift you further under the water to rinse off.

Johnny starts to hum. It’s a gentle, slow rumble building from his chest, and Simon presses a thumb into your nape, careful and firm. You’re powerless against his touch, Johnny’s subharmonics, your muscles immediately softening, turning more pliant by the second. Johnny kills the water and you sag between them, boneless and shivering. “Poor thing,” You shake your head.

“No.” It’s a whisper on deaf ears. Simon reaches for the clean towel they hung on the rack, wraps it around your shoulders. “No.” You say again.

“Aye, we heard ye.” Johnny rubs your shoulders, your arms dry, and you try to take a shaky step away, a small, half attempt that ends with your knees buckling. Months of sickness, meds, futile efforts, has wrecked you, left you defenseless, and he considers it a small stroke of luck. It’s easier, like this.

Simon leads you out of the bathroom, an arm wrapped around your waist, as Johnny moves ahead, pulling back the covers of the bed.

Their bed.

Not yours.

Not guest bed, not the little nest you’ve built in the closet, but their bed. The one that’s saturated with their scent, their warmth, the one that will become yours.

“No,” you rasp, pushing against Simon’s chest as he lowers you to the sheets, “not in here. I want m-my room. My...” The rest goes unsaid. Your nest.  Your omega is seeking her safe space, you don’t realize yet that this is where you’re truly safest. With them.

“I know,” Johnny soothes, cupping your cheek. “But we need to keep an eye on ye.” Simon tugs at the towel, your grip falling away, anger igniting behind your eyes for a brief moment before it’s snuffed out again, and you hang your head.

You don’t fight as Simon pulls the sheets and blankets up to your chin, you don’t push Johnny away as he fluffs the pillows behind your head. The heat roiling under your skin has drained your energy, and once they’re done tucking you in you roll onto your side, turning your back, shutting them out.

He’ll allow it, for now.

Johnny is already climbing into bed, over eager, eyes shining, murmuring into the crown of your head sweetly. Lies, probably. False promises meant to relax you, and Simon watches as your shoulders hitch once Johnny’s arm folds over your waist.

You do not have the strength to push him away.

Simon takes the other side. Your eyes crack open, fever heavy and suspicious.

“Close your eyes dove. Sleep.” Your mouth opens, closes, and he waits for your temper, your questions, but your lower lip trembles instead, and you bury your face in the pillow, hiding from him. From them. From everything.

He squeezes your hip, relaxes his palm next to Johnny’s, their thumbs folding over one another atop your body.

This is it. This is right. This is how everything should have been all along, you here, with them, cradled between their bodies, an omega made for her mates.

This is where you belong.

Kyle's class is definitely popular. You stand in the doorway for a good few minutes before you spot an empty chair and rush to grab it. Kyle himself sits against the edge of the desk at the front chatting with a few women. You recognize Claire, the quiet girl from the bar. That’s how you’re choosing to remember her, not as Claire the public masturbator but as the quiet one.

You don’t think you can handle thinking about that other one too long.

Certainly can't look her in they eye when she smiles at you.

The room feels, oddly, like a classroom. There are desks and plastic chairs, a white board at the front, if you didn’t know any better you’d think you were back in school. 

It’s more like a night class you suppose.

Everyone here is an adult, most of them seem to have taken the class before too. You see people working on things, scrolling their phone casually, chatting with other people in the class. Again you're the clear outsider. Shuffling to the back of the class and keeping your head down. You're too glad there was an open seat near the back where no one can see you.

Specifically where Nina can't see you.

You don’t really want to be asked about John walking you in, and she's apparently a front row kind of girl.

Walking in with John was sort of nice, you suppose. He held the door for you, talked in a low tone like he only wanted you to hear it as you walked past. You’d seen a couple people glance your way, and more than a few people stick their eyes to John.

He must be pretty well liked around here.

What the hell is he doing talking to you?

Doesn't matter. You don’t want to give your new friend the wrong idea, so best to avoid her and put some distance between yourself and John. 

Because isolating yourself has literally never backfired for you before. You mentally roll your eyes at yourself.

Maybe you do need a life coach.

Kyle claps his hands and you see the people he was talking to scurrying back to their seats. His smile positively lights up the room, all teeth and a sparkle in his eyes. You close your own phone to pay attention. You paid for this class, you may as well learn something.

Nina was right about one thing, this guy is hot.

Are all the instructors here hot?

“I see we have a new face today,” He says with a cheery voice, his eyes landing on you like an 18-wheeler.

Every eye in the class turns to look at you.

The twist of bodies is a sickening crack of bones and creak of plastic, placid smiles that don’t touch a single eye in the room as they all settle on you.

You force a smile.

“Introduce yourself,” Kyle presses.

“Sure,” You try to keep your voice from wavering, “I’m, uh-”

“Would you stand up please?” Kyle presses again.

“Sure.” You push back from your desk to stand and you’re thrust back into secondary school, you barely get your name out before the entire group is repeating it back to you, “Ni-Nina said I should take this class, said it changed her life and I guess I need a change too?” You laugh a little at the self deprecating comment, not sure why you feel the need to explain yourself so clearly. You’re on the spot with no idea what to say.

“That’s good,” Kyle tells you, “That’s why we’re all here, to try and improve ourselves.” When you go to sit down he stops you, his smile wide as he holds up his hand. “Why do you think you need a change?”

“What?” The question throws you, just at the edge of too personal. 

“You need a change, why?” Kyle presses again.

“I guess I just-” you search for a reason, “-feel stuck?”

“Stuck?” Kyle prompts.

“Like I’m just sort of treading water, y’know?” You explain, you see a few heads nod around the classroom. “Stuck.”

“In what way?” Kyle tips his head, “Personally? At work? With friendships?”

You let out a breath and vaguely toss your hands in front of you, giving him a silent “I don’t know” before you ever open your mouth.

“Just in general.” Kyle makes a face, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “Like- Ok, like my partner fucking left me and my work sucks, and all of my friends think I’m depressing, and I’m just-” you spend a moment making aborted gestures of frustration before Kyle cuts in.

“Stuck?”

“Yes!” you relent. 

“Good.” Kyle nods.

“Good?”

“Good,” He repeats, “the first step to solving a problem is realizing there is one, so: good. Good job.”

The acknowledgement settles over you in the ensuing silence. You skin feels hot, embarrassed, uneasy. Kyle stares at you, his smile almost sincere as the room waits. You don't know if you're allowed to sit down yet, so you keep standing.

"Anything else?" He asks, in a tone that betrays you've waited too long and now you're holding up the rest of the class. You shake your head and drop down into your seat, bringing your shoulders closer to your ears to hide the shame that creeps over you. "Great, then let's jump in."

Kyle turns towards the board at the front and uncaps a red marker, in tight neat script he writes out "problem" in the middle of the board and circles it.

"All of you are here because you have something in your life" — he turns back, his eyes touching you as he smiles — "that has you feeling stuck. I'd like us all to take a moment to identify what that problem is." He glances at his watch, pauses, and then nods. "We'll give it a minute, whatever first comes to mind."

The class falls into quiet, the hum of human noise silent as the group thinks. There is no tap of fingers, no yawn, no sound that might betray there were even people in the room. It grips you like a vice, holds you in place, scared to make a move and shatter the atmosphere with the scrape of your chair or a breath too loud. Even turning your head seems too much, the twist of your skin liable to make some horrid noise, unheard over the roar of blood in your ears as you struggle with silence.

Kyle checks his watch again and claps his hand. You do your best not to startle at the sudden noise.

"Let's start here, then go across and back." You follow the point of his finger to find the first victim of this game. They struggle to smile at him, apparently just as reluctant as you at being chosen.

You hadn't thought of anything in the time given. You'd been so focused on not coughing or sneezing that you hadn't picked one of your many problems to focus on.

And even with so many problems it all feels too personal. You hate yourself for constantly capitulating to everyone else, for never saying what you want, for being unable to make even the simplest decisions. You must have some sort of personality or facial defect because your ex cheated on you and then left you when you worked up the nerve to confront them about it, not even mentioning that you're still holding onto their favorite sweatshirt in a desperate attempt to maybe see them again and get an explanation. (Although you know that will only hurt you further, adding to your long list of personal defects that cause problems in your life.) You can't sleep, a medical problem that your doctor had blamed on anxiety and stress but refused to give you medication for because you "wanted it too badly."

You settle on something vague, something relateable, something that won't get you committed. Your boss is an asshole and is working you into the ground.

"I'm selfish," Nina says bright and clear from the front of the room, "I want too much from life, from the people in my life, and I end up hurt when they can't live up to my expectations."

Your eyes widen as you stare at your desk, discomfort taking control of the twitch in your lips. It's a thoughtful answer and far too personal, as if you were sitting in on a therapy session. Your mouth screws to one side, nose wrinkling, you squeeze your hands into fists under the desk.

Kyle says your name, shattered crystal cutting into your uncomfortable fidgeting. You jerk your head up and he smiles at you, pleased in a way that turns your stomach.

"You look uncomfortable," his lips form the words but you only feel the impact of them, "why is that?"

Your mind blanks, mental gears grinding to a terrified halt under his watchful umber gaze.

"Um," an elegant start to your own personal train crash, "it's just, really personal?"

"Sorry love, I didn't quite catch that last bit," his teeth are as white as a viper's, "could you speak up?"

"It's really personal," you shout, ripping your voice back to a quiver in embarrassment afterwards, "I didn't expect it to be so personal."

"And that makes you uncomfortable, knowing Nina more personally?"

You hesitate, fists balling tighter until your nails dig painfully into your palms. You look at Nina and she gives you a small smile, her eyes almost hurt. Almost.

You like Nina. You want to be close to Nina. Nina has been nothing but kind and welcoming to you, and you wanted- want to be her friend. To know her more personally, the way the rest of the women in her friend group did.

"It's ok," Kyle's voice is softer, "it's perfectly normal."

Nina nods, and the vice in your chest loosens a little.

"I'm sorry for picking on you," your gaze moves to Kyle, some unwelcome emotion bubbling hot in your throat, "but this is exactly what I wanted to talk about today."

He turns back to the board and writes out "human connection" before drawing an arrow connecting it back to "problem." He taps the board with his marker.

"Depression, anxiety, loneliness, most of our problems come from the same root." He crosses out 'human connection' and turns back to the group, "a lack of proper connection."

Anthropologists consider the first true sign of human civilization to be a healed femur. Not fire, not weapons, not writing, a healed bone. Proof that we weren't leaving our fellow man to die, that we cared for each other. Human civilization is built by human connection."

Not just being around other people but by helping and caring for other people."

Kyle closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. If ever there was a perfect demonstration of a natural human system it was this, a precise singular in and out as if to center himself before speaking again.

"Nina wants more from the people in her life, because she's been neglected by those she loves, am I right?" Nina nods.

"Todd you started drinking after your divorce, right?" A nod from the man in the corner.

Kyle looks at you.

"What were you going to share?"

"My, um, my boss" — you can barely get the words out, your face feels hot, your heart racing — "he's an asshole, I feel like I can never do anything right with him, like he's undermining my career just because he hates me."

You cringe at how childish it is, how personal.

Kyle nods, sympathetic in his smile but not his eyes, before his attention goes to the group, "There's a term I like to use: the web of suffering. It's the idea that when one of our core connections breaks, it splinters into different parts of our life and makes it harder to maintain the rest of our connections. You stop seeing the people around you as part of you, part of your web, and start seeing just the hurt that, that loss inflicted."

You said your partner recently left you," —Nina gasps, it takes you a moment to register Kyle's attention is on you again, that everyone's attention has turned to you— "that must have been hard, does it make your boss hit harder?"

The attention makes tears prick at your lash line.

Everyone needs to look away from you right fucking now.

You swallow hard and give a jerking nod. It does. When he was still around even your bad days at the office were manageable. You knew you had something good to come home to, that at the end of the day there was someone who loved you, who wanted you.

You sniffle and feel an arm wrap around your shoulders, your eyes flit to where Nina is pressed to your side, her lip quivering and her gaze sincere. She must see something in your face because she gives your shoulder a squeeze and smiles as soft as down.

"Hey," she whispers, "us dump-ees gotta stick together, right?"

She's warm, a solid presence grounding you in the moment. You nod and she squeezes you again.

You feel raw.

-

Nina stays behind after class to talk to Kyle, and though you offer to wait for her she shoos you off.

Nina had held onto you for the rest of the hour long class, occasionally giving you a reassuring squeeze as you both listened to Kyle talk. Kyle, to his credit, didn't point you out for the rest of class, but he had grabbed your arm as you were walking out to apologize.

"You did really great work today," He told you with an apologetic smile, "untangling ourselves from what's holding us back is hard, but you took it like a champ."

You really wanted to be mad at him.

You probably should have been mad at him.

But somehow, even scraped to the bone, you felt better.

Like a weight you'd been carrying had lifted just a fraction.

You'd given him a smile and he'd released you, holding up a finger to keep you in place as he grabbed something from his desk.

He held out a pamphlet to you. Sleep restriction therapy. There's a boyish excitement in his eyes as you take it.

"You said you have insomnia, this really helped my mate sleep after we got out of the army, thought it might help you too." You'd flipped open the pamphlet and were greeted by a timetable.

"I wanted to give you some homework too," He said.

"I don't know if I'm coming back," you hadn't looked up from the pamphlet and cringed when you said it, embarrassed not to give this man a resounding yes, but Kyle didn't seem offended when you peaked up at him. He laughed, and your skin was hot with the sound of it. God dammit. He was hot.

"Even if you never come back," he relented, "let someone do something nice for you without trying to deny it. Just see how it feels."

You'd mumbled a vague agreement to that and scurried out since Nina had been so eager to talk to him. Although now you were standing in the hall with your tail still tucked between your legs and no idea where to go from here. Nina said not to wait up, but you wanted to wait, you wanted to thank her for comforting you. She didn't have to, but she had, and it had been nice.

You unfold the pamphlet again and start at the top.

"Sleep restriction therapy is a multi-step, multi-week process that initially restricts the amount of time a person spends in bed overnight and then gradually increases that time. The goals of SRT are to increase sleep efficiency—"

"How was class?" A rough voice beside you asks. You startle at the sound, and crumple the paper in your hands as your fists clench.

Disappointment lances through you at the damage as you loosen your grip and try to straighten out the page. You glance up at John Price and his smiles, a tight thing that creases the corners of his eyes.

"Didn' mean to scare you, sweet'eart."

"You didn't," you lie. His smile splits to show his teeth and you hurry to refold your pamphlet.

"Class was good," you tell him, circling back to the question which had not scared you, "I don't know if it's for me, but it was good."

"Gaz not pretty enough to bring you back?"

"What? No, I-"

He chuckles, deep and indulgent, and you realize he was joking. You press your lips together in a thin line as your face heats. John takes the opportunity to deliver a dangerous blow.

"Friday meditation has a space open, would love to have you if I still meet your standards."

You flex and curl your toes in your shoes.

You'd almost completely forgotten that you'd called him handsome on Monday. Apparently you were the only one trying to forget.

"I, uh, don't know if I have the funds for two classes this week."

"I'll tell Cassie to wave the fee."

You are going to set yourself on fire.

When Kyle said to let someone do something nice for you, you knew it would be hard but you didn't know it would be 'slowly pulling teeth' hard.

"Oh," you grit your teeth, trying to force the words past the dentition barrier, "that's nice of you. Thank you."

So much for feeling better.

John's smile doesn't falter, if anything it grows, showing more teeth as you fidget with the corner of your pamphlet.

"You must be itchin' to get home." There's a lingering note at the end, a tail that slithers quietly to a point.

A trap you tumble perfectly into.

"No! That's not-" You're too quick, too determined not to come off as rude, to be likeable.

"No?" John's voice is saccharin as it drips from his lips, patronizing in a way that makes your thighs press a little closer together.

Oh God you have to find different porn to watch if this is how you talk to people.

"I was waiting for Nina." You feel suddenly sheepish. You don't want to tell him anything, to stumble into another verbal trap that reveals some new horror to you.

"Nina," her name sticks in John's smile, caught in his teeth, "she's a good one, we're all big fans."

You swallow the jealousy that threatens to clog your throat.

You get it, Nina is great. You like Nina a lot, so why wouldn't other people?

Your head turns just slightly to glance back at the classroom for her and John's hand raises, turning you back towards him with two fingers against you jaw.

"Should focus on the people you're talkin' to, sweet'eart."

It drops heavy into your stomach beside his cloying 'no.'

Oh no.

You get a sudden flashbulb memory or John's ass in yoga pants as your brain desperately attempts to remember if you'd peaked at his dick too.

You may not need to set yourself on fire, because you're going to spontaneously combust instead.

"Feelin' alright?" John hums, switching to cupping your cheek then resting his knuckles against your forehead, "Got warm all've'a sudden."

"I have to go." You're crumpling your pamphlet again. "I have to leave right now."

"Oh," John's hand drops and whatever spell he'd cast over you breaks, "alright."

You turn and power walk towards the rec center entrance. Nina is a big girl, she doesn't need you to wait for her.

"See you Friday," John calls behind you when you barely manage to get the front door open.

"Yep!" You will not live that long.

"John says you were waiting for me :( Didn't realize I took so long with Kyle, get home safe <3"

-

Nina texts you while you're on the train home.

You try not to feel guilty for leaving. She did tell you that you could go, but you shouldn't have run out of there so fast.

God you are such a fucking idiot.

You knock the back of your head against the train window a few times, closing your eyes against the wave of exhaustion that hits you.

Maybe there's something wrong with you.

You do your best to uncrumple the sleep therapy pamphlet against your thigh, smoothing your hand over the edges with care until it feels a little more presentable.

You curl over yourself to read it, your trunk unable to bear the weight of the day as you slouch in your seat.

It's an easy enough idea. You just don't go to bed until you normally fall asleep. You try to think of what time you fell asleep last night. Maybe three or four in the morning? That sounds really fucking bad.

You check your phone and work up the nerve to type out a reply to Nina, but not enough to send one. So you delete the reply and switch to instagram.

Halfway down your front page you get an ad for the rec center. Your fingers hover over it like some sort of divine sign before you remember your phone is probably loaded with spyware. You give the ad page a tap and are brought to the 'Whole Body' instagram page.

It's exactly what you suspected it would be: smiling groups of people doing yoga, an attentive class, kids at summer camp, typical rec center stuff. You open one of the videos to watch a group of children tumbling around in a bounce house, the caption tells you it's from community day, whatever that is. You scroll and are greeted by John opening what you recognize as the meditation room door, it opens to a green screen boasting membership passes are now on sale. It's cringe as fuck, and screams "botched attempt to be hip with the young people."

"Hey fam," John says, his tone genuine if a little confused, "check out these dope deals."

You smile despite yourself and like the video. You open the caption to see the usual 'letting the boss try out social media for the day' message. You suppose even meditation seminars aren't immune to viral marketing gimmicks.

You close out of their reels and scroll up to follow the page. There's a youtube link in their bio boasting pre-recorded meditations. Again you hover over the link, torn.

On the one hand, the meditation class you took on Monday was the most relaxed you've felt in ages, and there's a good chance the dulcet tones of John Price can put you to sleep. On the other hand it's a quick fix, and you're not sure how long it'll work for. You look at the sleep therapy pamphlet on your knee.

Kyle's trying to help you, the least you can do it try it.

You close your phone as the speaker chimes for your stop and stand to start get off. You'll think about it on the walk home.

"Hope you got home safe!"

-

You get another text from Nina as soon as you stick your key in your front door.

You type out a quick reply as you scoot inside and hip-check your door closed.

"home safe, it was great to see you!"

That feels too impersonal. You delete it.

"finally home, great class tonight!"

That's not right either. You don't know if you'd call class great after crying in front of a dozen people.

"i'm home"

What are you a guy who isn't interested in her?

"home safe, thanks for today!"

Quick, clean, neutral. You stare at your phone screen and dare yourself to send it. You tap the button ignoring the creep of anxiety that comes with the 'sent' notification.

You lock your phone and putter about your apartment making pot noodle before settling on the couch to find something to watch. You spend a few hours watching netflix previews trying to figure out what looks good before your phone goes off.

Ten o'clock. You swipe away the alarm reminding you to call your ex.

Whatever mood you'd been festering in, the reminder of him makes it worse. You click out of netflix and look up an episode of Snapped, something light where a cheater gets what's coming to them.

You switch to a comedy when they start showing crime scene photos, squeamish at all the blood.

It's easier to tune that out, to settle into doomscrolling and ignore the raising and lowering numbers on your phone's clock. Your eyes get heavy and your phone screen dims as the battery percentage dips too low.

Three AM comes too easily to you.

But, for the first time in a long time, so does sleep.

When you haul yourself off the couch you all but collapse onto your bed, phone tossed onto your nightstand and work clothes still pressing their buttons into your skin. Darkness takes you like, well, like falling asleep.

Tells her to hurry in the morning with a slap on her ass, they’ve got places to go, beer to drink, games to watch. The lads are waiting to meet her.

Of course he makes her watch all the games with him and the boys. Makes her wear a skirt that somewhat matches his kilt, he wants everyone to know that she’s his girl just by the pattern on her clothes. It doesn’t hurt that it gives him easy access to run his fingers over her panties whenever he wants. Doesn’t hurt that he can lift her skirt up as they walk down the street, get a nice look at her. Doesn’t hurt that he can slip a finger inside her while they wait for beers at the bar. Doesn’t hurt that when his friends are turned away, he can put his hand up her skirt and quickly press his thumb against her asshole, tell her how he’s gonna fuck that pretty hole later, laugh at the shriek she lets out. It’s humiliating. It’s the hottest thing that’s ever happen to her. She feels like everyone can see her dripping down her thighs.

When they get to the pub, he pulls her down next to him, pulls her so close she feels like she might start getting claustrophobic. He makes sure she never takes her hand off his upper thigh, even when his friends laugh or complain he’s gonna flash everyone with how high he’s dragging his kilt up. Keeps her hand locked under his, moving her hand around as he sees fit, as the night goes on he pulls her hand closer and closer to his cock.

He turns and pushes his mouth against her ear to tell her what a tease she is. Like he’s not dragging her hand along his cock himself! Tells her she’s gonna make all the boys jealous. Tells her that his team is very important to him, that this game is serious, and if she doesn’t stop he’s gonna have to drag her to the ally and fuck her, he’s gonna teach her pussy a lesson for making him miss the game. He coos at how red her face is.

She’s confused by him and slightly (more than slightly) creeped out by some of the things he says and does. But fuck it. She’s young, he’s actually very good with his tongue, he doesn’t live here, he’s gotta go home eventually, and it all reminds her of some of those cheesy smutty romance books she finds herself reading. She thinks it’s just a fun, weird World Cup hook up….Scotland can’t possibly go that far into the tournament right???

Soon he’ll be gone and she’ll have just a funny but strange story to maybe post on tiktok someday or tell her daughter years from now. But no. He buys a plane ticket for himself AND her, has her stuff packed and ready to go the night before. Tells her she’s coming with him. He can’t just let her go now, she’s his girl! He’s ready to settle her down with a baby back in Scotland. She’s the one.