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a/n ! third part is here! took me long enough to finish but hey at least it didn’t take a whole year right?? originally this was gonna be a three-part series but I actually do enjoy writing about Gwayne (i love him so much he was my second mii in tomodachi) and so i’ve come to a decision that there will be another part or maybe more :D I hope you guys don't hate the multiple character monologues and narrative between the readers, I just felt like focusing solely on Gwayne and just the reader in this story would be too rushed and unrealistic considering this is also like a fix it fic between the targtowers and rhaneyra and I think the reader's presence may just be the reason why they're gonna be stable and it is through conversing with them and sharing their life long hidden grudges and feelings that should've been talked out so I hope that explains my writing. also the alicent x rhaenyra tag is not intended to be a romantic pair, but is it really just casual between those two? i'll leave the interpretation to you readers.. anyways, enjoy!!!

The spring winds brought radiance and harmony in the keep’s garden. What was once frail and dull turned to blossoming ornamentation in the midst of a searing capital. You could barely whiff the salty aroma given by the bay, partly the rotten streets of King’s Landing. Remembering you once had grown used to it that it never bothered you, but that was years ago and Vale was different in every aspect. The wind there insignified the purified mountain air, cold and fresh and despite the stinging sensation that came with it, you wanted nothing more than to feel its welcoming caress — like a mother would to her child. 

You lay under the shield of the weirwood tree, its leaves absorbing the sunlight reflected with warmth and bringing blush to your skin, slightly squinting at the light able to seep through the cracks of the branches. It wasn’t unpleasant. The reeling sensation still present in your head, the wine you drank last night was more than you could take, the conversation with Jacaerys whom you have not seen for so long and now sat looking like a stranger next to you, but it is still the same boy you had left back then. Rhaenyra and the unexpected outburst born out of overwhelming events the second you step foot in the Red Keep, Alicent’s visit to your chambers and then… Your betrothal, to Ser Gwayne — your step-mother’s older brother who is older than you. But a part of you was in relief that it wasn’t some much old, wrinkled-skin, fat lord. Still it doesn’t spare you from the fate of being born a second born woman. You thought of your father yesterday and how you abruptly disrespected him in the court. If it were different circumstances in which you weren’t his daughter, he could’ve had your head for such a dispute. You had heard how he almost wanted to run after you but couldn't, and despite your indifferences, he was still your father and at that, you felt a wrenching pain in your chest at what you did. 

The arrangements were left to what it is. And to negate the betrothal would lead to even more inaudible strife between your family and the Hightowers, no matter the correlation of the Queen Alicent and the King.  Nothing could be done, you slowly come to admit that though a bitter part of you wanted to defy your family and duty,  leave far away from Westeros, find a place in Essos and never come back, no matter the consequences you’d left, the realm did not even as much as cared for you anyway. But that thought is disintegrated with your realization of the home sickness you felt towards your cousin Jeyne and your ivory silk sheets in your chamber in The Eyrie. 

You have never been to Reach and the only closest to its replica was the people who have been there and their immense narration of its beauty. The greenery of the field, how everyday felt there felt like spring with its healthy soil that seemed to immortalize the flowers and grasses. That it almost presented a paradise with animals inhabiting it. Suppose, you would no longer have to imagine it as it would be sooner that you would get to see it with your own eyes. Your stomach recoiled at the idea. You haven't even spoken to Ser Gwayne in all that much except for the poor attempt last night while you were dancing. No one’s ever asked you to dance before.

It filled you with chagrin that the warmth of his hands on your palm and waist still lingered. He had asked you and you said yes with no hesitations and you blame it all on the wine you drank. In the morning, the memories of your dance were foggy, but still enough to remember the brief exchange of words passed between you. Even with the wine’s influence on you, the stares from the lords and ladies made you stiff with your movements, not needing to look around to confirm the assumptions. He had told you last night of how you looked elegant with your gown in which you answered with mere simple words of gratitude. Every question he had asked in an aim with getting to know you before the official union was answered with unsureness and awkwardness, having just met this man whom you are about to call husband in moons time., and responding out of courtesy.

The dance then ended when the song came to end, Ser Gwayne had let you go with a kiss on the top of your hand. You unconsciously hovered a touch to that hand, with both of it laying on top of your stomach. You swore you heard it grumbled from the unfamiliar feeling, or mayhaps you haven’t filled it enough with breakfast. Did you like it? The softness of his lips, the polite tone in his words, his touch soft and gentle as if you are a relic dating centuries old, fragile and valuable. You felt heat climbing up your cheeks. At the realization, you sat up, your locks rustling, grasses that stuck on it fell from the movement. It has only been half a day that you have known him, and it hasn’t even passed that — that you have shown disdain from the arrangement… You frowned at the betrayal for yourself, for feeling as if it could be good, as if the betrothal won’t cage you from a life long sentence of disappointment and being nothing more than a vessel for a man of high status to have an heir. It shouldn’t bring you this emotion that you cannot even decipher whatever for. 

The world is nothing but a man’s. You would say that and even thousands of women would agree so. It was never unheard of that anywhere and everywhere, a woman will always be a victim of such ideologies imposed by long standing structures that they are submissive to men. Ladies in court would never admit it but the marks and bruises displayed on their skin indicates what they will never say for they know it will bring nothing. Lest, confessions of such would only turn against them, that they must have not been doing wifely duties hence why need disciplined to such extents. Of course the men are always innocent in their own regime. Marriage is an endless pit of nothingness that no woman could ever crawl out of.

You have been so deep in your thoughts that you have not taken notice of a figure joining you in your escapades in the garden. Only interrupted from your daydreaming when the very man in your thoughts seemed to escape out of it.

“Is the weather to your liking, Princess?” And there stood Ser Gwayne with a soft grin on his lips, his hands locked behind him. The man you will be bound to until your untimely death, having lived a harrowing life.

With the presence known, you swiftly moved on your feet, your head angling downwards as if to hide such thoughts like he could read them. “Ser Gwayne.” You said simply, seeking to try and un-warmth the heat on your cheek. For a brief second, you stared at each other, your hand now brushing off the remnants of straw, earth and grass on your pale hair. “The weather does agree with the scenery, it is indeed Springtime, the beauty of it shall not be missed.” 

He nodded, though he had a different perspective of the scenery. “It indeed agreed with your arrival, your highness.” You ‘ve taken a hint of his implication, and it did not help calm your beating heart. How long has it been rapidly beating? A small “oh.” escaped you before you could stop, you must've looked dumbfounded for the reaction gained a chuckle from the Knight. You wanted the ground beneath to swallow you. And the sound that came from him.. somehow it elicited serenity that added contrast to the garden, as if it could even turn any more than it already is. You mentally cursed yourself for showing a slight vulnerability, he must be thinking you’ve fallen for his charm. You gritted your teeth at the thought.

“I assume you still have not recovered from last night.” He said plainly with gentleness, and it might have a hint of worriness, but you were sure he may very well be playing a part of an act, or a ploy to mock you for being unlady-like. The guess had you silent for a while, and assessing his words, Ser Gwayne had assured you that he meant no offense with his speculation. It was his turn to overcome with warmth on his cheek out of the lack of carelessness in what his words could entice you with. So he tried to save himself, “Once it was the first time in so long that I have drunk wine, a chalice sent me out for the whole night and left me headless on the morrow.” he finishes with a short laugh, his eyes glinted as he stared far off to the side as to not overwhelm you with his stare.

You appreciated it, your lip in a tight line — a poor attempt to show interest. “It was my first time.”

And he could tell why you had chosen your first time for drinking last night, he could read the barely there look on your face, the hollows in your eyes not just from the lack of sleep, the stiffness in your movements and your careful choice of words, and he cannot forget the events that transpired yesterday at the throne room.  Ser Gwayne cannot help but feel guilty despite him being another victim of the arrangement, but it is a fact indeed that marriage to women is an ill-fated move in a world full of restraints. If one were to suffer, it would be you. He was a man of honor and he cannot have that. His mother would always tell him that a woman is the greatest gift given by the Gods, that everything feasible is born out of a womb. 

Ser Gwayne let the rustling of the leaves fill the silence for a moment. “I would like to beg for forgiveness, princess.” You raised your eyes to meet his, now it was his turn to avoid yours. You anticipated, brows raised in confusion. “That this obligation had brought you unwary and distress. That I am but a man worth less than that of the decree of the crown.” The lines on the corner of his lips were absent. For whatever reason, he at the moment was just him, not a Hightower, not the son of the Hand nor a Knight. You have not known him, but words spoken with hints of hopelessness exposed a man beneath. Not one born out of duty, but merely the grounds of a man tolerating the burdens imposed to that of a first born.

“They say a Knight must protect, but I am not so sure if I'm worthy of the title now that I found myself in a predicament where I cannot save you from your fate. A princess of the Realm, of all.” And with finality, he offers a smile but one that didn’t reach his eyes. It had rendered you speechless though in a way that bought you relief that your troubles were shared, that he had shown concerned, that he was not in favor because the marriage will serve him across history, acquire him reputation and had not treated you as something that belonged to him — but then again, you are yet to know the man and you have not carried his name as of — but the sincerity of his speech was as clear as the skies present.

You tried to search for words, some that may be aligned with his notions but risking such impediments whatever small and plucked out of your opinions of the betrothal might be of risk, that he may use — or his father might — as a leverage to tie you unknowingly with a noose around your neck in your would be marriage, like a parasite would to an insect. It was not a prediction on your part but rather to save yourself with the prospect. But it shouldn’t have to stay a connection filled with assumptions built on the fear of the knowing. That giving a chance does not fully have to signify surrendering to the trivial matters of the crown. 

“Would you accompany me for a walk, Ser Gwayne?’ 

Stunned by the offer, he for a moment searched for anything that may have implied uncertainty. He found nothing but the kindness in your smile.

“It would be an honor, Princess.” He extends his palms, longing for your acceptance in which you immediately place your hand, the roughness from years of wielding a sword welcomes yours,  drawing you closer to him before sitting your hand on his arm. The unfamiliar heaviness in your stomach came but it was not a sickening kind and unbeknownst to you, Ser Gwayne felt the same, and for the first time, he was afraid of handling something.

Gwayne guided you to the stony pathway shaded with vine infested archway, a journey towards the edge of a cliffside view — the other side of the Red Keep where no townsfolk has ever seen, At least in this point of view. He had already let go of your hand by then, seeming it inappropriate to continue to do so and partly out of respect, yet he could not deny the pull he felt.

“So princess, is the Vale as cold as they say?” He looks to your side. “I heard it’s a good place to be when you find the heat of the summer too overbearing.”

“It’s not so bad. But yes, the winds bite and pull and push you especially when you’re left unguarded at the highest peak. Certainly not a good place to be when you’re all pale and thin.” You say with a smile, the phrase was something you had heard from your cousin Jeyne when she first saw you when you arrived at the Eyrie. “Luckily the walls are there to withstand them.” It’s a surprise the winds didn’t carry you elsewhere. She told you that very afternoon, slightly concerned with your shaken figure and she grimaced at the lack of thickness of your clothes. It was winter then and the winds were carried far  from the north where no men lived. 

“Ah, I see. One must consume as much food there is to battle against the winds in the Vale.” 

Fond of the memory, the corner of your lips raised, “When I arrived there years ago, the first thing my cousin commanded me to do was to try and eat every meal she had prepared for the feast that day I stepped foot in the castle.” Gwayne shifted his gaze from the pebbled pathway to that far look on your face, but you were smiling, and he too unconsciously mirrored you. Perhaps he was wrong to judge you so. It delighted him how you seemed to have lowered your walls, when the day started, he was pondering about approaching you to gain your approval and mainly because he didn’t want to know the version of you from the gossip of the court. Ser Gwayne was not one to judge quickly so and he thinks of it as how less of a Knight to not honor a maiden’s dignity. 

“Jeyne was so worried about me that she almost sent a letter to my father, wanting to know if he was purposely starving me. I had to convince her that I wasn’t. It was just -“ you paused, because as simple as the reason was, it still hasn't failed to bring up the past of your birth. Your twin brother who lived for a minute and a mother you never knew. “-It had something to do with how I wasn’t really born at the right moon, my body suffered for as long as it did but it is fortunate now that I’m normal.”

The knight did not miss the solemn look beneath your smile, and for a moment he wanted to tell you how sorry he was, but he knew it wasn’t what you wanted for now. “Well, this cousin of yours gave you proper guidance, it is fortunate indeed that the winds didn’t take you elsewhere.” This earned a short laugh from you, and something about it felt so intimate that it felt wrong to feel the leaping sensation of your chest, and unbeknownst to you, Gwayne too had labeled himself lucky enough to elicit such emotions from you. He didn’t think you were the type to be driven by humor, judging from the pout that always seemed to find its way to your heavenly face. 

He was almost convinced by the rumors pertaining to your manners, but then he contemplates, who wouldn’t turn into that of a beast when your father only sees you as a political tool — to barricade a wave of tides.

“If so, you wouldn’t have a Targaryen Princess for a bride.” 

“How lucky I am indeed.” He said with a playful voice. “ Mayhaps, someday you might bring your lord husband with you to the Vale.” You scrunched your face with the title he gave himself, still haven’t processed how real and sudden it all seems to be but there was still a hint of grin on your expression.

“Lord husband..” You mocked with a soft chuckle. For the first time since your walk, you raised your sight at your betrothed. Gwayne Hightower was much taller than you remembered last night and you felt shadowed but the good kind. This man would be yours until death and he sure would protect you from harm that may come. It reminded you of the books you used to read in the library in the Eyrie, where princesses would have their knights kill and die for them. 

You would look far out from the window of the tower and dreamt of being saved by princes and armored men. Jeyne would hear about your fantasies and slowly there came a time where she had to be honest with you. For your protection, she claims, so that you wouldn’t trust men so easily. All of them are beasts in hiding, some wait to prowl when faced with your back. And since then, you had stopped living in your head and swore you would never marry a man. 

And who would dare save you? when dragons are the ones princesses should be saved from. Silverwing was a part of you, you did not need any saving.

Here was a Knight in a green armoire, standing beside you, and now you're drowning in the ocean of his eyes. Realizing you have been starring for so long, you quickly diverted your eyes forward, heat rushing on your cheek with embarrassment. “Your eyes are blue.” You said.

Of course Ser Gwayne recognized your ogling. “That is quite an observation, Princess.” he said, voice too calm. He too felt giddy having to look deep in your purple iris — to be graced by such beauty that he might’ve thought you did not belong to this world.

He once heard tales regarding that of Valyrians being descendants of some God, their hair pale and the unique orbs embedded deep in their skull that it had to be real. And here is one standing beside him, and thought that if it were somewhat real, you were the Goddess reincarnate herself. It felt blasphemous and sure the Seven cursed upon him for that and abandoned him for such deliberation. If that were the case then he'd worship you instead.

Gwayne realized what he just told himself, and he blushed at the thought. You had just spoken to her formally, be a gentleman. But it wasn’t that, it was how easy it was to come to those notions as if you have bewitched him. Have you?

For the rest of the way, he mirrored your gaze resting forward, as if afraid of looking back at him once again. Still he couldn’t help but steal a few glances then and there. The conversation shifted to formalities, political matters and standings until it eventually came to an end when the other side of the pathway led you to the corridors of the castle. Ser Gwayne had to let you go and not so without giving your hand a gentle kiss. The touch of it lingered for hours.

“The princesses of the realm do have a knack in slandering court formalities. It is detrimental and insulting.” Otto drags the chair across the room, its scraping added tingling sensation to the Queen in distress, if her incessant rubbing on her temple was not obvious enough. She had not been out of her chambers since she had awoken, her breakfast lay barely touched on the dark mahogany table, left cold. The view of the bay and the sea gulls in flight helped a little with her distracted mind. 

Just last night, her father had just spoken to her about maintaining symmetrical impositions of the realm. One in which she can no longer count of how much he had suggested illicit annotations cloaked as a Hand concerned of the well being of the Realm, but she knew otherwise. It had been brought to Viserys once and it was never spoken of again in the court with the King’s final conviction and even voice it as insulting to propose the thought when everyone in the realm had already sworn fealty to his resolution.

“If one were to rule, what say would it be to the state of the realm?” He reclines in his seat, reaching for the untouched fruit on the plate, the flies started gathering on it as a vulture would to an uncertain corpse like pest.

Alicent closes her eyes with a heavy sigh, contemplating if the remedy was the wine just in her reach. “As if there is something salvageable, the realm still has not recovered from the war even so. You speak of righteousness when your grandson drowns in his cups and whores.” she plains coldly. The insult though with truth left a sour taste and Alicent wanted to wash it out, so she reached out for the goblet. Otto watches with disdain from the early yearning of being under the influence or the cold truth that he had longed ignored, he didn’t know. 

It was known that when Viserys crowned Rhaenyra his sole heir, it had caused an invisible rift across Westeros, that it was only a matter of time that the fealty sworn will be broken. Then came Aegon, a son with his marriage to the lady Alicent that many protested that Rhaenyra be denounced as heir now that she wasn’t the only child. 

“Hm.” He hums in a short and sharp endurance. 

“It’s been decades and you have not moved past with your ceaseless whims for treason. Do you ever grow tired?” She drowns the cup in one gulp, it burns as it slid down her throat, tightening for a while. For the first time he stepped foot, she looked at him and Otto did not miss the hard stare that he once was familiar with. The very same eyes his wife would give him when he had done something unfavorable. But it was his daughter in front of him, the last of his pride and somehow it had broken something inside of the thought that she no longer was the girl she used to be. Alicent was a Queen now, a profound truth that he had longed transpired. How could someone be so familiar yet a stranger at the same time? 

“Do the repercussions of sentimentality along with the arrival of your childhood friend had softened you, daughter?” He detests, refusing to admit the unspoken dilemma. “Or perhaps the girl you raised, which I need remind you, is not of your blood?” And at that, Otto had plunged the blade deep in Alicent’s beating organ. He did not miss how she seemed petrified with the last phrase, and he knew then that he had consumed the last piece of the board. 

“You will leave her out of this. Both of them.” Alicent grits her teeth. 

For a short while, Otto awaited his daughter’s dismissal, a gesture to leave the room he had just entered but it never came. “If we even fail to put the rightful heir on the throne, who’s to say the crown remains invincible across the country?” He pertains still of his dilemma, Alicent knew his father wanted power but hid it under the verdict of long standing traditions of much preferred heir — a man to sit on the throne. Aegon was just his puppet, if he was as smart to dive deep in shallow waters, he sure knew that her eldest son was unfit for the crown. If Aegon could not control his alcohol intake, then he might as well spend the coins of the people for more and whores if he were to sit that throne. 

“Rightful heir? Has the King denounced Rhaenyra? he hasn’t has he not? She is the heir.” She spits with venom, but the slight tremble and doubt in her voice did not go unnoticed.

“If I were not mistaken, it seems as though you have grown a softer daughter, or has a silent plague causing one’s own intelligence to diminish had caught you?” And with the sudden insult, Alicent stood from her seat so swiftly that it fell hard on the floor so much so that she would not be surprised if it splintered on impact. Otto inhales deeply at the sound of his daughter’s palms slapping on the mahogany.

“Or perhaps it awakened something in me, and that the fear you have instilled upon me plays a part in your attempt to usurp the crown.” 

Otto grows amused every second, the tension arises and for a very long time, both him and Alicent carried different banners in the battle field. The room was thick with emotions, he swore the seagulls in the bay were petrified as if they could sense it. 

“You should leave, Lord hand.” The Queen commanded, voice stern and more controlled. Alicent straightens and regains her posture, an illusion that holds power. Otto wavers for a second, waiting to meet eyes with his daughter — a way to intimidate her, he’s not sure. But one thing he could understand at that moment was those eyes were no longer the same ones he used to look at a decade pass, hopelessness and the gloss from unshed tears so clear, he could see beneath her thoughts.

“And do be careful with your words, someone may hear and have you accused.” She adds.

“The King hosts a feast in the evening. You should wear your mother’s gown.” A warning in his voice, a threat of discourse, a reminder of where she stands. Otto, ever composed, decided to seclude his daughter from his unstable composure, lest be mistaken for daunted, which when has he ever?

Alicent holds her breath through the scraping of the chair and the soft slam of her chamber doors closed before exhaling in relief. 

It started when the King was left widowed by the late Queen, her death birthed the power hungry beasts in the court and with King Viserys left open cracked within, the flies swept in and nested the rotten in between. Alicent was a pawn, she knew now. At such a young age, she hadn’t known what lay beneath her father’s strategy, and with love for him, she had mistaken her wedding to the King as a saving grace. Every lady dreamed of becoming Queens, so when her father had pushed the agenda, she had no choice but to feel happy. But was it really the case? when she found herself confined in lavish chambers and the matters she had attended were no longer involving informal ones? And for months and years it turns, she finds herself in court with preserved posture and a newfound control, but still the loneliness lingered and lingered until it was the only friend she had left.

Even now guilt had not still let go of its gnaws of her flesh. Was it all worth it for the friendship she lost with Rhaenyra? and the times where she is let out of her cage for a while, Alicent escapes to the sept, a silent plea with no answers from the Gods. The question had been answered. 

Rhaenyra. She used to confide in her childhood friend, every word she tells her is met with a touch, a smile, and that voice that could be compared to the peaking sun after thunderous clouds. The thought seems blasphemous that she finds herself questioning her faith. 

And then there was Aegon, her firstborn, a son she loved and failed. It was one of Alicent’s biggest regret, she had been a child too when she had him but still she could’ve tried harder in turning him into a man he should be, but instead the hardness and harsh condition of the court stole her away from Aegon. The very first child she loved — no, she still loves him as much and it will never change, but he was a man grown now and he did unspeakable things she hated. But then again, herself was to blame. 

Alicent tried to help him once with his drinking and his whores but her child remained stubborn, but it did little to nothing. So she prayed to the Gods and bruised her knees kneeling to atone for Aegon’s sins. If she won't pray for him, then who else? 

Perhaps she should’ve sent him to Oldtown. Daeron is there and he was a man Aegon could never amount to. Or Aemond. That second born son too hid secrets she could never uncover but he at least did not cause any trouble, not that she or the court knows of. Aegon was despair and Aemond anger, well, deep inside — brewing. It was just a matter of time when it would all burst to flames. The accident with his eye scarred him deeply and physically.

The betrothal was an answered prayer for a chance in life in a way that the closed distance had made the tension easy. It made it all easier to reconcile in the face of your childhood friend. 

Alicent did not want to admit it but the presence of her brother in the Keep eased some of her tension. She missed him. Her conversation with Gwayne yesterday was interrupted so, she was close to voice her life long concerns about the succession, something that was imposed by their father. Alicent never really truly had someone to confide in, and just by the brief words she shared, Gwayne had shown concern for her more than anyone ever had and even for a small moment, it felt good. It used to be Rhaenyra but there was also partly her fault that their friendship had ended by then.

She did ponder about it a lot when she was younger. If it were her brother who was brought in the court by their father instead of her, would her life be so much different? would she still have Rhaenyra as a friend? Would she have married for love instead? But if it were her brother who suffered the same fate imposed by her father, then she was glad it wasn’t him.

The feast was a private matter. Just the King and his Queen and their children and grandchildren. 

By the time you entered the room, your brothers and sisters were already there. You haven’t had the chance to spike a conversation last night with your mind preoccupied with other matters. 

Helaena sat quietly on the left edge of the feasting table, her mind seemed elsewhere as she followed the trails of whatever was on her hand. An insect, you guessed. And then Aegon besides her, just from the short distance, you could already smell the wine on his breath and what you assume was his second bottle of the liquid beside his chalice. 

They seem to have not heard your oncoming footsteps, their back facing the entrance of the room. But Aemond at the end, left side of your sweet sister, had caught your figure growing closer and closer. His head turned fully fixed to you. His expression had not changed at all. Just staring, waiting to catch your eye. 

Helaena softly gasps at the contact of your hand on her shoulder, it was gentle but it brought her out of her daydream. She looked at you with her  mouth agape, until finally her face shifted from startled to recognition, and she did not hesitate to rise from her seat and pulled you into her arms.

She still smelled the same as when she was a babe. That distinct smell of flowers that only grew on the windowsill of her chambers.

“Sister.”

“Helaena.” You gripped her tight in your arms, she was as tall as you now and had gotten even more beautiful. Has time been kind to her? Has this place been? you hope so. 

You pulled back enough, holding the delicate skin of her cheek. “You’ve grown!” 

“So have you. I wasn’t so sure if you still looked the same. Still beautiful.” She smiles softly, caressing the strands of your hair.

“Well she certainly didn’t grow another head.” Aegon says on the side, still drowning in his cups. He laughs at his own joke, you both ignored him. 

“How was your travels yesterday?”

“It was alright.. Silverwing was fast, it wasn’t as long as I thought it would be.”

“I am so happy you’re here sister.” She pulls you into her arms again, tighter this time, as if your presence brought some relief in her existence. Helaena felt something decompress in her, and never has his mother’s hug felt as warm as this, and Alicent would always give her so. It wasn’t forced.

“Me too, Hel.”

You moved to sit on the chair next to Aegon. You thought of asking him to switch with Helaena but decided to avoid difficulties with Aegon’s quiet demeanor. Not that being seated next to him bothered you. Aegon is your little brother and you hold the same love for him as you do for Rhaenyra, your younger sister, and younger brothers.

“How do you fare, Aegon?” You said, a bit concerned with his state. “It’s rude to drink wine alone without inviting me first, you know..” If it helped lighten the mood. 

Aegon chuckles, phased out from his thoughts as he looked at you. Closer this time. Your purple irises really were as prominent as Rhaenyra’s. 

“Forgive me dear sister, I wasn’t aware I was not the only one in our family who’s a drunkard.” He says satirically but meant to play along. Aegon reaches for the bottle of wine and hovers it slightly in the air towards you. “Want it?”

You felt happy, having been acknowledged. It has been a long time since you have last seen your siblings. And Aegon for all. He was your first baby brother and seeing him grown up now made you feel nostalgic.

You offered him your empty cup, watching him pour down the dark velvety liquid. And as you did, you looked to the burning stare of your other brother Aemond. His face remained stoic, the same ones he had in the throne room yesterday. He was second to Helaena for being an odd one. You assumed it was partly due to him growing up half his childhood without a dragon and would seclude himself in his chambers when his brother and his nephews go to spend time with their dragons in the pit. You gave him a genuine smile before giving your attention back to Aegon.

“When I left the Red Keep, I recall seeing your tiny face wet with tears as I entered the carriage. You kept reaching for me. It made it even harder to leave.” Aegon watches you, lips raised in recollection. There were maidens holding him back then as he screamed and insisted he wanted to go with you, his pleas were left unanswered and even a Kingsguard had to intervene. Even as the carriage exited past the castle gates, you could still hear his wailing that when it finally hit you, his voice faded to nothing and the first drop of tears fell from your eyes.

If it weren’t for the maiden assigned to you, you would’ve jumped off of the moving carriage and leap into the arms of your brothers and sister.

“Did I really?” 

“Yes. You were seven by then, and I was eight. You surely could have not forgotten?” 

“Well I remember you leaving, but I don’t remember crying.” He says in a bittersweet tone. Lately, he only cries when under the influence of the wine. To hear he used to do it for innocent reasons made him feel the emptiness inside his chest and he doesn’t recall what filled it once. Though he could remember the time where the halls quietened and he too stopped speaking, his mouth opened only that much when drowning Dornish wine he would steal from his father’s private chambers. He was ten of age when it became a habit, until then he could no longer remember the loneliness you left with him. 

“The first few months I was in the Eyrie, I kept dreaming about you, Helaena and Aemond. I felt so lonely. I would wake at night and cry for hours until the sun rose.”

“That’s such a lightening way to know your life isn’t much different from mine.” The wine speaks too. “I have Helaena and Aemond but somehow they made my life even overbearing.” 

“But you have Jaehaerys and Jaehaera now.” Aegon visibly winces with their names mentioned. 

“I don’t even remember conceiving them-“ He says and you stole a glance to Helaena, had she heard him? your sister was back to her own world and Aemond beside her was also lost deep in his thoughts now, his eye no longer on you.  “I do love them. They’re my children. Yet I cannot help but wish life had given them a better father.” 

Aegon and Helaena knew little to nothing about the world when the septon binded them ‘til death. For whatever reason it was, that you didn’t know. It was Alicent who had sent you a raven. A perfect match, she had written in a dark ink. You believed it so, and it was customary for Targaryen’s to wed sisters and brothers to ensure the purity of the dragon blood. 

The news did shock you and it took a lot of restraint not to hop on dragon back to witness their wedding. Still there was a bit of a doubt about the pairing. Aegon was Aegon. He enjoyed spending his time in the garden or watching knights spar on the yards. He was adventurous and a bit of a rebel as a child. Sometimes, he would sneak his way out of his room and find his way to yours. And the room he would find himself would never be quiet. Aegon was a joyous child, despite his father’s absence and his mother’s lacking, but you knew deep in your heart that something still sits inside Aegon’s that no sister or brother or a lover could ever mend. The first love a child should receive. The first love he should've received.

Aegon the Conqueror, his namesake — and Balerion the black dread. That was the chapter of a history book you have stolen from the sept, and you would read it repeatedly to him, every night, that for a while, he would mouth off the words from your mouth, memorizing everything written. You would always tell him that someday, he will live up to his namesake and soar the skies with Sunfyre. 

The next day, the maids would find him sleeping comfortably beside you. It was deemed inappropriate despite the both of you being a child whose innocence is yet to be stolen by time. The Red Keep and its poisonous air. 

Helaena on the other hand.. was reclusive. She kept mostly to herself, she had little to no friends and would avoid seeing eye to eye with someone. That was just how she is. It wasn’t that no one wanted to grow close to a princess of the realm. It was due to the actuality that no one could understand her. She was a riddle, and sometimes it takes a long time to decipher, nor could anyone unravel. Ultimately finding themselves to abandon such would be the finest option, having grown tiresome. 

As reclusive as she was, she did not take these circumstances of any insult. Or could she even fathom such conditions. Helaena was never treated nor felt like a contingency, after all she was never really much in on challenging reputes in the court or the people. All that she cared for really was the bugs she kept in her little cages and their corpses displayed as some sort of regalia. She might’ve even mentioned to you about wanting to ride horses with wings. She was five of age then. And then it was the last age in which you saw her. 

The woman now sits with you, the same mind yet so different. You no longer loom over her.

Now you wonder how Alicent may have seen both of her own children as a perfect match when not one could you name something in common from both of them except the distinct features of Targaryens, and a shared mother. 

“You were a child, Aegon..” You say mostly to yourself. He could hear the sympathetic pleas on your voice and he secretly despises it. He wasn’t stupid and weak, so why pretend you could’ve saved him? “You both were. I’m sorry. I wish I could’ve done something and stayed.”

Aegon wasn’t one to brood over the past, but now that you’re here, he finds himself searching for the joy he once had when you were both children. The only sister he confided in. There were no days or nights in which he did not enjoy your presence, he remembers now. 

There in his search for it, he remembers the one he used to cherish. Just a year before you left. When your family visited Rhaenyra and her family in Dragonstone. You expressed your envious qualms about not having a dragon. The egg in your cradle turned to stone just a day after you were born. 

It was night then, and Aegon offered to have you pet his dragon in the cave beneath the stones of the castle. But somehow along the way, you both lost each other in darkness. And only then your little brother reunited with you when a bright flame of dragon fire emitted on a deep part of the cave, and there were you, standing in front of the silvery blue eyed beast of dragonstone. You had claimed it.

The guards had found you shortly after and demanded the reasons for your night escapade. The whole castle awakened. Aegon was ready to take all the blame, but before he could speak, you stood in front of him and faced the raging glare of your father and your older sister. He couldn’t recall what you said, but you had defended him and told them that it was you who brought Aegon with you. 

Having known of your claim to the dragon, Silverwing. Their anger and worries were replaced with amusement. Alicent then decided to have both of you sleep beside her in her chambers.

And that was when Aegon knew he loved you.

On days in the tranquility of his sobering state, he wonders what might have been. 

“You’re right, you shouldn’t have left.” He leans back on his chair. His stance is a silent request to be left alone. Your presence in the keep — now understood, was difficult for some and may have reopened wounds that may yet to heal. 

“King Viserys of House Targaryen.”

The door to the feasting hall silenced the chatter as the Kingsguard carried King Viserys on his guiding chair and onto the middle side of the dark wood table. There was an unrecognizable smell in the air that leaked of herbs and a stench of rot, though not enough to gag you. You meet eyes with your father, and you smile at him pitifully.

Alicent trailed behind after, hand in hand with Rhaenyra as they mumbled to each other. Had they reconciled? They both found their place on the opposite sides of your father. Alicent on the left and Rhaenyra on the right. Then Daemon and Otto, unbeknownst to everyone, have been glaring at each other through the way. 

Your nephews and nieces found their places among the unoccupied spaces on the right side. Baela sat beside her father who sat beside Rhaenyra. Then Jace on his betrothed’s other side at the other end of the arrangement. 

There left a gap between you and Lucerys. And then Gwayne enters the hall at last. He finds his way to an empty seat beside you. 

The knight showed courtesy to the King first, Viserys acknowledging in return. He was about to be his son by law and even he cannot deny that the match was somehow not that bad as he intended it to be. Otto debriefed him of his eldest son’s achievements and it did impress the King. 

“Princess.” Ser Gwayne greets and you beam in return. And as he did, Otto clinks his empty goblet with his cutlery, turning everyone’s attention to your father. The table’s chattering halted, all eyes on the King.

“I have called all of you today for a feast.” He pauses, out of breath. “In this night, we celebrate not just the reunion of our separated family but once again the rejoining in our houses,” Viserys looks to the both of you and your betrothed, Otto on the side looked pleased as compared to his composure yesterday.  “Some may not be satisfied with my decision but I hope my intentions are still understood. But know that all I want is for my secondborn daughter to be in good hands before I go.” Your father lets out what you could make out to be a short chortle, there was a hint of melancholy in the way he spoke, as if he was preparing his goodbye and you can’ help the sensation of needles pricking behind your eyes. 

“Ser Gwayne Hightower.” Viserys calls. “Your father spoke of you very highly. You commanded armies in the south-west and led them to victories. That is something not any man, a lord, or a knight could ever do. And for that, I thank you for serving the realm and your house.” Gwayne sealed his lips to a tight line and nodded at the King’s words. To be recognized and praised by the Protector of the Realm was a great honor. 

“To my daughter. The last child I had with Aemma.” Alicent grew stiff. Everyone held their breath. It was not a clandestine condition that the King and his secondborn child had a rough upbringing, everyone could feel it with the years he was absent. Him remaining in the King’s Landing and him sending you to your education in the Eyrie. Not to mention your outburst in the throne room, it had spread widely so that it reached some of the townsfolk. 

Everyone’s eyes shifted back and forth now to you and your father.

King Viserys was never the same after his wife’s death. He loved Aemma but his ambitions consumed him too much that there were repercussions that he can no longer contain, and then it all ended in a tragedy. Still the Stranger was kind enough to leave you to him. He would say he never really fully recovered from Aemma’s death. There was politics, the council, a new wife and set of children that kept him distracted. The death of his son shortly after made him see himself as a failure and perceived himself as bringing nothing but tragedy in his family.

He didn’t know what to do with grief and he thought that all the things his new wife had given him were something he didn’t deserve. So the King Viserys handled it the way he thought was good so that he may never know the name of death again. Detachment. 

He sent you to Vale moons before your ninth nameday.

Aemma would caress Rhaenyra when she was a few moons of age. There she lays in your mother’s loving arms and Viserys would look at them with a warming feeling in his chest. She would tell him how Rhaenyra would have loved the Eyrie as much as she did when she was just a child. The castle there was a lot different than it did in King's Landing. There were no bustling crowds with danger awaiting every corner, it wasn’t nearly perfect but it was more guided, more controlled. There was no reeking smell from the Bay. It was just the coldness and the peace and quiet it had to offer. But Rhaenyra was a princess of the realm, his firstborn and he loved her before she even came into the world. Viserys told his wife then that there were no better place for his daughter to live but beside him in the shelter of the Red Keep. He regretted it now.

So Visery’s protected his wife’s memory and granted the one thing she ever asked of him.

“I am sorry.” There were a lot he wanted to stay but his health prevented him from doing so. “Know that I love you and I only did what I did because I wanted to protect you. And it was your mother’s wishes.” Sometimes he sees glimpses of her in the castle and he tells himself she’s waiting for him. Would she hate him for sending you away? And now seeing you a woman grown, the whispers from the Vale had confirmed it, that in some certain lights, you look like your mother. “Your mother loved the Eyrie.” 

In the finality of his words, the once seemingly permanent anguish residing in your chest dissipated and all that’s left is the longing you have for your father and how distance had stolen your time with him. 

you're probably the only 'true' friend that deran has anymore. meeting in kindergarten, you were the only one who offered your paint when the whole class was making christmas cards. and as a sign of gratitude, he bullied the boys who would tug at your hair or talk shit about the clothes that you wore from the thrift store. after that, the two of you became thick as thieves. wherever one went, the other was sure to follow.

this made you a recurring guest in the cody household. that and the fact that you didn't have the most stable home life. which was hard to believe, considering how deran and all his brothers were raised. deran tried letting smurf to give you a room of your own. it's not like they had three extra bedrooms for you to choose from. but no amount convincing would make smurf change her mind. so most of the time you stayed in deran's room, sharing his bed or the floor. sometimes, when you and deran would get into a fight, days like today, you stay on the couch. if the fight was super bad, then you'd go back to the shitty apartment that your dad lives in.

thankfully, this fight is not one of the bad ones. it's honestly really stupid now that you're thinking about it. deran had smoked your last gram of weed. he then proceeded to not even clean out your bong which he smoked it in. but both of you are too proud to apologize first. all morning you've been avoiding each other. even now, as the three boys and you are by the pool, you're not near deran. "come on, can't you just talk to him? he's been a dick all day," craig asks, sitting on the edge of the pool beside you.

"nope," you respond, popping the 'p'. "i didn't do anything wrong. he did."

"is this still about the weed? berry, if weed is what you want, i can get you weed. hell, i can get you coke."

"first, you know i don't do coke. and second, i don't want my weed from you, craig. i want it from deran. and an apology for being an ass."

craig sighs, running his fingers through his tangled hair. "yeah, alright. but don't say i didn't try to help," he says, before diving back into the pool with his brothers. there's the sound of the sliding door opening and closing, and then smurf's voice saying, "jay, there's some people i'd like you to meet." all four of you look towards her and the unfamiliar boy standing beside her. she forces the brothers to awkwardly introduce themselves one by one. "this is jay, i'm sure you remember him. he's julia's son. he's gonna be staying with us now that she's gone."

what? what does smurf mean by gone? "julia's dead?" you ask, finally finding your voice. smurf looks over at you. "nobody told you, honey? she passed away early this morning. jay, you remember-?"

"berry," he cuts in. you're the only one he recognizes. mainly because of your hair. he always had vague memories of a girl with bright colored hair, but could never put a face to the name. standing up, you quickly dry yourself with your towel, and hug him. you pull back to take a look at him. it's been at least ten years since you last saw him, but now that you're closer, you can see that he's almost the spitting image of his mother.

"it's good to see you, kid. i'm sorry about your mom. she was nice," you say softly. and you mean it. you were young when smurf kicked her out, no older than seven. but you remember her braiding your hair and teaching you how to do makeup for the first time.

"thanks, that means a lot. she... she would talk about you sometimes," he says. hearing that makes you smile. wherever she is now, you hope she knows how much you admired her. smurf doesn't like too much talk about the daughter she disowned, because she quickly ends the conversation and drags jay away to his new room. pope's old room.

"so what do we think of the kid?" baz asks once the sliding door clicks shut.

"i think it's a risky move. he's basically an outsider," craig replies.

"yeah, i agree. who knows what shit julia put in his head," deran chimes in. "what about you, berry?"

even now, in the middle of a fight, deran still wants your opinion on family business. to him, you're still family. "he can't be that bad. smurf used to bring him here and we would all babysit him, remember? he's just a kid. i think we should give him a chance."

the day passes by with all of you following smurf's every command in welcoming jay into the cody household. you clean up his room for him and make him lunch, even though he insists you don't have to. "nah, it's alright. your grandma can be a bitch when i don't do what she wants. no offense," you tell him. the boys find an unused, but nice, tv in the garage to give him. baz even gives him a couple hundreds to buy himself some new shoes and clothes.

now, it's night and you're sat on the couch, lazily flipping through tv channels. deran has warmed up a bit more to you throughout the day, but still hasn't apologized. stubborn assholes, that's what you both are. speak of the devil, deran enters the living room, arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. even without looking at him, you can tell it's him from your peripheral. he sits down beside you on the couch, tossing a baggie of weed in your lap. "that's should be a gram," is all he says.

you pick it up, holding it between your index and middle finger. it's a little more than a gram based on the weight of it. "next time you take my shit, just let me know. i only got pissed because you lied," you say, finally looking over at him.

"yeah, alright. i will."

a few seconds of silence pass by. "why didn't you tell me about julia?"

he shrugs. "i didn't know if you remembered her. we were so young when she left."

"she didn't leave. she was kicked out," you correct. "either way, i would've preferred to find out from you rather than smurf."

finally, he looks at you. and you can tell he's remorseful. "you can come back to the room if you want."

"promise not to kick me in the shin or hog the blanket?" you ask.

"scout's honor, berry."

"fine, alright. since you're practically begging to hang with me," you tease. deran quickly stands, tugging you into his side and rubbing a noogie on your blue head. "seriously, dude! what are we, ten?" you complain, struggling to shove him off. he just laughs.

by the next morning, it's as if you and deran never fought. there's still some minor tension between jay and the rest of the boys, but you hope that it soon subsides. it can't be that bad anyways, since craig and deran are hosting a party as a sort of initiation for jay. the three of you have been setting it up all day. getting beer and booze, drugs, food, anything that will guarantee a cody rager. baz comes back to the house later, catherine and lena in tow.

you're out by the pool with craig and deran, putting some beers in a cooler when the young girl calls your name. "hey, lena!" you exclaim, kneeling down to catch her running body. "you excited for the party?" she just hums and nods. "guess what? i got you some of that unicorn ice cream you love. is it okay if she has some?" you ask, looking towards cath.

"only a little. i don't want her spoiling her dinner."

the young girl practically drags you away into the house when she hears that it's okay. it makes you laugh. catherine follows, leaving baz behind to talk about whatever with his brothers. she sits down at the kitchen island, saying, "baz told me that julia passed. that jay's now living here."

"uh, yeah, he is. he's staying in pope's old room," you reply, pulling out a bowl and spoon for lena, setting it down on the counter beside her ice cream.

"is she still giving you a hard time?" she asks softly.

you slide the bowl across the island to lena, where she sits beside her mom. she mutters a soft 'thank you'. "when is she not?" you joke weakly. "i'm just trying to stay on her good side. just like i always have since becoming a part of this family. i'm sure you understand."

that makes her laugh. "trust me, i do. listen, if things ever go sideways between you and her, my house is always open. you don't have to go back to your dad's place." you like catherine. just like you, she was an outsider in the cody house. and being the only girl around after julia was kicked out, she understanded you in ways not even deran could.

"i appreciate the offer, really, but i'm okay. half the time i go over there he's too drunk and/or high to even know i'm around."

she nods, understanding. "well, the offer always stands if you change your mind."

the party goes by a lot faster than you expect. you do a couple shots, smoke a joint, talk to some the people you know. which isn't a lot if you're being honest. the boys jump off the roof and into the pool. craig pushes you off the roof and into the pool. the fucking asshole. now the sun is starting to set and all the partygoers are gone. catherine's left with lena to put her to bed, leaving baz to hang around. you wouldn't be surprised if it was because he said some stupid shit.

you hover in the pool, resting your arms along the edge. deran and craig are talking about whatever, while a joint gets passed around between the three of you. meanwhile baz sits on the edge of a pool chair, smurf sitting behind him, rubbing his back. it's weird as fuck, if you're being completely honest. she's been this way with her boys for as long as you can remember. it never gets any less unsettling.

"gotta take a piss, i'll be back," you say to craig, handing him the joint. when you pull yourself out of the pool, he wolf whistles. "always love to watch you leave, berry." you flip him off as you walk away.

water drips off of you and onto the floor. you make a mental note to clean it all up so smurf doesn't get on your ass. quickly you finish up your business and head back in the direction of the pool when you hear something break in jay's room. it's really not any of your business, but a small part of you is concerned. he drank a couple of shots because of peer pressure from craig so you worry that he fell over and busted his head open. you walk over to his room, knocking on the door. "jay? you all good?" he doesn't respond. that worries you even more. "alright, i'm coming in. be decent."

you slowly push open the door, peeking your head in. everything looks fine, minus the knocked over lamp in the corner. that's what must've fell. "you alright, kid?" you step into the room, jay standing on one side. and on the other stands a familiar face. one you haven't seen in three years. "andrew?" you whisper.

"you ruined my surprise," pope deadpans, glancing over at jay. you cross the room in three, maybe even two, strides before pulling pope into a tight hug. his arms wrap around your waist, and he rests his head in your neck, breathing you in. you still smell the same, he thinks to himself. like vanilla and lavender. it's a familiar scent that makes him feel calmer than he has in the past three years.

as if sensing the tension between you two, jay awkwardly says, "i'll, uh, i'll head out. back to the pool." pope pulls his head out of your neck, but doesn't let go of you. "don't tell them i'm here," he commands.

"y-yeah, of course."

"nobody knows you're here? not even smurf?" you question once jay's gone.

he shakes his head. "wanted to surprise you but found the kid in my room. she gave him my room?"

"yeah, she did. did jay tell you about julia?" pope doesn't cry, but you can tell that he's close to it. the whites of his hazel eyes are red, rimmed with tears. that's the only answer you need. "oh, andy. i'm so sorry," you whisper, brushing the sides of his face. "you changed your hair," he remarks, fingers lightly tugging at the wet strands. you pick up on the non direct cue that he wants to change the conversation. so you do.

"i changed it shortly after you went to prison. kinda got sick of the red." that's what you tell him. you don't tell him that you changed it because it reminded you too much of him. of the night you shared together on your birthday.

"i like it. suits you," he croaks.

you smile softly. "yeah? i'm glad you do... c'mon, let's go show everyone who's back in town."

if smurf didn't hate you before, which she definitely did, she sure as shit hates you now. first it was you finding out pope got released before she did. then it was him choosing to sit next to you last night when you were all catching up. and now, two days later, you're the one he chose to take with him to do apartment hunting. not smurf. you.

currently, you two are finished. now eating greasy fast food. "i just don't understand. why isn't she letting you stay in one of the spare rooms at the house?" you ask, picking one of the fries off his tray.

"said she doesn't need my parole officer stopping by for piss tests every week. and apparently baz sold my house. are you still sleeping in deran's room?" you hum. "why don't you just move into one of the spare rooms?"

"and have smurf kick me out onto the street when she finds out? no thanks, andy. i'd rather share a bed with deran." you thumb through the open house flyers that sit on the table. "i think the first place was really nice. it's close to the house. but if you don't want one by the house, there was the fourth one we looked at. this one's by the beach."

"did you like any of them?" he asks.

you swallow down the bite you just took off your burger. "you mean the houses?"

"yeah."

"we're buying for you, andy. it matters whether you like them or not."

"i care about you're opinion. you always wanted a house by the beach, right?"

you're surprised he remembers. you must've been only seventeen when you told him. "you remember that?" you question softly. he shrugs likes it's no big deal. "i remember everything you tell me."

"y-yeah, i always have. still do."

"then it's settled i'll buy the fourth one."

by the time you two get home, dinner is ready and the table's set. everyone was just waiting for you and pope to arrive. "dude, finally, you guys took forever. been starving my ass off," deran groans, digging into his pasta. "shut up, asshole," you say, lightly knocking him in the head. "you two settle down," smurf chides. then she looks at pope. "you find a house, baby?" he nods. "is it close by?"

"it's about thirty minutes away. it came furnished so i'll head over there tonight."

smurf purses her lips, putting on a plastic smile. "i'm happy for you, baby." she's not. not really. because pope is making progress. and he's doing it without her. after dinner, everyone splits off to do their own thing. smurf to bed, jay to do homework, baz back home, and craig... doing whatever the fuck craig does. deran sits in the living room, ripping a bong and watching 'rick and morty'. pope hangs in the kitchen, washing dishes. he won't let you help him, but he likes the company. especially because it's you.

"what do you think of, jay?" he asks, hand drying the last set of utensils.

"he seems like a smart kid. has a good head on his shoulders."

"do you think we can trust him?"

you shrug from where you sit on the counter beside the sink. "i think so, yeah. why do you ask?"

"smurf won't let me do any jobs. baz is driving craig to mexico tomorrow morning so he can see a doctor for his chest. i was thinking we could pull a job while they're away. maybe get the help of jay."

"i don't do jobs, andy, you know that." the most you ever do for them is keeping lookout or playing gateway driver. that was as close pope ever let you to being in their world. "besides, i thought you didn't want me doing them."

done with the dishes, pope dries his hands and moves his body to stand between your swinging legs. he doesn't touch you, but his hands rest on each side of your thighs. close enough that when his fingers twitch, they brush bare skin. "i'm not asking you to join us on the job. all i'll need you to do is stay at the house, make sure smurf doesn't come home. and if she does, feed her whatever bullshit lie you think she'll believe."

"i can do that."

"i know you can. you're a smart girl, i trust you. now all we have to do is convince jay and deran."

convincing deran wasn't hard to do. he's been waiting for any opportunity to prove himself as a grown up. not the kid that baz and smurf still see him as. it takes a little more convincing for jay, however. like you told pope, he's a smart kid. and he's not gonna do anything stupid that might risk him getting kicked out of the cody home. but pope promises money, and a chance to show the family that he's one of them. so he agrees.

now, it's the next day, and the three boys are all dressed in black from head to toe. deran and jay are busy loading up the car with supplies, while you and pope stay back in the garage. polishing out all the final details.

"and if smurf comes home while we're gone, you say...?"

"i say that you all went to the beach to teach jay how to surf. you guys haven't been out long, and i don't know when you'll be back."

"good girl," pope praises.

this job is an easy one. you shouldn't feel as anxious as you do right now. but a small part of you is still worried that something will go wrong. jay is young and what if he makes a rookie mistake? that's normal and acceptable in other jobs, but in the jobs that his uncles do? that means time in jail. and you don't want pope to do another second. "are you sure about this? you don't think vin was just yapping in prison?" you ask, nerves getting the better of you.

"i'm sure. he was only telling me about this job because he wanted to pull it with me. he wouldn't lie if that was the case," pope assures. one of his hands reach out to pull your hands away from each other. oh, you hadn't even realized you were picking at the skin around your nails. nervous habit you never really dropped. "everything is gonna be fine, berry. i promise. i'll be back before you know it." the same hand he used to stop your skin peeling is the one he cups the back of your head with. bringing you closer and kissing your hairline.

"be safe," you whisper, fingers curling against the front of his black zip up.

"always, berry."

near the truck, jay stops loading to look at you and his uncle. "are they, uh, together?" deran follows jay's gaze, a small smile on his face when he sees. "it's complicated with them."

"complicated how?" jay asks, but he doesn't get answer now that pope is walking towards the truck. he bangs on the side, catching their attention. "let's head out. we're wasting daylight."

you spend the rest of the day on the couch, watching tv, and worrying. a whole lot of worrying. every five minutes you check your phone, making sure you don't miss a single phone call or text. it's nothing but radio silence every single time. guess that's a good thing, though. no news is good news. the sun is already starting to set once the boys arrive back. it's not a phone call that lets you know that they're here. no, it's the yelling coming from the garage.

pushing the blanket off you, you stand and start walking towards the voices. the tile floor is cold against your bare feet, making you shiver. jay passes by as you head out there. you grab his arm before he can leave. "everything go okay?" you whisper.

"yeah, they're just fighting in there now." you nod, letting him go and saying a soft thanks. jay was right. pope and deran are in the middle of a screaming match. they haven't even noticed that you're in the room with them. "i just don't understand why we had to take him with us!" deran exclaims.

"what's the big deal, huh? you got your money. we all got our fair share, so quit your whining," pope snaps, shrugging off his jacket.

"it's bullshit. he's barely been in the family for what? a week? now he's doing jobs with us?"

"you know, if you're gonna keep complaining, i'll just take your share and split with jay."

"fuck off!" deran yells, shoving pope. that's when you finally step in. you grab pope by the back of his shirt, pulling him away from deran before he can take a swing at him.

"what has gotten into you two? you were perfectly fine this morning, now you come home and you're acting like a bunch of teenagers!"

"tell your little boyfriend that he's being an asshole!" deran says, pointing at pope.

"oh, real mature. if i remember right, you were the one who wanted to stop sucking smurf's tit and do your own jobs. i chose to bring you along on this job. you got this money because of me."

"like you're any better? i'm not the one who's been stuck at berry's side since getting out of prison. going from sucking one tit to the next, huh, pope?"

if it weren't for the tight hold you had on his shirt, popw definitely would've crossed the room and decked deran right there. "don't you fucking talk about her like that," pope barks.

"andy, it's fine," you whisper. then you look at deran. "can you stop picking a fight with him? he did you a favor, de. he just got out of prison and took a risk by doing this job. i think you can cut him a little slack."

"seriously? you're taking his side? after everything that i've done for you..."

"i'm not trying to take anyone's side. i understand why you're frustrated right now, but the last thing that anyone needs is for us to be fighting with each other," you reason. you're silently pleading with him to understand. the worst part, is he does. he understands completely what you're trying to say. but adrenaline and emotions are still high. and sometimes that makes people say the wrong thing.

"yeah, whatever. go ahead and jump onto the next cody boy dick that'll want you," he scoffs, stomping out of the room. but not before harshly bumping your shoulder with his.

pope doesn't ask you if you're okay. he knows you're not. he's not an idiot. "want me to take you home?" he asks, voice gruff but soft. "i-i don't... i don't have anywhere else to go," you whisper. "that's okay. i'll take you home with me, c'mon."

once at his house, pope gives you an old shirt for you to change into. he gives you prviacy to change in his bedroom, hovering right outside the door. you strip down to your bra and panties, pulling his shirt over your head. "i'm done," you announce. a second passes. he opens the door to see you sitting on the bed, back pressed against the headboard. pope digs in his back pocket, pulling out a wad of cash and holding it out to you. "what's this for?"

"it's for keeping lookout for smurf. that's half of my share so deran won't keep whining," he explains.

"andy, you don't have to. keep your money." you attempt to give it back, but he just closes your fist around the money. "keep the money. get some sleep, we've all had a long day," he orders. he turns on his heel, ready to lend you his bed as he stays on the couch. not like he sleeps much anyways. but your hand catches his wrist before he can leave. "can you stay? please? i don't wanna be alone," you whisper. and he can't deny you when you look up at him with those pretty eyes of yours.

he swallows down the nerves and nods. you scoot over to make space for him. he slowly sits, back straight and as tight as coil when he leans against the headboard. heart beating even faster when you lay your head on his chest. the bare skin of your knee brushes against his arm when you bring them to your chest. this position is so familiar to him. he remembers sitting in his old room with you like this the night before he did the bank robbery. when it was too cold or lonely in prison, which it was almost every night, he replayed that memory in his head to keep him warm.

"are we ever gonna talk about it?" you ask.

"talk about what?"

"about the night of my birthday."

that night. pope remembers that night too. but he only thought about that night when he committed acts that he is far too ashamed to admit. "what about that night?"

"...do you regret it?" you whisper.

his response is almost immediate. "no. i don't. why would you ask that?"

he feels you shrug. "i don't know. i just thought that's why you never wanted me to visit you in prison."

"that's not why i didn't want you visiting, berry. folsom was a shitty place. and i didn't want you in there, even if it was just to visit me. i didn't want you to see what it turned me into," he admits softly. it breaks your heart. "what was it like in there?" you sit up just enough to look at him. sitting your chin where your head just rested.

it takes him a minute to gather his thoughts. "they used to drug me and keep me locked in my cell. always said it was for my protection but i hated how numb i felt. and there was this guard who would strip me down and tie me to a chair in the middle of the room. he'd keep all the lights on, music blasting so loud i thought my head would burst. then he would take me outside and parade me around. humiliate me while i was covered in drool and shit. when i thought it was done? he'd do it all over again."

once he's done talking he won't look at you. you're not even sure what to say. 'i'm sorry' isn't appropiate. what do you have to be sorry for? you didn't do that shit to him. and sorry won't take away the trauma he experienced. "does anybody else know?" is the best thing you come up with. pope shakes his head. "only you."

"it's safe with me, andy. i promise."

finally, he looks at you again. "i know. i trust you." and coming from him? that means a lot. "i missed you," he says first. "i missed you too," you say without missing a beat. you lay your head back on his chest. his heart beats slower now. "i'm sorry i couldn't be there for you then. but i'm here now. i'll look after you."

"it's nasty work," he retorts.

"not to me. not if it's you." your breath slowly begins to even out. body going slack against his. you've fallen asleep. pope slowly wraps his arms around your waist, tugging you closer. he rests his cheek atop your head, breathing you in. "i'll look after you, too," he whispers into the dark.

you end up staying at pope's house for a lot longer than intended. not that he minded one bit. but you felt bad for free loading. every attempt you would make to pay him with your paycheck from the record store was shot down. every time you would try to help clean or do laundry, he would lightly shove you away from wherever you were trying to work and take over. "just let me take care of you," he would say. pope liked having you around. so much so that he began to fill the fridge with your favorite foods and drinks. even bought you a whole new wardrobe. he started treating this less like a short time arrangement and more like you had moved in permanently.

about a week has gone by, and you still haven't spoken to deran since the fight. even now, as you lounge by the cody pool, with deran only a couple feet away, neither of you will make eye contact with one another. you're attempting to peel the orange you grabbed on your way outside. but with your freshly manicured nails (which pope also paid for), you can't dig your fingernails in deep enough to get a good peel. after your second annoyed sigh, pope looks over his shoulder from where he's crouched by the fountain he's building. "you okay?" he asks.

"i can't peel my stupid orange," you complain, tossing it down in your lap. he dusts his hands off on his pants, moving to sit at the edge of the pool chair you've been lounging on for the past hour. "here, let me do it for you," he says. you drop it in his outstretched hand. his thick fingers dig into the orange, pulling it apart in large chunks. even once it's stripped of its peel, he doesn't stop until the whole thing is separated into individual slices. "there you go."

"thanks, andy." you sit up, grabbing the slices from him. he nods, doing his best to avoid dropping his gaze towards your exposed cleavage in your bikini. "you talk to deran yet?" he asks, looking over at the mentioned man who's yelling in the pool with craig. "no, i haven't. you?" pope shakes his head. "think he'll ever talk to us again?" your words are teasing, but pope can hear the genuine sadness that peeks through. he's ashamed at the bubble of jealousy that grows in the pit of his belly.

he knows that deran is your best friend. and that he was the only one who was there for you when pope got sent to jail. he should be grateful for that. and he is. but still, pope can't help but feel envy at the relationship you have with his brother. it's closer than the one he has with you. maybe that has to do with the age gap, or the fact that he was gone for three fucking years. he prays that that'll change. "everything will be fine," he assures. "deran will come around. he always does."

smurf then comes outside, calling pope's name. "baby, you staying for dinner?" she asks. he doesn't answer her right away, though. he looks at you, tilting his head. a silent way of him asking if you want to stay. when you nod, that's when he replies. "yeah, we're gonna stay." the inclusion of you ruffles smurf's feathers. you can tell it does. "berry, honey? come help me in the kitchen." an order. not a suggestion.

pope's eyes watch you the whole way as you walk into the house until you're out of sight. there's an uneasy feeling that grows in the pit of his stomach. the thought of you and smurf alone doesn't bode well with him. she wouldn't be dumb enough to do anything to you with him or any of the cody boys, in fact, around. but he still keeps his attention on you the whole time. "you and deran talking yet, honey?" smurf asks, setting down food, plates, and silverware in front of you. without argument, you plate up dinner for you and the family. "no, we haven't."

"what happened?" you know you can't tell her about the job that pope just pulled with his brother and nephew, so instead you lie and say, "it was just a bullshit argument. i said some stuff, he said some stuff. the usual." either she believes you, or just doesn't care to pull the truth out of you. which is rare, but it happens. "so hard headed, the both of you. just like siblings. do you remember when the two of you were seven and started going around telling everyone that you were twins?" that pulls an actual smile out of you. of course you remembered. you and deran would wear similar outfits to try and convince people. no one ever believed you, obviously, because neither of you looked alike one bit. but you had twin souls, or whatever the fuck it's called. "yeah, i remember."

she carries half the plates to the table, and you carry the other half. "how's your dad then? i'm assuming you're staying at his place?"

"uh, i wouldn't know. i haven't seen him in about two months. i'm actually staying at pope's for the time being."

smurf falters for just a second. you notice it from the corner of your eye. but she recovers quickly. "well, that's nice of him, honey. go tell the boys that dinner is ready." you nod, going back outside. it silently makes you proud how much you've gotten under her skin recently. maybe she's finally realizing how little control she has on her boys now. that they're not the same kids she once knew. but when you think you have a hold on her, she shows that she's two steps ahead. if only you had realized that sooner.

the next day, pope heads out to smurf's earlier than usual. he says something about the fountain and a few other things that you can't really remember because you were half asleep when he told you. he kisses you on your temple, tucks you under the covers tightly, and leaves. you wake up about an hour later. deciding to clean around the house, do the laundry. there's not much to do since pope has always been someone who keeps their space tidy and neat, but it's the least you can do. he has let you stay at his home for the past two weeks.

you've just finished folding and putting away your clothes when you hear the front door open and shut. but it's not the gentle sound it usually is. it's rough, nearly shaking the whole house. something bad must've happened to have him acting like this. your socked feet pad softly on the tile floor as you head towards the front of the house. "andy?" you call out softly, looking around every corner to find him. he's standing in the kitchen, back turned to you. his body language is tight, but his breathing is erratic. "andy?" you say again. "what happened?"

"did you know?" pope snaps, disregarding your question. he's angry, that much is clear. but he's angry at... you? "did i know what?" you ask, genuinely confused. "about the pills! don't play dumb with me, berry!" finally, he turns to look at you. this isn't the pope you know. you've seen this side of him before, sure. directed at the scumbags who go in and out of the cody household. sometimes at his brothers when they piss him, or at smurf when she pushes him too far. but never at you. "andy, what pills are you talking about? you don't take-"

you don't get the chance to finish your sentence when he throws the pill bottle at the wall behind you. the orange container breaks on impact, causing all the white pills to shoot out in different directions. it doesn't hit you, pope made sure that it wouldn't before throwing it. but the sound is so loud and reminds you of your father's drunken outbursts that you can't help but flinch. there's a flicker of guilt in his eyes at his actions, but it's quickly masked with anger all over again. not just anger. hurt. that someone, maybe the only person he truly trusts, lied to him. or so he believes.

"you knew that she was slipping that shit in my food." not a question. a statement. like he's already decided you're guilty before hearing your case. "i swear to god, i had no idea she was doing that shit to you! you don't think that if i would have known, i wouldn't tell you immediately?" you retort. "you're telling me that you didn't see her mix a crushed up pill in my plate of food?" he questions.

fuck. fuck fuck fuck.

of course that's why she asked you to help her in the kitchen yesterday. panic begins to rise in your chest. consuming you from the inside out. whatever bullshit smurf planted in him this morning while you weren't there has already taken root. the odds truly are stacked up against you in this moment. nothing you say will convince him. so you just stick to the truth. "i didn't see her do it, andy. you gotta believe me. i didn't know that she was doing that to you," you beg. you mover closer to him, attempt to grab his hand, but he pulls away from you. the first time he's ever done that.

"don't touch me. i trusted you. i trusted you," he repeats, slowly backing away from you. "and i shouldn't have." he turns on his heel and locks himself in his bedroom in a matter of seconds. so fast that you don't even have the chance to do anything but watch him walk away. the second you hear that click, your chest caves in. you feel stupid. you should've known that smurf would do something so cruel to you. the walls of the house feel as if they're closing in on you. your breaths are rapid and uneven, making you feel lightheaded.

i can't stay here is the conclusion you come to. thankfully, you're phone is still charging on the counter from where you left it last night. and your purse beside it. you hold the phone in one hand, and the purse in the other. slipping on whatever shoes are by the door, probably your beat up vans from senior year, and hurry out of the house without a second thought. you walk for what feels like hours. by this point, your feet ache and legs burn. you don't even realize where you're now at until you blink away the tears you've been keeping at bay.

your dad's house.

you look down at your phone. it's nearing one pm. you've walked for almost two hours. no missed calls or texts from pope. you open your contacts, hovering on cath's name. if you called, you know she would answer. but the last thing you wanted was to be a burden on her. she practically has to raise lena all by herself, and you know that there's no room for you at her house. not even half a scroll down is deran's contact. you're not even sure if he would pick up if you called. on top of that, you don't think you could calmly live in smurf's house before punching her lights out. beside, deran would probably take pope's side when he inevitably finds out about the falling out between you and his brother.

at this moment, it sinks in that you don't have that many people in your life. you had more until the record store you worked at closed for good, leaving you and all your old coworkers to slowly drift apart. there's no other choice but to dig out that old key and enter back into your childhood home.

three days have passed, and pope's starting to get worried. the second he heard the front door shut he immediately regretted how angry he got with you. he couldn't bring himself to call or text you that same day. so then he waited until the next day. but then you didn't pick up. he called the fay after that. still no reply. he stops by smurf's place because obviously if you weren't with him you would be with deran, right? but pope finds the youngest cody brother alone in his room.

"where is she?" pope asks, not even bothering to knock as he barges into the room. "who? berry?" deran questions, setting down his bong. "yes, berry. she hasn't picked up her phone."

"i don't know, man. she hasn't called me. she's been living with you for these past few weeks, not me. why? something happen?"

pope shifts from one foot to the other. fingers twitching at his side. "we got into a fight a few days ago. i found out that she knew about these antipyschotics smurf was putting in my food-"

"hold on, smurf was drugging you up?" deran interrupts.

"you didn't know?"

"fuck no, man. and you think berry knew? who told you that shit?"

"it was smurf-"

deran cuts pope off with a snort. "smurf told you that berry knew about the pills? if i didn't know about the pills, berry sure as shit didn't know. because i would've told her. meaning she would've eventually told you. smurf played you like a fucking fool."

pope can't believe it. he should've known that smurf would pull some manipulative shit like this. and he fell for it like a kid. just like he always has. naively he believed that you broke his trust. only to realize that you were on his side this whole time. you truly had no idea about the pills. you were telling the truth.

you were telling the truth.

"fuck," pope mutters, running his hands over his buzzed hair. "so if she's not with me or you, where else would she go?"

deran sighs, shaking his head. "only one place i can think of: her dad's."

the house is as dirty and rundown as pope remembers. he's been here a handful of times. most of the time it was because you had run away from the house after a fight with deran or craig. he never saw himself returning.

it smells like cigarette smoke and cheap beer. all the blinds are drawn shut, leaving no light in the house. except for the light coming from the tv. it highlights your dad's passed out frame on his recliner. pope doubts that the older man even knows you've been staying in his house for the past three days. he walks past your dad to peek his head into the kitchen. you're not in there. then he stalks down the hall to the room at the end of the hall. your old bedroom.

slowly, pope pushes the door open, a quiet creak echoing in the otherwise quiet house. you're laying on the bed, back turned to the door. he knows that you're not actually sleeping. your body language is too tight. "berry?" he whispers softly, awkwardly standing at the foot of the bed. you stir, but don't respond. "berry?" he says again. "just let me talk to you, please."

finally, you give up the sleeping act and sit up against the bedframe. "what do you want?" you ask. "i just wanna talk," pope repeats. "talk about what? you wanna throw some more accusations at me?" pope drops his head in shame. "deran told me the truth. that you really didn't know about the pills."

"it's almost as if i tried telling you that," you snap. "but you chose not to believe me."

"...are you mad at me?"

"what do you think, pope?"

he flinches. actually flinches at the name that falls from your lips. he can't remember the last time you've called him that name. but all he knows it that he hates it. "andy. don't call me that, berry, please." he sways from side to side, like he's not sure where to go. he wants to move closer to you, but fears the rejection that you will undoubtedly give him. "i know i messed up, okay? i said trusted i you and went back on that statement because i got scared. you were the only person who never seemed scared of me. you treated me like i was normal. you... you made me feel normal." pope watches as you stand up from the bed, slowly walking towards him. he barely moves an inch as you stop right in front of him. from up close, he can see the dark circles you've gained from lack of sleep. but even now, you look as pretty as ever in his eyes.

"i'm not that mad at you, andy. if anything, i'm hurt. i'm hurt that after all this time, you truly believed that i would've done something like that to you. you say that you trust me, and i believe that you do, but you clearly don't trust me enough if you're just ready to believe smurf the second she tells you anything. i'm on your side, andy, and she's trying to ruin that."

you don't hesitate to pull pope into a hug when you notice the tears beginning to well in his eyes. deep down, you knew that this wasn't really his fault. it was just the way he grew up. the way smurf rotted his brain and made it seem like she was a saint no matter what she did. he'd snap out of it eventually. even now, he was slowly pulling himself away from her and the mind games she constantly played.

"i'm sorry. i'm so sorry, berry. it won't happen again, please. i promise. i'll be so good to you," pope whispers into your neck. you pull away just enough to look at him, making him whine. "it's okay. we're okay," you reassure, pressing a kiss on his cheek. "let's just go, yeah? i don't wanna be here anymore." he listens without a second thought, carrying your purse even though you don't ask him to. he keeps a guiding hand on the small of your back towards the front door. you leave just as quietly as you entered, with your dad completely unaware that you were ever there.

you're surprised to see deran leaning against his green jeep, which is parked next to pope's truck. pope looks at you, giving you a silent look that asks, 'are you good with him here?' when you nod, he nods, and heads into his truck. "what are you doing?" you ask softly. "i followed pope here just in case you needed help beating his ass after the stupid shit he said," deran jokes. "but i'm also here to say i'm sorry for how i acted the other day. i was a fucking dick to you when i shouldn't have been. and i was an even shittier friend by pushing you away."

"it's okay, de. i forgive you," you reply. deran opens his arms. "awkward hug?" you laugh softly. "yeah, awkward hug." he pulls you in tight, squeezing you until you have to punch him to let go. "you sure you don't want me to beat pope's ass? the offer still stands if you want."

"i think i'm okay for now, but i'll let you know next time."

"alright, i'll see you later, yeah?" deran asks. you nod, waving goodbye as you walk towards pope's truck, hopping into the truck as he holds the passenger door open for you. once inside, pope walks across the front of the car and into the driver's side. "you hungry? you want me to get you something?" pope questions. "no, i'm okay. i think i'd rather just go home with you."

home with you.

You checked the make-up fighting for its life to conceal the dark shadows under your eyes in the rearview mirror one last time. 

You barely slept all night. 

Getting a call from the US Marshals about your crazy father escaping from prison (once again), followed by them insisting on banging on your door to interview you (as if your father managed to make it halfway across the country in a single night to hide out at your place) in the middle of the night, was anything but beneficial for a proper night's rest.

“That’s what you get for being on the run with him when you were fifteen.” You muttered to yourself and grabbed your bag. It couldn't be helped. People on the other side of these bricks and bars depended on the help you had to offer.

You were too deep in your thoughts to notice the figure looming behind you. You flinched when he called your name, softly, almost as if he was afraid of what would happen if he said too loudly.

You flinched and swirled around, your mind almost expecting to find your father standing there, no matter how impossible that was.

Andrew tapped his fingers against his thigh in a rapid, uneven rhythm. His shoulders curled forward as though to protect the sides of his head from an imminent attack. His eyes were trained on the asphalt to your feet.

“What are you doing here?” The words came out breathless.

“Don’t go in there.”

Your mind finally caught up fully with the situation. Andrew in the employee parking lot. Andrew waiting for you outside your place of work - which happened to be a damn state prison.

What was he thinking?!

You looked around, on the look-out for guards, but the parking lot was as empty as it always was when you arrived for work. The guard shift change happened much earlier than yours to ensure your and the other social workers’ safety.

“You can’t be here, Andrew. You are on parole. This is a restricted area. How did you even get here?”

He offered only a half-shrug and an apologetic, amused look. It lasted about two seconds, then his eyes were on the asphalt again.

Like a puppy expecting punishment because it knew it had done something to displease its owner.

You didn’t like it when he looked at you like that. You never had.

“You have to go, Andrew.” You said softly, taking a step towards him. “You have to go.” He winced and curled in on himself further, but didn’t shrink away when you reached out to tentatively touch his wrist with your fingertips.

It was always difficult not to offer soothing, comforting touches to Andrew, especially when he looked like this. Now, with no prison overalls and no barren prison walls to keep you in check, it only got all the more difficult...

“Don’t go in there.” Andrew rasped again.

You forced yourself to not fidget. You didn’t like being late, but in all the years you’d worked here, you’d never been late, so you figured you could afford to take these few minutes to calm Andrew down, whatever had him so nervous.

He wasn’t your client anymore, but it was difficult to just stop caring after spending three years working tirelessly to help him. You’d seen him almost every day for three years, and now you were supposed to never see him again. Never find out how he fared.

It didn’t leave you untouched either.

“Why don’t you want me to go to work today?”

“Ever.” Andrew choked the word out as if it was trying to strangle him. “It’s not safe there. I- I can’t protect you anymore!”

“Why do you feel like it is your responsibility to protect me?”

He emitted a frustrated huff, the same sound he always made when your questions redirected a conversation away from what he wanted out of it, or when they forced him to analyse things he’d rather keep buried.

You sighed. You knew when he looked at you that way, it meant you weren’t going to get any answers out of him.

“It is not your responsibility to ensure my safety. That’s mine, the warden’s, the COs’ and the safety protocol’s job. I was safe inside the prison during the two years I’ve worked here before your incarceration, just as I was safe outside the prison while you served your time.”

Andrew shook his head and opened his mouth, but you lifted your hand to stop him before he could argue.

“We talked about boundaries a lot in the past, Andrew.”

He drew away further, not physically, no, in that way of his where he went to some part of his mind you could not follow him to, as if to shut a door in your face. He always did when he didn’t follow through on the agreements you two set. The worst it had ever been was after he got into a fight with another inmate. He’d been so scared of facing your disappointment. It took weeks to get him to open up again, to see you weren’t going to get angry or lash out at him.

Often, you were the first safe person in your clients’ lives.

“I know this transition will be difficult for you. We’ve worked together closely for years now.” His family barely visited. You were the only real social contact he had for three years. “But you can’t show up at my work. It isn’t right, and it isn’t safe for you. Hilty is gone, but there are other guards who won’t be happy about him getting sacked-”

“He got sacked?” Andrew frowned, glancing up at you through his lashes.

“He got less than what he deserved, but yes. He was let go, and he’ll never work as a correctional officer ever again.”

“Did you-”

You merely smiled. “If you need to talk to me, Andrew, you can set up an appointment through your parole officer. I worked with him before. He’s hard, but fair, for the most part. We can go over some reentry strategies together, and I can help you transition to a new social worker-”

“New?” Panic flared in his eyes, like an animal pushed into a corner. “Why new? Do you-” He looked genuinely heartbroken. “I knew it.” He drew back, physically this time, taking a step away from you. You allowed him the distance he needed. “You’re disgusted with me. You don’t- don’t even like me.”

“I do like you, Andrew.” You didn’t know when you started using his name so much. It just came naturally during your appointments. He needed something to ground himself. Something to give him space to figure out who he was beyond his struggles, crimes, and family.

You knew the other inmates only called him Pope. You knew the people in Oceanside knew him only as Pope. You tried using the name once, early in the beginning of your professional relationship, in an attempt to get the stoic, stiff man to be a little more comfortable with you, but you realised immediately that that was not the strategy that would get you ahead.

He didn’t like the nickname, and he desperately needed an identity outside the one that name burdened him with.

A reminder that there was more to him.

And there was. You were convinced of it.

“And I’ve enjoyed working with you, and I wish I could have done more to help you, but you are not an inmate anymore, so you can’t be my client.”

The look in his eyes ripped right into your chest. He looked so torn between feeling like he needed you, and never, ever wanting to go back to the torture he’d been made to endure in the building looming behind you.

“Usually, we would have had time to prepare you for this separation, to slowly let our appointments trickle out, and I’d have discussed strategies with you to help you navigate life outside prison again, but your release was processed very quickly.” You took a careful step towards Andrew. Not because you were scared of him, but because he deserved the chance to decide whether he wanted to allow the proximity or not. “Do you have a place to stay? A job? Your parole office will expect you to find one, and they are never reasonable about the timeline.”

“Smurf gave me a job.” He glanced at you and added. “A legal one.”

Legal not real. You had no doubt Andrew wasn’t going to clock in for a shift at the local Starbucks anytime soon. You nodded anyway. You weren’t convinced work was what Andrew needed or something he was capable of right now. He needed treatment, but his mother wasn’t going to let him seek it, and nothing you could say would win against her influence.

“Have you moved back home?”

He shook his head. “She doesn’t want my parole officer snooping around. I have this place at the Strand.”

“That’s good.” You didn’t want him in Smurf’s house, but that wasn’t a decision you could make. She wasn’t good for him, but Andrew had to come to that realisation himself.

“That’s good. What have you been doing to get your mind off things? What has made you feel calm?” He was released three days ago, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept at all in that time.

He shrugged and grumbled a quiet TV.

You couldn’t help but smile. You hadn’t forgotten his love for nature documentaries, or the tensions it caused in the rec room when he got angry at other inmates changing the channel - or them getting angry at him for refusing.

Now, he could watch as many and for as long as he wanted.

“I’m glad to hear that.” You sighed and forced a smile. “Go home, Andrew. You don’t belong here anymore.”

“My sister died.” The words burst out of him as though he had been fighting to hold them back, but simply couldn’t anymore. You lost control over your expression for a moment, brows dipping, lips parting - shock and genuine grief on his behalf overpowering the iron control you’d learnt to have over your reactions. “The day before I got out. She died- my twin sister and I wasn’t there-”

“Oh, Andrew-”

And all you could think was how grateful you were that he was out.

That he didn’t have to deal with this shit while under Hilty’s thumb.

“I don't know what to do. Please just tell me what to do now.”

You couldn’t.

You were not unfamiliar with grief. Your job often required you to help people process past or recent losses, especially the challenges of a loved one dying while the client was incarcerated, but this- 

The raw agony in his voice, the wetness already clinging to his auburn lashes, his hands curled into tight fists, whole body trembling-

For some reason, you didn’t know what to do… so you did what you’d been wanting to do for three years now and could never allow yourself to - you hugged Andrew.

He winced and stiffened, but once he realised the arms wrapping around his middle were soft and gentle he collapsed into you. His fingertips dug into your back as he clung to you, his face pressed into your shoulder. Great heaving sobs shook his shoulders and pressed into the fabric of your cardigan.

Andrew held onto you as if you were the only thing that made sense, the only thing that felt solid and real, and as if he was terrified of opening his eyes and finding that assumption had been wrong.

You tried to hold as much of him as you could, wrapping your arms tightly around him. Your brain rattled off the benefit of it, framing it as nothing more than deep pressure therapy, just a tool to calm the nervous system. To lower cortisol levels and release serotonin and dopamine. To shift him from this fight-or-flight response to a more regulated state.

You were a professional.

You had a reputation and career on the line here.

You fought too hard to get out of your father’s shadow - changing your name, moving, more than once, and getting your juvenile record expunged - to fuck that all up by getting involved with a mentally unstable felon, who also was your fucking client as of less than a week ago.

Once a Client, Always a Client.

The power imbalance between you wouldn’t suddenly vanish just because he was out of Folsom now. You knew too much about him. You’d seen him at his lowest points. You provided mental health treatment to him for fuck’s sake! You had to get a fucking grip here! 

You could never see Andrew again.

Those were the rules and for a good reason! You could lose your license! Not to mention that you could end up shattering his trust in future help and just annihilate all the therapeutic progress he had made.

It was your responsibility to end this.

To make it perfectly and undeniably clear to Andrew that he couldn’t see you again!

Andrew stared at you through wet hazel eyes. His cheeks glistened with the tracks of the tears now seeping into the fibres of your cardigan.

You had to pull away.

You had to end this before it became something you couldn’t take back anymore.

His fingertips dug into your flesh, a constant reminder of the nights you spent staring at the bruises he left on your waist after the first - and only - time he kissed you.

“Okay.” You whispered, licking your dry lips. “We’ll talk, yes? After I’m off work. But any future time you need me, you have to make an appointment through your PO! And this can’t just go on forever. I can try to give you the transition time we had to skip, but you have to find a new social worker.”

Andrew pressed his lips together, jaw tensing, but he didn’t argue. At least not in this moment.

“What can you do now to help yourself feel calm while I am at work?”

“I can’t wait out here?”

You forced a smile, but it just looked sad. “No.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know where to go.”

“What makes you feel safe?”

“You.”

You closed your eyes and forced yourself to take a deep breath. His despair was so palpable, so visceral, and you just wanted to make it stop. You just wanted it to stop.

You wanted to take those things away from him.

“There’s uhm… this little aquarium by the beach, down by the corner shop with the prices right out of the 80’s and- that godawful Texan-Filipino fusion restaurant I’m pretty sure is just a money laundering front?”

“It is.” Andrew muttered, then looked up, pulling his brows together. “You live in Oceanside?”

You bit your lip and hesitated before mentally surrendering and nodding. “Moved there sometime during our first year working together. It doesn’t matter. Go to that aquarium, tell them you are waiting for me if they try to give you shit, yeah? And- wait… is that a problem? It being in Oceanside?”

He shook his head, though he didn’t look entirely convinced.

You didn’t have time to think of an alternative.

“I have a task for you to do there, okay? I want you to find out how many times the letter y is printed on the plaques, those - what are they called? Interpretation signs? You know what I mean. I wanna know how many times the letter y hides in the aquarium, just the spaces accessible by visitors, and please ignore all the leaflets lying around, yes? Just the plaques, name plates and signs. I also want to know how many different species of ocean vertebrates they have, and lastly, I want you to tell me what your favourite animal in the aquarium is and why. Make a little presentation for me, yes? Can you do that, Andrew?”

He nodded, stiff, not convinced, but willing to indulge you if it meant he’d get to see you. You turned around to your car and dug your old iPod out of your glovebox to give to him.

“There are some white noise tracks on there. The ocean, rainforest, that kind of stuff. In case the aquarium is too loud. Do you need money?”

Andrew looked as if he took personal offence to you offering to pay for him.

“I have money.” He muttered.

“Sorry, most recently released clients don’t.” You held out the iPod to him. Andrew hesitated before taking it, his fingers brushing against your skin.

“I’ll come by after work, okay? You know when I finish around here, if it gets past that time and you get nervous, the guy at the front desk has my number. He can call me for you, yes?” You made a hesitant step backwards, towards the prison, away from Andrew. “I’ll see you later. Count the ys, the different species of marine vertebrates and your favourite animals.”

You knew he'd need a task to focus on or he’d drive himself crazy with compulsive thoughts. He liked nature and animals - you hoped the aquarium was the best place for him to be right now. If not, you’d owe Marvin a huge fucking apology for sending Pope Cody his way.

Between the US Marshals, your father and Andrew swimming around the back of your head, work was especially gruelling today. You trudged through the prison to get from one appointment to the next. You had to walk all the way from your office to the infirmary at the other end of the complex, not once but twice. An inmate started a physical fight with another during your conflict resolution class that got the entire section locked down for half an hour, and you just narrowly avoided the cup full of piss chucked at a CO. The responsible inmate apologised to you while pinned to the ground by guards, but honestly, you were just over this day.

You arrived at the aquarium exhausted, with a bag of emotional support fries and zero patience for people’s bullshit left.

Perfect condition to deal with Andrew. Not.

Marvin, the hulking ex-biker running the front desk, did not read the warning signs in time.

“You sent fucking Pope Cody to my place of business? What the fuck?!”

A single glare from you had the brawny man second-guessing himself fast.

“Has he started shit?”

“No-”

You cut him off. “Then what are you giving me shit for?”

“What business do you have with the Codys?”

“None. Not that it is any of your concern either way.” You rolled your shoulders in a lame attempt to ease some of the tension clinging to your body. “Has anyone asked for me today - besides Andre- Pope?”

Marvin frowned. “No. Why?"

“Doesn’t matter, just… if someone does - a man, in his sixties, southern accent - just… just don’t tell him anything, yes? Actually, call the police. Just call the fucking police and be safe. He’s dangerous. He’s very fucking dangerous.” You turn to leave, but Marvin grabs your wrist to hold you back.

Andrew appears at your side out of nowhere, glaring at the biker as though he were about ready to rip his throat out with his bare hands.

“Andrew, it’s fine.” You say quietly, and then directed at Marvin. “Let go.” Marvin did, instead crossing his arms in front of his chest. The hostility both men directed at each other hung thick in the air.

Your head throbbed.

You pressed your fingers into your temples and counted to ten, forcing yourself to calm down. You were too tired to deal with this.

“Is he a threat to you?”

“Who?”

“Southern accent-guy.” Marvin huffed.

“No… but to everyone else in Oceanside. Just call the fucking police if he does show up, okay?! He shouldn’t know where I live, but he’s found me before.”

Before Marvin could continue to argue with you, you grabbed Andrew’s elbow and tugged him along into the dimly lit exhibition.

“You had a task.” You murmured, though you struggled to keep your voice soft. “How did you fare with that?”

“Who’s southern-accent-guy?”

“That is not your concern.”

“That other guy seemed concerned about it.”

“Well, it’s not his concern either.”

“Is he a client?” Andrew’s nose crinkled, as though the thought displeased him deeply.

“I don’t see my client outside work, as I’ve tried to make you understand! I just… I like coming here. I’m scared of the ocean, but I like the creatures that live in it. And Marvin likes being all up in everyone’s business.”

“You’re scared of the ocean?”

You closed your eyes and cursed yourself. You were too tired to have a client meeting!

“But you moved to an ocean town?”

“I’m scared of it, doesn’t mean I hate it! I like the beach. I just don’t like going further.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone scared of the ocean before.”

“Well, I was almost fucking drowned in it once, alright?!” You snapped. His tone, almost mocking, had you bristling. He probably had never met someone afraid of the ocean, growing up in a damn ocean town, but that didn’t make the fear of the ocean absurd to have for all of humanity.

He’d told you his fears, and you never reacted that way, though you did acknowledge that it was an unfair comparison to make.

It was your job not to judge him.

Andrew had no such obligations towards you.

His stiff posture softened ever so slightly. “You were almost drowned? Who tried to drown you?”

You sniffed, shrugged and crossed your arms in front of your chest. “My mother. Postpartum psychosis. She thought my father was the devil and killing me would be the only way to stop me from becoming like him.” You shrugged again, as if downplaying the horrible events taking place right after your birth would make them less painful or traumatic. “She was sick. She got help. I was always scared of water, but I didn’t find out why until later. My mom got assigned this really great social worker. She was with us for a long time. Helped my mom. Me too. But mom was always… always a little distant. I think finding out who my father truly was broke something in her. They weren’t in love or anything. It was a one-night stand, and she never saw him again aside from on the TV, but… yeah…”

You didn’t know why you told Andrew any of this. Perhaps because you had never told anyone, and after years of keeping that shit to yourself, and your father breaking out of prison just last night, you had to tell someone.

"Who is your father?"

You looked to the side, meeting Andrew’s gaze with cold, dark eyes and lips set into a stiff line. “The devil.”

He didn’t say anything. 

He didn’t offer empty words or false praise for enduring what life handed you - of course you had, what other option had there been? Giving up? That simply wasn’t human nature.

You cleared your throat. “So. How many ys did you find?”

Andrew huffed but when staring at you didn’t drag more information out of you he surrendered.

You sat across from the tank with the Giant Isopods while Andrew rattled off some facts, trying desperately to pay attention.

You were spent.

You didn’t have the capacity to help Andrew today. You could feel bone-deep weariness tugging at you, but you’d told him you’d be here. Your bag of fries sat empty next to you on the foam bench. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes to maybe stop them from wanting to fall shut on you.

You didn’t notice Andrew stopped talking. Or the way he stared at you.

“You’re tired.” His quiet voice filling the silence you hadn't noticed so suddenly made you jump. You looked up, blinking through the blurry layer sleep-deprivation was holding in front of your eyes.

“It’s been a long day. Do you want to talk about your sister?”

“Not really.”

You nodded. “What about getting out? How did that feel?” You had to suppress a yawn.

“Let me drive you home.”

“You can’t.”

Andrew grimaced. You could tell he was growing irritated by your insistence on boundaries, but that was an emotion he simply had to deal with.

“How’s Lena?”

That brought a smile to his lips, even if it was only a small one. Barely more than a twitch of the corner of his mouth. “Big. She’s so big now. Doesn’t remember me. I don’t like how Baz treats her.”

“It can be a very difficult situation to navigate when you feel like your own sibling isn’t giving their child what you believe they need. Do you have reason to believe that is the case?”

He merely shrugged. “Cath is a good mom.”

“Have you encountered any challenges so far? I don’t remember you ever mentioning alcohol or drugs… How about your family? Are you getting along with them? I’ve seen time and again how a good support system makes all the difference in whether a parolee reoffends or not.”

The expression on Andrew’s face was more than enough to know he was already planning to break the law again. You sighed.

“Okay…” You murmured, trying to regulate yourself and also navigate your foggy mind, both impossible with how little sleep you were running on, stress clinging to you like a thick winter coat, and all the fates collecting in Folsom still heavy on your shoulders. “You don’t want to talk about finding a new social worker. You don’t want group programs for ex-cons. You don’t want to talk about your sister’s death or your family. Andrew, what- why am I here?” You were a little more curt than professional, and a lot more than usual for you.

Andrew didn’t bat an eye at it.

“I need you.” Came his reply without hesitation.

You closed your eyes against the sudden tightness in your throat. “You don’t need me, you need support, and I’ve been the one to give that to you for the past three years, but there are other professionals who can do exactly what I can, who can continue the work we’ve started.”

Andrew shook his head while you talked. He reached for your hands, cradling them in his own, and you were too tired to redirect him, to remind him of the boundaries that had to stand between you and him, to do anything to fight the warmth encompassing your hands as he rubbed soothing circles over the back of your hand with his thumb.

You felt his stare bore into the side of your head but you kept your eyes pinned on the Isopods stubbornly.

“I want you.”

You got to your feet and walked towards the tank, massaging your throbbing temples in too hard, tight circles.

You realised you were about to lose your patience, but you didn’t know how to stop yourself. Your job was demanding and often stressful, but this felt different. Constantly having to push back against what you wanted but knew you couldn’t have was exhausting. It was wearing you down until you were only holding on by the threat of losing your license and doing real, irreversible damage to Andrew.

He was wearing you down.

And that wasn’t nearly enough when Andrew sat behind you, staring up at you with those pretty puppy eyes. As if he were a puppy you just kicked who could not fathom why the person they loved the most in the whole wide world would ever do something to hurt them.

“There are rules for a reason.” You whispered into the quiet exhibition. “There are ethical concerns. Real, serious ethical concerns, Andrew! Once a Client, Always a Client. It- it doesn’t matter what you think you feel for me or whatever ill-advised things I might be feeling-”

He took that as an admission and therefore, a win, you could tell by the way his eyes lit up. You scowled at him.

“The power imbalance between us alone is-”

“You scared of me now?”

“Of you?” You stared at him in disbelief. “You are the one I’m trying to protect! I hold the power in this relationship. I know things about you, I have your trust, your vulnerability, I have access to resources-”

“And you live in the town my family runs, so what exactly is your point here? You’d never use any of that against me. That’s not who you are.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Because you never tell me anything!” He huffed, mirroring your agitation.

“You aren’t supposed to know anything about me. We are not supposed to have a personal relationship. You are not my client anymore. I can never see you again!”

Andrew was up and out of his seat before you were done talking, your exasperation and helplessness still thick in the air when he reached you, trapping you against the tank with his broad body. He was close enough for you to see the freckles on his cheeks despite the dim light.

“You kissed me back.” He said, voice raspy and quiet, hurt.

“I shouldn’t have.” You took a deep, shuddering breath - a mistake, you realised the second his aftershave filled your nostrils and overpowered your senses for a split second. “And I should have transferred you to a different social worker the second I started to-” You cut yourself off.

“They wouldn’t have helped me. Not like you. I wouldn’t have listened to them.”

Andrew tentatively touched your cheeks, fingertips brushing against your skin softly, less than a touch, an imprint of a touch long gone but still lingered. It made the fine hairs on your nape stand up straight. 

“You’re the only one who can help me.”

His body pressed against yours, just like back then, two years ago.

“The only one who makes sense of the mess in my head.”

He whispered your name, your first name, the one you offered him during the very first conversation you two ever had. For better communication, to distinguish your position from that of the COs, to humanise the environment.

Off Andrew’s tongue, with his breath brushing against your skin, it felt disarming.

“I want you.” He whispered, hoovering over you so close that his forehead almost touched yours. His hand, the one not still fighting to decide whether to touch your cheek or not, he had braced against the tank, fingers splayed across the glass. The heat of his skin caused it to fog up around his hand. “I like you. You aren’t afraid of me. And you’re nice. The first to be nice to me since my sister.”

Transference, your brain shouted just as it had two years ago. Was it the way his sister had made him feel that he was transferring onto you? An unhealthy sibling bond forged in mutual trauma? Those feelings would only be amplified now after her sudden death-

You could not shut your professional brain off, and that only made the warning signal in your head blare all the louder.

“My brothers took me to a strip club when I got out.” Andrew muttered, and you felt your insides twist immediately. Your expression curdled before you could regain control over yourself. He’d worn down too much of you and then surprised you with something like that. He didn’t notice.

“Could only think of you.” He went on, his nose brushing against your temple. “Could only get hard when I thought of you.”

“Fucking hell, Andrew.” You hissed between clenched teeth.

He looked genuinely surprised. Hurt too, like an assumption he made about you a long time ago was finally confirmed. A wicked cycle of self-fulfilling prophecies. 

But you were only human.

You could be made to break, even if you never allowed yourself to around inmates.

But Andrew had an uncanny ability to make you forget all your rules, and he wasn't an inmate anymore. This wasn't Folsom.

“I thought you don’t judge.”

“See? That’s the fucking problem! That’s why social workers are never supposed to date their clients. Not only is it fucking unethical, it’s confusing! If this is a professional relationship, of course I’d never judge you, but if this is personal, you can’t tell me shit like that and don’t expect me to be hurt by it!”

Andrew cocked his head. A crease had formed between his brows, and his lips parted slightly as he tried to make sense of your little outburst.

“Hurt?” He rasped.

“You say you want me, but you fucked a prostitute, Andrew! You thought about me while fucking her.”

“Half of Folsom rubs themself raw to the thought of you.” Jealousy and accusation slithered into his voice, body tensing like a cheetah getting ready to attack.

“That is different. Don’t pretend you don’t see how that is different!”

His mouth twitched, Andrew pressing his lips together repeatedly, trying desperately to figure out how to respond to you.

Apparently, he landed back where he started, leaning in to you, staring at you, wanting something he was not going to take unless it was given willingly.

“I could lose my licence, my reputation, everything.”

“I’ll take care of you.” His words came out rough, too hard for a whisper, too soft to be heard by anyone but you. His lips brushed against yours, setting fire to your every last nerve. Your hands, hanging uselessly down your sides a moment ago, grasped at the front of his shirt. A nice, short-sleeved button-down. Much nicer than anything the prison ever gave the inmates. His haircut was still shitty though. Too short, too uniform. “Let me take care of you.”

Tears burnt in your eyes. You wanted to resist. You wanted to be better than your father, better than the version of you he tried to mould when you were thirteen and dumb enough to want to find out where you come from, dumb enough to write to a stranger serving time in prison, dumb enough to open that fucking door you never could close again.

You wanted to help Andrew, and you couldn’t help but feel like getting the thing you’ve wanted more than anything for three years would be the final and complete downfall of him.

But you were tired, and your heart and body ached for the man in front of you, all but on his knees begging to have you and fuck, it was disarming to be wanted so badly, to be craved with such a ferocity.

Andrew leant forward to kiss the tear rushing down your cheek again. You turned your head to meet his lips when he tried to kiss your other cheek. The kiss tasted like salt and failure. It made your lips tingle, a sensation that prickled along your nerves and spread throughout your entire body rapidly, making your knees go weak, and your stomach melt into a puddle of useless, yearning goo.

Your hands slid up his body, tracing hard, defined muscles and cradled the sides of his neck, pulling him down further. Finally, he touched you. His fingers threaded through your hair, fingertips tensing against your scalp, while his other arm came up to wrap around your waist and pull you into him.

The kiss was no more refined than it had been last time. Andrew had gone at least two years without kissing anyone since then, and your dating life hadn’t exactly been prosperous either. But Andrew didn’t seem to care. The usually so orderly, so compulsively tidy and organised Andrew was melting into the sloppy drag of tongues and uncoordinated movement of lips, a kiss so hungry and needy, your teeth kept clicking together.

You felt his growing erection against your thigh and did your best to bite back a moan - obviously you failed miserably.

Andrew ate the sound up as if it were the only thing that could sustain him for the coming years.

You pulled away first, gasping, pressing your hands against his chest, muttering a quiet stop when he lunched forward to kiss your cheek and neck.

He stopped immediately.

You had no doubt he would.

“I can’t do this.” Your voice was hoarse, your lips still tingled, and new tears ran down your cheeks. “I’m sorry. I want to, but I can’t- I can’t do this to you.” You ducked under his arm before the stupor your rejection had him under could melt away, grabbed your purse and rushed out of the exhibition.

Marvin shot you a disapproving look - no doubt he’d been stalking the cameras to ensure Pope wouldn’t hurt you, not that he ever would, not you - but the expression fell off him the second he saw your tears.

“Just fuck off.” You glared at him. “And don’t start shit! This isn’t- it’s me, okay? I fucked up. Just- just drop it.”

Marvin’s protective streak that developed the moment you first stumbled upon the group of bikers he led back then, fourteen and so stupid, hitchhiking across the country to visit your father in prison for the first time, had always bothered you.

You knew how to take care of yourself.

You have been doing it since you were a kid. You are good at it too! You figured it out, didn’t you? Life? Utilities, school, the juridical system, work. And you did that alone! You didn’t need some ex-biker gang member to look out for you.

Or Pope Cody to take care of you!

Next Chapter

You were not happy.

Covered in blood from head to toe, the skirt of your dress soaked to the point the fabric was so saturated it dripped blood down your thighs, you stood surrounded by your grinning, boisterous brothers - scowling.

Your father gave you a benevolent smile before turning towards the Lawyer to sign his name into the book, accepting his new position on the High Council you'd secured for him, while leaving you in Caspian’s care. Your oldest brother put his jacket around your shoulders and whispered to you in a loving, gentle tone, but you did not engage with him. More strands had fallen out of your now matted braids, glued together by drying blood and mud from your fight outside on the ground where another proxy tried to choke you. It ended with you flipping him over, straddling his waist and bending down to rip his throat out with your teeth. His blood still clung to your lips.

Titus wanted to lick them clean.

Bruises were beginning to bloom on your neck, and if the one responsible for it were not already dead, Titus would make him pay for his affront to your beauty himself.

Titus had imagined himself and you in that situation, with a very different outcome. He pictured you beneath him, pinned to the bed, squirming and struggling to overpower him while he split you open on his cock. Maybe he'd let you win, just to get to watch your tits sway while you rode him.

He wanted to lick the blood off every inch of your delectable little body. He wanted to tear your ruined clothes off you and fuck you into the mattress of your bed until your voice was hoarse from screaming his name.

You slapped your brother’s hand away when he tried to clean the drying blood off your cheek with a handkerchief. Shrugging off his jacket, you took a step forward to meet your father just as he was returning to you.

“You said I get to kill fifteen. I only got ten.”

Titus bit back a chuckle and a grin at your deliciously petulant tone. Did the little miss not sate her hunger? Titus could think of a few ways he could help with that.

“I said you would get the chance to kill fifteen.”

You frowned. “No, you didn’t.”

“Does it matter?”

“You lied?” A whining edge slipped into your voice. “You said fifteen, daddy! I need- I have to-” You grew frantic, muttering to yourself, curling your blood-stained arms around yourself, seeking something, anything to hold onto.

“You said fifteen. I thought- I expected- this is wrong. All wrong. I can’t-”

“Compose yourself.” All warmth had evaporated from Richard’s voice. Snuffed out and replaced by cold, hard austerity. The head of a very old, very influential family seeking nothing more than to uphold the bloodline's good reputation and standing. A cold-blooded businessman whose life held no room for theatrics or public displays of emotionality. Not even from his beloved daughter. Not even for his beloved troubled daughter.

“I can’t, daddy. I can’t stop- you know I can’t-” You pressed your hands to your temples, fingers weaving into your hair and curling against your scalp. 

Your father’s palm met your cheek with a loud, sharp smack. Your eyes widened. Tears filled them instantly, threatening to spill over, your bottom lip quivering.

Caspian was at your side right away, shooting a disapproving glare at his father before quickly reining in his displeasure again.

Caspian, like Titus, knew such arguments were to only ever be had in private - a lesson hard earned.

Caspian put his arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side. You clung to his shirt, trembling and muttering to yourself, lips moving without a single sound coming out.

“Why don’t I take her home, Father? She hasn’t been away from the estate for so long in quite some time, and she must be tired after all this. You know how much disrupting her routine can set her back.”

Panic surged in Titus, filling his throat until he could barely breathe.

He couldn’t let you slip through his fingers before he even had the chance to reach out for you. He needed to find a solution, and quickly.

Titus picked his father out of the crowd with practised ease and made his way towards him. It took a considerable amount of willpower to keep his gait smooth and unhurried when every part of him screamed to hurry the fuck up. Despite this, he didn't shove guests stepping into his way aside, nor did he insult them. Ursula would be proud of him- who was he kidding? Nothing he did was ever good enough. 

Perhaps to you he would be… it was a treacherous thought whispered into his ear by that tiny, insecure voice longing for recognition and love he'd tried to suffocate his whole life.

“I think the Covingtons are preparing to leave, Dad.” Titus murmured, bending down towards the armchair his father was sitting in to keep their conversation between them. “It would be a shame if the daughter’s… struggles cut the celebrations short, no? Especially before you had the chance to ensure your long-standing collaboration with Mr Covington continues in these new endeavours as well... before Ignacio or Xing can try to dig their claws into him. Perhaps we ought to invite our newest High Council family to stay the night. As our guests. The youngest would get her much-needed rest, and Covington senior would stay.”

“See it gets done.”

That was the closest thing to a good job Titus would ever get from his father. It did not sting tonight.

Titus made it about three steps before Ursula intercepted him. “What are you doing, brother?”

“Protecting Father’s interests, why?”

“You’ve never cared about Father’s interests.”

“That is simply untrue.”

“Stay away from that girl, Titus!”

“I have no clue what you are talking about.” Titus stepped around her before she could rope him into a useless argument, before you could slip from his grasp.

Caspian was still holding you in his arms when Titus returned, still whispering with his father, trying to convince him to let you go home.

Unacceptable.

“Mr Covington.” Titus said with a modest-enough, arrogant smirk. “My father has asked me to relay his invitation for you and your family to stay the night. The guest rooms are being prepared as we speak. You are also invited to a nightcap with Father later in his study, an opportunity to go over… future, mutual endeavours, I'm sure.”

If Richard was anything like Chester, then stoking his greed and dangling the promise of even more wealth, even more power and even more prestige in front of him would be enough to make him forget even his favourite child. Titus’ eyes fell on you.

“I do hope you will accept.”

“Certainly we will. Pass my gratitude on to Chester.”

“Daddy-” Fear flooded your eyes. A single tear tracked down the swell of your cheek, cutting through muck and dried blood. You shook your head.

“Father, I really should take her home now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Richard sniffed. He turned towards his son and lowered his voice, though not enough to conceal his words fully from Titus. “You don’t decline an invitation from Chester fucking Danforth.”

“She can’t handle all this, Dad, and what happens then? When she loses control? Is it not better if it happens at home, where we dictate the narrative?”

“She will simply not lose control.” Richard’s gaze cut towards you. “You can do that for me, can’t you, darling? You’ve made me very proud today, you wouldn’t want to ruin that now, would you?”

“I don’t know if I can, daddy. Please, I want to go home.”

Another tear rolled down your skin. Titus tracked its path with his eyes, enthralled by the wet sheen it left on your skin, your big, watery doe eyes…

"Be good, sweetie, and I'll get you that-" Richard made a throw-away gesture with his hand. "-thing you wanted."

“Please-” You whined, and Titus had to bite the inside of his cheek to not let anyone see the effect that simple, whispered word had on him. He pictured you breathless, sweaty, your pretty little body quivering on top of him, your thighs aching, trembling from overexertion as you sink down on his cock again and again, begging him to let you stop-

"Or a new mouse for your collection. I'm sure you'll think of something to spend my money on, love."

"I want to go home."

“Perhaps you would allow me to show your daughter to her room." Titus cut in before you could use those pouty eyes of yours to wear down your father. "She could get cleaned up and… rest.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed. He didn't trust Titus, that much was obvious and, to be frank, what sane father would trust Titus with his daughter? He had a reputation, even outside the circles of Mr Le Bail's organisation.

But the promise of power and wealth and a massage for his already inflated ego was just too tempting.

“Caspian will accompany you.” And with those words, Richard turned, without acknowledging you further, without giving you the chance to protest further.

You were shaking all over by now. Your fingers curled into your brother's sleeves, and you looked up to him, desperately searching for help that you would not find. As much as your brother might love you, he would not disobey your father.

“Come.” Caspian whispered against your hair, brushing a kiss to the crown of your head. “A bath and then some sleep, yes?”

“No- please- Cas, I can't-!”

Caspian followed Titus out of the reception hall and towards the guest wing, all but dragging you along. Tears ran freely down your cheeks now, and your stifled sobs broke through the silence of the empty estate every once in a while, chasing little shivers down Titus’ spine.

“Here we are.” He opened the door to one of the more lavish guest rooms at the very beginning of the hall, further away from the other rooms, easy to slip into without anyone taking notice.

You didn’t look at the room. You stared up at your brother as though he were your last lifeline, still pleading with your tear-reddened eyes, but no help was coming for you.

“I know you don’t want to be here.” Your brother whispered, cupping your bloody face in his hands. “But Father has made his decision. Get cleaned up. Go to sleep. We’ll be back home before you know it.”

“Doesn’t work that way.” You croaked, fingers curling around your brother’s wrists.

Caspian looked utterly defeated. Torn between wanting to do what was best for his sister, who might as well have been his daughter given the stark age difference - and perhaps he did feel that way for you - and his loyalty towards his father, the learned obedience drilled into him since he was old enough to hold up his own head.

"Take one of your emergency pills. That'll help you sleep."

"They make my head fuzzy."

Caspian sighed. “I’ll run a bath for you.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead and went into the adjacent bathroom, forgetting all about Titus’ presence in his worry for you.

Titus clasped his hands behind his back. His eyes roamed over you, hungrily, taking in every little detail about your existence without the need to hide the way he stared at you, for the first time today.

The streaks your tears cut through the grime and blood on your cheeks. The way the ends of your hair curled beneath the elastic holding your braid in place. The pale yellow nail polish, now chipped after your hunt.

“I can have some clothes brought up for you, and anything else you may require.” Titus informed you sweetly. You didn’t respond. Didn’t look his way. It irked him, more perhaps than he should allow it to. Did you not realise how perfect you were for him? How perfect he could be for you? The sheer magnitude of this no doubt fated encounter?

“Ms Covington?”

You lifted your head, just enough to tilt it in his direction, but your eyes remained somewhere on the ground.

“Is there anything I can get for you?” His family's deal with Mr Le Bail was founded in hospitality, just as the Le Domas' contract had its roots in the game industry, or what became the game industry. Ensuring his guests were happy, comfortable and taken care of ran in Titus' blood. And he could not bear the thought of leaving you to look and feel like this under his roof.

You licked your lips and wrapped your arms around yourself, shrugging.

“It would be my pleasure.”

“A charger.” You whispered, voice paper-thin. “For my phone.”

“A very modest request. Ah, I shall do my best in this endeavour, I promise.”

The tiniest hint of a smile grazed your lips. They parted, but if you were about to say something, you were interrupted by Caspian’s return.

“You’re still here.” He directed a scathing, cold look at Titus and almost instinctively stepped in front of you.

“Merely trying to be a good host.” Titus’ lips curled.

“Yeah? Well, you can fuck off now.”

Titus glanced at you. “Is he always that rude?”

You almost laughed. Titus could see it in the way the shadow of fatigue, fear and grief lifted off you for a split second, allowing your eyes to twinkle with sheepish mirth before slamming back down on you.

“And here I was about to invite you to a game of pool to meet the other heirs of the High Council, but - ah - if my… company is too much of a burden…” Titius trailed off. He did not need to finish his sentence to know his bait had landed. Caspian glanced at you.

“Your sister is hardly a child anymore. I’m sure she can take care of herself from here. You have every reason to celebrate today as well, Caspian. After all, your father will not be this young forever… sooner or later, his seat on the Council will be your seat.”

“Get cleaned up, go to sleep. I’ll take you home in the morning.”

“Cas, please-”

A sad smile settled on Caspian’s face. “Not even you could change Father’s mind about this. What makes you think anything I can say could? Try to sleep. I’ll check on you later.” And without further protest, Caspian allowed Titus to lead him away.

It was offensively easy to make your brother forget all about his worry, and his promise. A few drinks, some smartly timed introductions to the right people, and a few escalating bets, and you suddenly were the last thing on his mind. Titus wanted to be furious about it - how did one forget about you? - but it served his purposes, so he swallowed his displeasure.

Chester and Richard retired to the study to discuss business. Ursula was occupied with one of her boy toys. The rest of your brothers were all somewhere on the spectrum between drunk and shitfaced. 

Titus waited for the moment his disappearance would draw the least attention before slipping away to deliver the requested phone charger to you. Personally. His own charger. Over an hour late.

Had you ever been made to wait for something? Titus wondered how you would react to him ‘forgetting’ about you.

He knocked on the door to your room and entered without waiting for an answer-

The Persian rug was drenched in blood.

You cowered near the bed, knees drawn up to your chest, bloody fingers buried in your hair as you rocked back and forth softly.

“Fuck…” Titus whispered and quickly closed the door behind himself, without taking his eyes off you or the scene unfolding before him for even a second. Your head snapped up at the sound of his voice. Panic widened your eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

The motionless body of a server - a young man who had decidedly no reason to be anywhere near the guest wing - lay next to you. You’d cut him open, stem to stern, and cracked his ribcage with seemingly your bare hands to reach his heart, as though he were little more than a clam withholding a precious pearl from you. It lay discarded next to you now, blood seeping into the fibres of the carpet. A piece of it was missing and Titus wondered idly whether those marks he saw stemmed from your teeth...

Titus doubted he had ever seen something so violent and bloody before, and he had seen a lot. Perhaps the scene just appeared more gruesome because of your presence. Even next to a mangled corpse, you exuded an air of youthful innocence that had no place in the middle of all this carnage.

Tears gathered in your eyes and threatened to spill over your bottom lid.

You were so beautiful…

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why- I couldn’t- I had to-” You bit back a sob and rubbed the back of your hand over your face, spreading more blood over your skin. “Please don’t tell daddy.” The words came out in less than a whisper, a fading echo, terribly small and so very fragile. “He’ll be so disappointed in me. Please, don’t tell him.”

Titus knew well the crushing weight of being the family's disappointment. Watching your father dote on you, he'd thought you never had to know its burden. Then your father's affections grew cold and calculating, and now Titus was not so certain anymore…

“I don’t have to tell anyone anything, sweetheart.” Titus hummed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “This is my home. I am not in the habit of answering to my guests - or tattling on pretty girls to their fathers.”

Another young thing on the verge of tears, being extended a kindness by an attractive older man, would blush - you didn’t. You stared at the body, at the blood soaking the precious fibres of the carpet, the shattered edges of bones sticking out in grotesque angles, the empty eyes staring straight up, your expression stuck somewhere between disturbed fascination and crippling shame.

The dissonance of the two made no sense to Titus. He watched you kill. He watched you lick the blood of your kills off your skin. He saw the manic glint in your eyes, and the sanguinary delight you took in the act of ending another’s life, in seeing the bloody, disfigured remains of your very own, special craft.

So why were you now cowering here, crying to yourself, trembling with shame for what you have done? Something, while admittedly more gory and bloody than your previous kills of the night, you clearly had honed the skills to execute.

Titus remembered your brother’s words then.

‘What do you think happens when she realises she does not get the fifteen kills she was promised?’

And your terrified, desperate tone as you were pleading with your father.

‘I can’t stop- you know I can’t-’

Your brother talked about compulsions, not desire, not hunger, not fun like Titus was chasing it.

Compulsion.

‘She got her daughter, but she was never quite… right.’, your father had said…

Titus remembered the barely human expression you wore as you claimed your first kill of the night. The way you gazed down at the skull split beneath the blade of your axe as though it was nothing, mildly curious at most.

“I didn’t mean to.” You whispered, startling Titus from his thoughts with your sweet voice. “I was trying to stay in control. I really was, but when he came in...”

“Ah, don’t worry your pretty head about it.” Titus hummed and crouched down across from you, on the other side of the bloody body. “This one - yeah? - was out of bounds, and the Danforths do not take kindly to staff who go where they have no business being. You’ve done me a favour taking care of this for me, to be entirely honest.”

Titus had been uncertain how to approach you, wracking his brain the entire walk up to the guest wing. He always somehow ended up messing things up one way or another. He was not granted the easy, flexible confidence of youth that naturally smoothed over rough edges and awkward fumbling, and he had not been allowed to practise the skill of interacting with pretty young things when he was still young enough to be allowed mistakes. For his ineptitude to be forgiven…

But this… this he could work with.

“It’ll be our little secret.” He whispered in a conspiratory tone that had the corner of your mouth twitching.

“Did he hurt you?”

You snorted. “I don’t let people hurt me.”

“Good girl.”

Your head snapped up, meeting his gaze across the body. A tiny crease appeared between your brows.

You were adorable…

“I’ll have this taken care of.” He said, already tapping on his phone to send a message to his personal security detail. They were very used to making bodies and evidence disappear on his behalf by now, not that any criminal investigative institution would ever come after Titus - his father ran the world. “You should get yourself cleaned up. I have some clothes here for you.”

Titus got up and offered you his hand.

“My hands are bloody.”

“So are mine.” A grin curled his lips. You accepted his hand and allowed him to pull you up. Your hand felt warm against his, and Titus couldn’t help but muse how well it fit into his. He was reluctant to let go of you, but with how skittish you’d been all night, he knew it was wiser to leave you space for now, while he was but a stranger to you. Even if Titus already knew you were perfect for him, and that he could be perfect for you too…

He put the bundle of clothes down on the counter in the bathroom. The bath your brother ran was still hot thanks to the heated tub.

“I will leave you to it… unless you wish for some help?”

You frowned. “Why would I want help?”

Your bluntness caught him off guard. You didn’t even give him an awkward chuckle to conceal the awkwardness of rejecting someone. Titus couldn’t tell whether he was just fumbling this even worse than usual, or whether you just truly didn’t realise the innuendo in his offer.

He excused himself and closed the bathroom door. His security detail had already removed the body in the meantime. Titus sank into an armchair while the rug was removed and a cleaner scrubbed away the blood. He cleaned his hand with a handkerchief, musing on you and the scene he walked in on.

You emerged from the bathroom a while later, dressed in the too-big brown knit sweater and the black mini skirt Titus had his staff get for you. He thought you'd look good in it, and he had been more than right. You looked nothing short of delicious. His eyes latched onto your bare legs almost immediately.

Your hair was no longer braided, falling down your back and shoulders, still damp.

You stopped dead in your tracks. “You’re still here.” Your eyes flicked from him towards the door and back.

“Yes, I-”

He didn’t have an explanation, at least not one that wouldn’t frighten a skittish thing like you, but everything inside Titus revolted against the thought of leaving now. He finally had you all to himself, and he was not going to fuck up this chance! You never left your family’s estate, they said. Your family didn’t host often, especially not at the family compound.

Was he ever going to see you again if he let you leave here?

If he let you kick him out now before he had the chance to establish some semblance of rapport with you? What reason would you have to let him come near you again after tonight otherwise?

Panic surged in his chest, tearing into his throat with sharp claws.

“I heard you talking with your father.” He told the truth - or as much of it as he dared to at this point - since he could not think of a better strategy. “I noticed you weren’t happy with the outcome of the hunt and… well, I can’t have one of my guests be displeased, relegated to her room while everyone else celebrates. That is hardly fair.”

“I don’t want to celebrate.” You murmured, almost absentmindedly, and turned towards the bed to sit down. “I don’t like crowds. Or people. Or loud noise.” You glanced up to catch his gaze, still resting intently on you, never leaving. Titus forced himself to stop staring at your bare legs and focus on your eyes instead.

“I have… it doesn’t matter. Thanks for the charger.” You nodded towards the cord on the bed.

“You’re welcome, though… I can do more for you. I can get you anything you want.”

“You already got the charger.” You plucked it off the comforter and reached over the nightstand to reach the socket behind it. Your skirt rose up, revealing a tantalising sliver of bare skin. Titus dug his fingertips into the armrests to stop himself from pouncing on you, from leaping up off the armchair to crush you into the mattress, push your skirt up and sink his teeth into the supple flesh of your upper thigh…

“Anything you need.”

You froze.

“You were promised fifteen, weren’t you? According to my count, you’re still missing four.”

Your fingers trembled around the plug as you tried and struggled to slip it into the charger port of your phone. “Daddy said I have to control myself.”

“Seems cruel. To expect that of you after he lied to you and all but broke a promise he made you. He always knew you wouldn’t get all fifteen, but he needed you, didn’t he? I watched you… it was nothing short of fucking glorious. I don’t really enjoy these events where I’m forced to the sidelines, but you made it enjoyable. I was going to ask my twin sister if she was going to join me tonight, when I play a little game of my own, but between you and me - she can be somewhat of a cunt.”

“You don’t like your sister?”

“Oh, I love her. Doesn’t change that she’s a cunt sometimes. You must know how it is, with your - what? - five-thousand brothers?”

A shy smirk spread across your lips. “Six.”

“Six-thousand? That’s a lot.”

“No! Just six.” You laughed. Pride filled Titus’ chest with a buzzing warmth.

“That’s still a lot of brothers. Must be fucking exhausting.”

You simply shrugged. “It’s alright. I don’t know any different.”

“I suppose that’s true. Well, what do you say? Join me?”

“Doing what?”

“Huntin’” An arrogant smirk curled his lips. “You’re owed four kills after all.”

“Not animals. I don't hurt animals.”

“I wasn’t talking about animals.”

Your eyes widened, hunger flooding in. Your posture tensed up, body tilting towards him, drawn in by the offer to quell what your father had left unfulfilled.

Compulsion, indeed, he thought to himself.

Oh, Titus could definitely work with that.

He got up, holding out his hand towards you. You scrambled off the bed to put on your bloody boots before rushing towards him. You clung to his hand with both of yours, letting yourself lean against his arm. Titus was hyper aware of your touch, your warmth, your soft body pressed against his side.

“Daddy will be mad.”

“Another secret then.” Titus whispered. “He can’t be mad about something he doesn’t know.”

You bit your bottom lip to conceal a giggle. It took considerable effort to not throw his already waning caution out of the window and pin you to the wall right then and there to kiss that delectable expression off your face.

Titus could not remember a time when need and hunger had such a consuming hold over him. He knew he needed to do something about it or things would get messy.

He had to have you.

He led you through the house towards the big parlour that opened up to the garden and the forest beyond it. Twenty poor souls were already waiting to meet their fate, bound and gagged, forced to kneel in the damp grass, trembling.

“I’ve invited some other acquaintances.” Titus whispered, head lowered conspiratorially to you, lips brushing your hair. It smelt sweet, like fresh fruit with a hint of something herby. He wanted to wrap the silky strands around his fist as he fucked into you.

Some heirs from the other families were already standing by a table laden with weapons, waiting for their host to open the games. They were all itching to get their hands dirty after the trial and alcohol had worked them up into a hungry frenzy.

Your grip tightened around his hand. You hesitated for a moment at the top of the stairs, but Titus coaxed you further. You were deliciously compliant to his demand. “You’re part of the High Council now.” He cooed. “They can’t kill you.”

“They couldn’t before either.”

You oscillated between confidence in your skill and doe-like, skittish terror at everything around you. Titus could not make sense of it, but he’d be lying if he claimed it wasn’t fucking delicious.

“What’s this?” One of the heirs called. “Where’s your sister?”

“How would I know?” Titus replied tersely. “I thought we ought to welcome the newest addition to the circle of heirs into our midst properly.”

Drawing even more attention to you had been a mistake, Titus realised the second the words were out of his mouth, and the heads of the gathered swivelled towards you. You all but flinched. You moved to let go of his hand, and you would have slid out of his grasp had Titus’ hand not clenched down around yours by instinct.

“If you'd said there'd be others, I wouldn't- I thought-” You were torn between the instinct to run from the strangers you’d been thrust at and the promise of sating the hunger flaying your nerves, your resolve, your sanity.

“It’s not a game without competition.” Titus hummed, opting for a charming purr to try and fix what he messed up, to try and keep you here, with him.

“Let go of me, please. I don’t want to hurt you.”

His laughter withered in his throat. He’d watched you take down people twice your size. People you had no right to best with as much ease as you had. He wondered then, genuinely considering all odds and possibilities, how a real fight between him and you would go…

If your bloodlust was less about the twisted kind of entertainment Titus found in it but a compulsion you were not entirely in control of… Titus thought back to the expression of fear and shame when he found you with the mangled body of the server in your room. Were you ever afraid of hurting your brothers? Or was he special?

“You’re not going to hurt me, sweetheart. Let’s join the game. We play in teams of two. You’re with me. We won’t even see the others again until the end.”

“I- I shouldn’t have said yes at all.” You whined. “I shouldn’t be here-”

“You’ll have fun, you’ll see! I’ll make it worth your while.”

He could not let you go!

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Titus.”

“Are we going to play, or what?!”

Titus flipped Kip off over his shoulder without taking his eyes off you.

“Now you know my name. I thoroughly enjoyed watching you today, and I want you to come hunt with me. I want to see you, not just on a screen. You were so fucking beautiful chasing your prey out there. And I think you’re feeling antsy with those kills still open.”

“I can’t do this. You don’t understand! I-I-” You looked around, taking in your surroundings as though you feared something was lurking in the dark, just waiting for you to let down your guard. You hadn’t realised how dark it had gotten. Your breath filled the space between you and Titus in short, quick bursts of white mist.

“Then help me understand.”

Titus didn’t care about the heirs behind him still waiting impatiently for the hunt to begin, or for the prey’s fearful whimpering. His focus lay on you, entirely, unshrinking. He was not going to let you slip through his grasp. You were too perfect. Perfect for him. Titus had to have you, claim you, own you, make you his in every way he could. He wanted to carve his name into your soul so even Mr Le Bail would know who you truly belonged to.

You peered up at him through your lashes, tears gleaming in your eyes. The cold night air brought a faint blush to your cheeks and nose. Fear and hunger battled across your features, one seeking to make you shrink away from Titus, the other dragging your gaze towards the prey again and again.

“My head’s not right.” You whispered. “A-a chemical imbalance, the doctors say. Makes me afraid of things I have no reason to fear. I-I don’t know this place. I don’t know these people, you, the woods. What- what if the trees are brittle or- or I get lost? It’s cold and I- I don’t wear the right clothes. Daddy will get really mad that I didn't ask for permission and- you.”

“You’ve got nothing to fear from me, sweetheart.”

You exhaled a frustrated grunt, and Titus could swear you had to stop yourself from stomping on the ground like a petulant child. “I know. It doesn’t make sense! None of my fears make sense, but they are still there.” Your eyes flicked towards the woods again. “I can’t go in there. I can’t be here. I - fuck-” You pressed your hand to your mouth to stifle a sob. Tears rolled down your cheeks, and Titus pictured himself grabbing your chin to tilt your head back and lick them off your skin.

“I want to go home, but I also have to- I need-” You looked towards the prey again.

“Well, you can’t go home.” Titus said quietly. “Your father already made his decision there, no? I have a feeling that if he says no to you, then nothing can change his mind.”

You huffed.

“And you want to play?”

“I can’t.”

“I didn’t ask that. Do you want to?”

Chewing on your bottom lip, you tore your eyes away from the prey and glanced towards Titus. The nod you gave him was so slight, he almost missed it.

“What worries you most right now?”

He'd fix it.

He'd fix anything if only it meant you didn't leave.

“They.”

“They’ll be gone in a moment. You don’t have to talk to them or even look at them. You can hold my hand and pretend they aren’t here.”

“They’ll think I’m weird and a freak and-”

“Doesn’t fucking matter what they think.”

“But it does-”

“They won’t dare to think anything at all when you’re with me, sweetheart. And after your performance tonight? Oh, I believe they will be as afraid of you now as they already are of me.”

Titus didn’t wait for your reply. He didn’t want to give you the chance to decline, to demand he let you go back to your room. Without taking his eyes off you, he made a step towards the heirs, and then another. You whined and bit your bottom lip, eyes going wide. When a third step threatened to pull his hand from yours, you hurried to catch up, pushing your hand further into his, interlacing your fingers with his. The intimacy and desperation of the touch had shivers rushing down Titus’ spine. You didn’t notice the grin on his lips since you already had your face buried against his sleeve. He could feel you trembling. You were scared, terrified, but you trusted him to keep you safe. You trusted him to reveal this part of you to him. You trusted him to take care of you.

Your willingness to submit to him was only adding fuel to the fire of his desire for you, but he had to keep his composure. At least until he had you alone again.

He wouldn’t want to scare the skittish little thing clinging to his arm away.

Across the lodge, in the reception room, Ursula snapped her fingers at the butler. She knew her brother would have something planned for tonight to take the edge off after he’d been forced to watch other people hunt without being allowed to be involved. Many of the older heirs were already missing; surely the game was close to beginning, so why then had nobody come to get her?

Was Titus pouting that much over her earlier chiding that he’d exclude her? He'd been acting weird all day.

“Mister Danforth has asked Ms Convington to be in his team, ma’am.”

“What?”

Richard cut in before Ursula could go off on the butler. “She would never agree.”

“I may well be mistaken, of course, Sir, but I was informed she did accept the invitation. Mister Danforth ordered the staff to have a hot bath and comfortable clothes waiting for her, for after the hunt.”

Richard gritted his teeth. He was up and out of his seat the next second, snapping at the butler to show him the way. Caspian sighed before getting up to follow. He bit back a sneering I told you so.

The second your father stepped through the terrace door and onto the stairs leading down into the garden, he shouted your name. You flinched, head swirling around where you were standing next to Titus, fingers still interlocked. A pistol was shot into the air, announcing the start of the hunt. The prey had been cut loose a few moments before, and the faster ones were already disappearing in the forest.

“Ready?” Titus grinned down at you. The other heirs were already charging.

“Come back here, right now!” Richard ordered. You barely heard him. The last prey disappeared between the trees. Nervous energy coursed through your body, making you shift from one foot to the other. Your father called your name again. Titus whispered it. Hunger grew within you.

You had to.

The need to feel flesh tear beneath your hands and warm blood soak into your skin as a life faded beneath your fingertips overpowered your desire to make your father proud. You loathed seeing him angry or disappointing him, but Titus was right.

It was cruel to expect you to be able to keep your urges under control while you were in a place where nothing lay within your control.

You turned your back on your father and allowed Titus to coax you towards the woods. Adrenaline raced through your veins. What if the others had already gotten to the prey - your prey?! You couldn't allow someone else to take your kill from you again.

Your grip tightened around your dagger, and you broke into a run, chasing after the scattering prey, Titus always sticking close to your side.

“I warned you.” Caspian hissed under his breath. “I warned you not to take her as your proxy. I warned you what would happen if the trial disappointed her. I warned you it would only push her into a frenzy, but not satisfy her urges, the opposite. I warned you that one day she would outgrow the desire to please you and discover there are other people who can also provide her the means to feed her bloodlust! And what happened the second she entered this world? She met the single most dangerous, unstable man she could have, a man who can give her everything you have been denying her!” 

Caspian turned on his heels and stormed away, leaving his father behind on the terrace to watch you and Titus disappear in the shadows of the woods.

Next Chapter

You smile at your uber driver, appreciative of her waiting given that it’s 12:47 a.m. “Thank you, I appreciate that. Have a good night.”

The townhouse you rent is set off the street a good fifteen feet with a little front yard area so even with the porch light on you can’t immediately see the yellow 9 x 12 envelope waiting for you on your doormat. Your heart rate picks up a little when you see it but you try to tell yourself to relax. Someone sent you something. Maybe you ordered something and forgot. You have no reason to think the guy you went on a couple of dates with and then said no to a third date with who has been blowing up your phone would suddenly escalate to leaving you something weird or dangerous. 

But when you pick up the envelope it’s not addressed. There’s nothing on it. There’s something in it though. A fair amount of something because it’s decently thick. You undo the clasp with shaking hands and pull out the stack of papers inside. 

They’re not papers though. They’re photos. Of you. Everywhere. 

You at the grocery store, you walking out in the city, you in other stores, you walking in and out of the building your office is in the morning and night, your office, you walking into your house. And then they’re of your townhouse. Inside your townhouse. Your bedroom, your pillow, your shower, your underwear drawer, your bras, your knife block in your kitchen. A gun on your coffee table. A knife held up by a gloved hand in front of your shower. A gun on your pillow. 

Nausea and an intense dizziness overwhelm you as your entire body starts to match your hands and shake. 

“You okay, Honey?” Your uber driver calls to you through the window she’s rolled down. 

You shake your head and try to pull it together. You can’t go inside. You can’t be alone. Even a hotel doesn’t seem safe. He’s following you. 

You don’t know many people in Pittsburgh. You only moved back to the city a couple of months ago and haven't reconnected with anyone you used to know, have only met people at work really. You consider yourself friends with them in a sense, but not for this. Out of the handful of people in Pittsburgh that you do know from before, fuck, out of all the people you know and have ever known in your entire life, you’ve only ever felt truly and completely safe with one of them. 

Jack Abbot. 

Who just happens to be your ex and soulmate and the love of your life. 

You shove the photos back into the envelope and walk back to the car with it. “Can you take me to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center? The emergency room entrance? I’ll pay you, I can venmo you or I have some cash I think. Just, if I request an uber again it might not be you and I can’t wait.”

“Don’t worry about it, Honey, just get in.” You do and she starts driving immediately. “Is everything okay? Are you hurt? Someone you know?”

“No,” you whisper. “I think I’m being stalked.”

“Oh shit! Do you know someone at the hospital? Who can help you and keep you safe?” your uber driver asks. The genuine compassion in her voice reminds you there’s some good left in this world. 

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I do.” 

You actually don’t know that for sure. On a couple of levels. You don’t know if Jack is working tonight. You don’t know if he’s still working nights. You don’t even know if he’s still working at the Pitt. You do know, however, that absent a huge shift in his personality and character and entire being, that if Jack is there or you can get in touch with him he will help you and keep you safe, no questions asked. Not even after five years.

MNeither you nor Jack had wanted to break up. You both thought you were going to end up married, knew the other was the one. But then the two of you turned into a classic case of right person wrong time. After going around in circles about it for years since you graduated college you decided to finally apply to a couple of grad schools, including your dream school, Oxford. You didn't think you had any true chance of getting in, though Jack knew otherwise, so you didn't really think you'd ever have to figure out what to do about you and Jack.

And then you got in. You got in and Jack had finally just gotten truly established and settled in the perfect position for him as the senior night shift attending and it's not like he could easily transfer his license to another country. You couldn't ask Jack to come with you and implode the life he'd made for himself and to do whatever he could until he could get his license figured out, if he could. And Jack couldn't ask you to give up your dream. It wasn't fair to the other and it would've caused problems in your relationship eventually, you were both sure.

So somehow you'd come to the decision to break up. You don't even really remember how you ended up there. Your four year anniversary was only a couple of months away when you did. You guys had been talking more seriously about marriage before everything happened. You didn't know it but Jack had been thinking about and sketching engagement ring designs for a good while, it was really the only reason he hadn't proposed yet, he didn't have the perfect ring. He still has the sketches.

Jack is the love of your life. You know it. You don’t bother denying it. You've dated other people occasionally knowing that if you ended up marrying them it would be a type of settling, no matter how much you loved them. Because they wouldn’t be Jack.

You’d debated reaching out to him when you moved back to the city but you couldn’t bring yourself to yet for some reason. As much as you wanted Jack to be happy and truly wished him all the happiness in the world, you didn’t think you could handle finding out he’s married, has a wife and kids. So you just let him be. 

“Is this good?” Your uber driver interrupts your thoughts. 

“Hm?” You look around. You’re right outside the entrance to the emergency department. “Yeah, this is perfect. Thank you so much.” You start digging through your purse to find some cash. 

“Don’t worry about it Honey, just be safe, okay?” Your uber driver turns in her seat to look at you. “Seriously. Be safe.”

You stop searching through your bag and nod at her. The only reason you stop looking for money is because you realized you could just pay her by tipping her through uber, not that you say that, of course. “Thank you so much,” you whisper. She smiles at you and nods as you get out of the car.

If you weren’t so fucking terrified you could almost laugh at how chairs looks so different and yet almost exactly the same as the last time you were here over five years ago. People at the desk are all new though, which means getting to Jack might be harder. 

“Hi,” you smile at the woman behind the desk. “Can I please speak with Dr. Abbot? Does he still work here? Is he on tonight?” 

“You have to fill out paperwork and wait your turn just like everyone else, Miss.” She gives you an already annoyed look. 

“No, I don’t need to be seen, I just need to speak with Jack, please. If he’s here.” You try to make your smile apologetic but it’s hard with how scared you are, and you’re concerned it’s coming across poorly. 

“This isn’t really a place to come and just try to chat with a doctor. If you don’t need emergency medical treatment you shouldn’t be here, I’m sorry.” She gives you a somewhat apologetic smile. And you get it, you really do and you don’t hold it against her. This shit probably happens all the time. 

“I know, just, is he working tonight, at least? Or could you just give Jack my name and let him decide if wants to come speak with me, please.” You give her a pleading look, bite your tongue and don’t tell her you don’t currently need emergency medical treatment and are trying to keep it that way and that’s why you need to speak with Jack. 

Another woman in scrubs looks at you as she walks near the desk. You almost think she might stop but she doesn’t. 

“Expecting company tonight Dr. Abbot?” Emery smirks at him as she walks up to him at the hub. Jack looks up at her from where he’s sitting charting and raises his eyebrows at her. “There’s a pretty woman in chairs asking for you. Doesn't want to seem to take no for an answer.” Emery shrugs. 

“What the fuck?” Jack mutters, logging out and heading towards chairs. He really doesn’t need this tonight. His shift has been okay, things have been calm. He’ll never say or think the q-word about a shift while here but tonight is approaching that. So he really doesn’t need or want some former patient or former patient's mom or a woman he went out with once or twice showing up here and causing a scene.

Then Jack sees you and stops in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat. 

You. The love of his life. The only one he’s ever really wanted to be with in any meaningful way. He’s had trysts and a few relationships, mostly short term, since you but he kind of gave up bothering to try after a while. You're the only one he really wants.

He'll never understand why he decided to actually let you go, why he didn't move with you. Why he didn't try begging you to stay. Really, he does know. However it would've happened, there would've been resentment at some point by one of you. Him for giving up being a doctor, you for giving up an incredible grad school and opportunity.

He thought about you all the time. He's pretty sure that he thought about saying fuck it and flying to you and trying to find you and get back together at least once a month the entire time you were apart, knows he thought about you and wanting you back every day. But as time went on he convinced himself that you'd probably found someone, were probably engaged, maybe married, more recently he's convinced himself that you might have a kid or kids even.

The years have been more than kind to you. You’re just as beautiful as you were the day he met you, more beautiful if anything. He forces himself to take in a breath. No ring on your finger. He finds that hard to believe because you’re a catch on every level. But it doesn’t look like there’s a tan line either. There's no way you can be single.

He wonders why you're here, in Pittsburgh in general and at PTMC. He wonders how long you've been here, how long you're here for.

The way he feels his heart rate pick up and butterflies in his stomach has him shaking his head at himself. All these years later and you still have that effect on him. You always did. Even after you guys had been together for years. 

What if you're hurt? That spikes his heart rate even more. You don't look injured or sick or like you're in physical pain or discomfort. But there's absolutely something going on, he can tell by the look on your face and your body language.

“If you know Dr. Abbot well enough for him to want to come out to speak to you, why don’t you call him and ask?” The woman gives you another look. 

In your fear that thought hadn’t occurred to you. “Oh,” you murmur. “Yeah, I could do that. Um, okay. Thank you.” You're not actually sure if you could do that because you're not sure if Jack has the same number, but it's your only chance right now you guess, unless you happen to see someone else you know from your Jack days and they let you in.

You start to turn around to find a chair so you can try calling Jack when you hear your first name being called in that deep gravelly voice you’d recognize anywhere. Jack.

You look back at the desk and he's there, leaned over just slightly to speak through the glass. It's your breath that catches this time. The years have only made Jack more attractive. He’s going gray and the salt and pepper curls look so good on him you could scream. Even through your fear your stomach twists in a good way at seeing him. God he looks fucking good. 

Jack nods towards the doors, and starts walking towards them. You do the same and once the doors open enough for you to see each other the two of you stand there and look at each other for a couple of seconds. 

As the doors start to close you remember yourself and walk through them over to Jack. “Hi,” you breathe, try and fail to give him a smile that doesn't reflect how scared you are. 

“Hey.” Jack gives you a small smile. “Come here?” He holds his hands out a little wanting to give you the option about whether to hug. You let out a soft breath and step into his arms, the two of you sharing a tight hug that lingers just a little too long and tells everyone who’s watching you’re not just friends. You both note that the other smells the same.

Being close like this again feels too good for the both of you. You've needed this, craved this. Needed and craved each other. Neither of you wants to let go.

But you have to.

“Thank you for letting me in.” You smile at him as genuinely and convincingly as possible because even under the circumstances, you are glad you’re seeing him again.

He looks even better up close. The crows feet and other soft wrinkles five years have brought Jack suit him perfectly and you have to fight off the urge to hold his face still to get a good look at him. He was always unfairly handsome and is even more so now. The salt and pepper is even more devastating up close, suits the curls you adore perfectly. You wonder if he's graying everywhere. You hate the way you clock his ringless left hand and feel a tingle of hope in the back of your brain somewhere under your terror. 

“Yeah of course.” Jack nods. “I’m not trying to skip all the seeing each other for the first time in over five years shit, but what’s up? I know you’re not okay.” He glances down at the envelope and then back up to you. 

Of course he knows. He always knew. Jack has always been able to read you with just a glance. You both know it. The same is true of you with him though. You were always able to read him with a glance, no matter how stoic he looked to anyone else. 

You look around at everyone watching the two of you and swallow hard, thankful Lena or Bridget or any other night shift regulars from five years ago aren't among them. “Jack,” you shake your head a little and drop your voice to a whisper, “I can’t. Not here.”

He nods slowly. “Okay. Come with me, yeah?” You nod and let him take your hand and lead you to the family room, your fingers lacing together automatically, like no time has passed. You can feel the tears start to form behind your eyes the second he shuts the door. “What’s going on Sweetheart?” He winces at the pet name slipping out. It’s all he used to call you. Robby and Dana teased him about it, would ask him if he even remembered your real name. He did of course. But sweetheart was just what he always called you. “I’m so sorry, that just slipped out.” 

“It’s okay Jackie.” You give him the smallest coy smile. 

“I, I,” you let out a breath. “I don’t even know how to say it and I know I might be being paranoid and probably am and am probably going to seem like some hysterical woman or something and you can tell me all of that and to get a grip and go but I,” you shift the envelope in your hands, “I think I’m being stalked. And I just moved back and don’t, don't have anyone really and, and,” you let out a sad laugh as a few tears finally run down your face. “And you’re the only place I’ve ever felt safe, the only person I’ve ever felt truly safe with and so I don’t know, I just…came here looking for you so I could feel safe, even for just a minute. I know you're busy and have to get back and that's okay, I just...”

Jack’s stomach twists painfully. You're not one to get shaken easily, so the fact that you are and that you tracked him down to feel safe even for a minute, tells Jack things are bad, that this isn't the first event. But even if you are being paranoid, which Jack sincerely doubts, just the thought of you worrying about being stalked makes him sick and anxious and has that protective side of him coming out hard. It doesn’t matter how much time has passed. He’ll always have that drive and need to protect you. You’re still the most important thing in the world to him. He’ll die before he lets anything happen to you. 

And your tears break his heart. He always hated when you cried, hated when he couldn't protect you from the world and make sure you were only ever happy. He'd hold you so close, let you cry it out into him and then do whatever you needed to put you back together again, get a smile on your face.

This time is no different. Maybe it should be. Maybe he shouldn't do this, you aren't together, you've been broken up for over five years, he has no idea if you'd ever even entertain getting back together with him. But it doesn't matter. Even if you won't entertain it he still needs to take care of you.

"Okay, I've got you," he murmurs as he closes the distance between you and wraps his arms around you, pulls you close and holds you as tightly as possible. "You're safe here, I've got you."

"I'm sorry," you sniffle against his scrub top as you wrap your arms around him in return and hold him just as tightly. "I'm so sorry for this, I know it's unfair."

"No, it's not unfair, and you have nothing to apologize for, I'm glad you came to me, okay?" Jack rocks you as you cry against him.

It's intimate, the way he holds you, the feeling in the air, the way you're touching each other, the energy in the room. You've both missed this more than words could ever hope to say.

One of his hands comes up to the back of your head and cups it to keep you close and he must've held and hugged you like this thousands of times when you were together. It takes you right back there and for a brief couple of seconds you're not sure if you're crying because you're scared or because the wound to your heart and soul that was the loss of Jack has been torn back open even deeper.

"It's okay," Jack whispers. "You're going to be okay. We'll figure it out. I promise we'll figure it out."

"It's not your responsibility, Jack," you whisper back to him as you start to pull yourself together.

"I know, and I don't feel like it is, I promise." Jack goes to kiss the top of your head reassuringly and stops himself just in time. But that's how simple it is, how easy it is for him to slip right back into being your partner.

“I doubt you’re being paranoid. Why do you think you're being..?” He can’t get himself to say the word stalked quite yet. It terrifies him too much. “Because of what’s in the envelope?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. 

“Can I see?” Again, he knows you're not one to think or say something like this lightly, that if anything you'd try to downplay it.

You nod, appreciate that he’s taking you seriously. You knew he would. You can already see the concern and worry in his eyes. He takes a seat and clears the table in the room, pats the seat next to him. 

Jack pulls out a pair of gloves from one of the pockets of his cargo pants and puts them on before he takes it from you. He pulls the photos out and starts looking through them.

“What the fuck?” An instinctual and consuming protectiveness races through Jack as he looks at the photos. It feels like each photo gets worse and worse, tightens the knot in his stomach. “Holy shit.” Jack doesn’t feel a lot of genuine and nearly paralyzing fear anymore but he sure is right now. An overwhelming amount. Because whoever took these is threatening you. Wants to take you away and force you to be with them or hurt you.

“This…” Jack shakes his head as he finishes looking at the photos. He pauses for a second as he holds them to take a couple of breaths so that he can stay calm and reassuring, levelheaded so he can keep you safe. But it's hard to get rid of the lightheadedness from how fucking insane this is and this person is and he doesn't even try to get the nausea to go away.

He puts the photos back in the envelope and sets it on the table. Jack takes off his gloves and then takes one of your hands and looks at you. “This isn’t a maybe, or you being paranoid. Do you know who took these?” 

"I think," you let out a shuddery breath, "I think this guy I went on a couple of dates with. I broke it off after the second date because he started getting weird and pushy. Honestly I should've done it after the first because I picked up on something and felt a little weird but I told myself that was just because he wasn't…" You trail off, realizing what you were about to say. It's obvious at this point though. You. "The second date was just…bad. He was a little creepy, felt a little obsessive." You huff at that and flick your eyebrows up. "I didn't think he'd go this far."

You'd jumped into dating shortly after arriving because you needed something to do and more than that you needed to try to take your mind off Jack. Like that was ever going to happen. You think secretly you kind of hoped he'd pop up on one of the apps and that would be your way to test the waters kind of.

Jack's ready to just go kill the guy and solve the problem but obviously knows he can't. "Is this the first thing that's happened or has there been more?"

You shrug. "Little things that were strange, a few that felt kind of creepy, blowing up my phone with texts and calls, emails. But nothing that explicitly makes it clear it's him and nothing that suggested… violence, I guess, the way the photos kind of do, maybe."

It's not maybe, Jack thinks to himself. "Okay." He lets out a long breath and runs a hand through his hair as he thinks. He has to keep you safe. You need to come back to his place. To your old place that you shared together. “Alright,” he nods slowly. There’s too many emotions swirling in him. Protectiveness, anger at the guy, fear, guilt, yearning. Love. “Just, um… You wait here. I've gotta go tell Lena and Shen that I have to leave right now and then I'll grab my stuff and we can go. I think it's probably better if you come to my place in case he's watching you or your place. Seeing you come home with another man could escalate him. I have a hoodie that you can wear and we can leave out a side entrance so he shouldn't pick you up and track you back to my place."

You breathe out a laugh and tilt your head at him, a watery smile on your face. "Jack, I, I, I can't, you can't do that. You can't just leave in the middle of your shift for this."

He shrugs, like it's no big deal when it absolutely is. "Yes I can. There's another attending on already even. We don't have to call anyone in." Jack gives you a soft, what he hopes is reassuring, smile. "I can and I'm going to."

"You don't have to Jack, really, it's okay. I'll be okay." You shrug, suddenly trying to play it off because you feel bad. You don't know what you thought would happen when you decided to come and try to find him, you never got that far in your mind. But the last thing you want to do is come back into his life out of nowhere and inconvenience him. "I just needed to see a familiar face and get some validation, I think."

"I know I don't have to, but I also do have to. I have to keep you safe." He squeezes your hand that he's still holding gently. He knows this must be terrifying for you, especially on top of feeling as alone as he's sure you do in a city this big. "Going back to your place, especially alone, is dangerous right now. He could be there. He could get in. We can't risk it, we can't risk your life or him doing something to you."

You need to know. You need to know what you're walking into when you get to Jack's place because you know you're going to end up there. You need to know if he's with someone. "Do you, are you… Are you with someone Jack? I don't want to fuck things up for you and bringing home your single ex long-term girlfriend isn't a good look."

He shakes his head. "I'm single. And even if I did have a girlfriend, if she didn't understand that I needed to help you with this, if she didn't want me to help you with this, then we wouldn't be together any longer so it would be a moot point."

You bite your lip for a second. "It's too much, Jack. For me to just show up after over five years and pull this shit on you and ask you to protect me and take me back to your place and let me spend the night."

"It's not too much, at all, not even close. And you're not asking. I'm offering. I'm insisting." For now Jack doesn't say anything about you staying more than just the night. He wants you to stay with him until this is resolved, but that's clearly a conversation for tomorrow.

"Jack…" you whisper his name, look around the room and then back at him. Your expression is so distressed and scared it kills him. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I'm more than sure." He gives your hand another squeeze. "Wait here for me, yeah? I shouldn't be long."

"Okay," you murmur. Jack gets up and heads to the door and you call to him when his hand reaches for the door handle. "Jack." He turns to look at you. "Thank you."

"Always," Jack nods at you and steps out.

Walking into Jack's place is surreal on multiple levels. Because this used to be your place. You and Jack were living together when you broke up. When you left you never thought you'd walk back in here. You half expected him to have moved, to have not been able to live with the memories. But then Jack's always been sentimental, so it doesn't surprise you. And when you think about it, while it would be painful to stay and be surrounded by the memories, it feels like it would hurt more to move and leave them behind.

You smile to yourself at how it looks and feels almost exactly the same. Your influence on the space isn't there as prominently anymore obviously, though you can see a couple of things that he picked up from you, but it feels like Jack, it feels the way it felt before you moved in with him. You have no idea how to explain that but it just does. You can pick out some differences, some changes he's made, the most obvious being that photos of you and the two of you don't hang on the walls or live in frames decorating bookshelves.

"I'm gonna shower quickly," Jack tells you as he sets his backpack down and walks the bag of takeout over to the coffee table. "You should start eating. Everything's still in the same place in the kitchen. Help yourself to whatever of course."

You turn to look at him and offer a small smile as you start walking to the couch. "Okay, thank you."

"You need anything else before I jump in?" His eyes track you as you move to the couch. You're still in his sweatshirt he gave you to wear when you left the hospital and fuck Jack will never get over seeing you in his clothes.

You take in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "A bottle of tequila and a straw." You give him a wry smile as he chuckles. He's missed hearing you say that. You used to frequently. "No, but thank you for asking. I'll be okay." Once you're back by my side.

Jack can hear the unspoken sentence. This is about to be the fastest fucking shower of his life. He wishes he could just invite you in with him. "Okay. Come get me if you need anything though, yeah?"

"I will," you nod. "But I'll be okay, honestly. Enjoy your shower."

Jack nods at you and turns, walks back to his bedroom, the bedroom that used to be yours, that you used to share. Both of you are so fucking aware of it. Of how this used to be your place, plural, the home you shared together for nearly three years.

He's quick in the shower. He can't stand the thought of you out there alone and scared. When he gets out he haphazardly dries his hair and throws on a pair of sweatpants and a random t-shirt and makes his way back to you.

The familiar sound of Jack's crutches clicking against the tile has you biting your lip to avoid bursting back into tears. It's the silliest thing, you tell yourself, how a sound can feel like home, can make you feel safe. But it does. Just like his voice and his laugh and the sound of his heart beating steadily in his chest.

You give him a small smile as he reappears from the hall into the open floorplan of the living room, kitchen and dining room. Seeing him with wet curls and slightly flushed from the heat of the water has you throbbing between your legs and biting your lip even harder as you feel the tears start to sting. You miss getting to shower with him, getting to be close to him like that, intimate. Vulnerable.

Jack isn't prepared for it. He isn't prepared for the way you're perched on the couch close to the edge like you're afraid to sit on it all the way and interrupt his space with your presence. He isn't prepared for the way it makes it so clear it's his space and not yours, not a space you share. He isn't prepared for you looking like you think you're a burden or a bother or an interruption. He isn't prepared for the way you look like a stranger in your own home.

Former home, he guesses.

Jack isn't prepared for the wave of emotion that starts to pull him under, for the tears he feels start to form. He takes in a slow deep breath hoping to keep it as unnoticeable as possible, lets it out the same.

"Drink?" he asks, stopping by the fridge.

"Uh, sure yeah," you nod. "Just whatever you have that's easiest."

While Jack gets drinks from the fridge you start pulling the takeout out of the bag and setting it on the coffee table. The coffee table you and Jack picked out together.

Jack crutches back over and pulls out a drink for himself from one pocket of his sweatpants and a bottle of your favorite drink for you.

An amused smile pulls on your face when you see it. "You have that in there for the last five and a bit years?" you laugh teasingly.

The sound goes straight to Jack's cock, followed by his heart and creating an intense wave of longing that makes his whole body ache. "No," he draws the word out. "I have one from time to time." To remind myself of you. "Wanted one the other day and bought it but hadn't got around to drinking it so I happened to have it in there." But then couldn't bring myself to drink it. You hear what he doesn't say.

Jack settles on the couch and pulls the coffee table closer. "You should've started eating without me."

You shrug at him. "Felt rude."

"Did you go through my shit?" He smirks at you as he hands you the container with your food.

You roll your eyes at him playfully. "It looks almost exactly the same, Jack, I doubt there's much new for me to even go through. I was always the collector and shopper."

"Hm, yes you were." He wants to say that he loves it, that he loves that about you, that he misses it, going shopping with you or seeing the little things you'd find randomly and buy for the place or for him. But he doesn't.

The two of you continue to talk as you eat but it's all surface level, random stuff, nothing about the last five years of your lives. Jack picks up on the way you're slightly out of it, knows you're not in the headspace to talk about that right now and that you're tired and mentally fried. You know he knows and is deliberately not asking and you appreciate it more than you could hope to express to him.

"So," Jack starts as he hands you the now empty takeout box his food was in, "I'm guessing I should call you Doctor now?"

You laugh softly from the kitchen as you throw the empty takeout boxes from dinner into the trash. "Yeah," you nod slowly as you walk back toward the couch. You shrug as you get closer. "Well, you can. You don't have to."

"Yes I do." Jack beams at you, absolutely fucking beams and looks so proud of you it's palpable. He stands, keeps the finger tips of one hand on the armrest of the couch to help balance as he holds his other arm open.

You shake your head at him but smile, walk over to him and give him the hug he's seeking. Jack wraps his arms around you tightly, trusts you to help him stay balanced like you've done thousands of times before.

"I am so, so fucking proud of you Sweetheart," he murmurs, the pride in his voice dripping off each word. Without even truly realizing it Jack kisses the top of your head and nuzzles his nose in your hair as he holds you tight, just like he always used to. "So fucking proud."

The hug is perfect. It's Jack. You never want it to stop. And yet it's the hardest thing in the world right now. Because as real as this hug is, it's not real the way you want it to be. You and Jack aren't together. This isn't your boyfriend hugging you.

This is the love of your life, your soulmate who you're no longer with hugging you. This is a dream, this is what you missed and thought about and wanted and imagined and fucking yearned for. This is all you wanted when you walked out from defending your thesis, when you got your dream job, when you graduated, to be walking into Jack's arms and held tight while he kissed the top of your head and nuzzled his nose in your hair and told you how proud of you he was. All you wanted was Jack.

And you didn't have him.

And you don't have him.

Not really, anyway. Not how you want him. Not how you need him. Not in the way that would fix your broken heart and soul.

But you're here with him in this moment and getting this hug, hearing how proud of you he is, feeling it in the way he holds and touches you. So you let yourself have it, or try at least. On top of everything else tonight it's just making you more emotional.

"Thank you, Jackie," you whisper so quietly it's just the three words coated in a sorrow and longing Jack is sure he recognizes all too well. Fighting back the tears is hard, but you have no real reason for them in the moment, no reason that isn't you miss Jack and want him to be yours again, no reason you could use to explain them that wouldn't guilt trip him or make him feel forced.

Jack isn't unaffected by all of this, by hugging and holding you like this, by having you back in his life and seeing you again and knowing you're here in the city and single. All he wants to do is kiss you and ask you to be his again, apologize for ever letting you go and keep you safe in his arms, tucked against his chest where you belong. But Jack's not sure if you want that, any of that.

And more than that Jack doesn't want you to feel forced. He doesn't want you to think that you have to be with him or give yourself to him to have his protection and help because that could never, ever, be the case. You could actively hate him and treat him as such and he'd still protect and help you. Deep down, Jack knows you could never think that, that you know him too well. But still. There's also some part of him that feels like trying to get back together right now would be taking advantage of you and your vulnerable and heightened emotional state. So he doesn't try as much as he wants to.

Below the self-created blindness and beyond the protective walls you're both imposing on yourselves that prevent you from consciously processing the other's obvious desperation and want and need and longing to get back together and to actively and overtly love the other again, you both know that the other wants reconciliation just as much. You both know that the other wants to get back together, wants to be a couple again. Yet neither of you will make the first move.

Your hug breaks and you both sit back down on the couch. Jack has to fight to keep the frown off his face when you remain sitting at the edge. He hopes you're just starting there to grab your drink and then will settle back in. But Jack knows you won't. He knows this has to be too much for you, all of it, the stalker, being back here, the familiarity juxtaposed with the lack of it in the place you used to call yours.

"You have a copy of your thesis for me?" Jack smiles at you, the pride still sparkling in his eyes in a way that almost has you squirming under his gaze in the best way because he's going to do his damnedest to make you accept that he's proud of you and to get you to be proud of yourself. You laugh and roll your eyes at him. "Hey!" He straightens his left leg out and nudges your thigh with his foot. "I'm serious. I want to read it."

You give him an amused, if not slightly disbelieving smile. You absentmindedly bring your hands to his foot that's still resting just a touch against your thigh and start rubbing it. Just like you always used to. It's a lightning bolt to Jack's heart but he covers it with the practice of someone repressing his emotions for the last five years. "Really?"

Jack smiles at you and nods. "Really."

"Okay, yeah," you nod back, your mind somewhere between unsurprised by his support and enthusiasm and flustered by the same and the way he's looking at you and the reminder that he can still make you feel like this. Easily. "Yeah, no, I can, I can get you a copy. But you really don't have to read it, Jack. It's not going to offend me."

"I know I don't have to. I want to." He shrugs like it's the simplest thing in the world and not one of those things that's everything to you because it's Jack reading something completely outside his field and world just because you wrote it.

"If you change your mind two pages in, that's okay too."

He chuckles to himself. "Noted, but I'm not going to. I'm looking forward to reading it."

You smirk at him and cock your head, scoot down the couch closer to him and finally settle back into it a little more just so that you can rest your thigh under his knees so his legs lay across your lap. It's all unthinking, instinctual almost, practiced. Something you've done a thousand times before when you were together. Something that's just wired into you even after over five years apart.

Your hands quickly untie the knot he'd put in the extra fabric of his right pajama leg to keep it from getting in the way of his crutches, slide the fabric up just enough and start massaging his leg, fingers using just the right pressure over his scar. Jack has to fight back a groan at how good it feels, especially after a string of on days and especially coming from you. And if he thought you rubbing his foot was a lightning bolt to the heart, you scooting up the couch just to massage his leg and keep things equal is a thousand at once.

Keeping the tears out of his eyes is hard. He hasn't had touch like this since you broke up and he never really thought he'd have it again, knew he'd never get close to someone the way he was with you, would never be in more than a casual relationship where maybe they spent the night sometimes, but wouldn't be close enough, intimate enough, for him to allow them to touch him there.

"You don't even know what it's about," you point out.

In fairness, Jack knows what you went to school for and you'd certainly discussed and bounced ideas for your thesis off him when you were applying since you had to send in some proposed ideas for your applications. But you hadn't set anything in stone so he doesn't know anything specific.

Jack doesn't even need to really think about his response and it makes it hit that much harder. "It's about something you're passionate about and care about and enjoy and love." He smiles at you and raises his eyebrows, tilts his head just slightly for a second. "That's more than enough for me."

There's something heart and soul shatteringly sweet about Jack's words. So much so that it's hard to formulate a response that isn't thank you and I love you. So all you can say is the first and leave off the last. "Thank you."

Jack knows. He knows how much it meant to, how truly thankful you are and how good his words made you feel. He can see it in your eyes, feel it in the way your touch becomes just a little more tender.

His eyes flit around your face taking in how exhausted you are at the same time you stifle a yawn. It's so fucking adorable he wants to just launch himself at you and start making out and begging you to be his again. Given that that's not an option he settles for giving you a soft, knowing smile. "I can tell you're exhausted. We should get you some sleep."

Jack is right. You need sleep. You're sure you won't be able to. You're scared about what's going to happen, how you solve a problem like this, how you deal with a stalker, if you'll ever be able to truly get rid of the guy and get him to leave you alone. You'll be missing Jack, will be so keenly aware of how close yet how far he is, of how he must be over you since he hasn't asked to get back together or even tried to start some sort of conversation about the two of you.

You want to fight it because you want more time with him. You're not really sure what the plans are past tonight, if you'll continue staying with him or what. But he's still right. "Yeah," you sigh. "Probably."

There's not really a discussion about where you'll sleep. This isn't you getting back together, something you both are well aware of despite both wishing it was you getting back together. So as much as both of you might like you to sleep in bed with him, neither of you say anything for a moment as you stand in the spare room and look at the bed together.

After a few seconds Jack clears his throat. "Did you want to shower first?"

"No," you murmur, shake your head. You don't think you could handle either of the options, using the spare shower or using the shower that used to be yours, not to mention having to use all his products and smell like him, not tonight at least. "But thank you."

"Okay. I can, um, I can get you something to wear, if you want?" he offers, a touch of awkwardness to it.

"That would be great, thanks." You really don't want to sleep in these clothes or in just your bra and underwear, and sleeping naked just isn't going to work.

Jack is gone for just a second before returning with a shirt and pair of boxer briefs thrown over his shoulder. He hands them to you silently and lingers as you murmur another, "Thank you."

"You're welcome." The two of you look at each other for another beat before Jack decides he has to just rip the bandaid off. "Wake me if you need anything and I'll see you in the morning. Goodnight."

You nod at him. "Goodnight."

He closes the spare room door behind him and all you can both think about is how much this fucking sucks. How much you both love and hate this. Being apart for longer than Jack showering finally gives you both time to start processing. You're back. You're in Jack's place, you're in your old place. You have a stalker. Your life is at risk.

You're frozen for a moment but then force yourself to undress and slip on Jack's shirt and boxer briefs and climb into the spare bed.

As you settle in the space is familiar but not familiar enough. It's soothing but not soothing enough for you to fall asleep. The shirt and sheets smell vaguely of Jack because of the laundry detergent and a few tears hit your eyes at the thought of him using the same laundry detergent all these years. God, you're so fucking in love with him.

Being this close and yet this far from him is torturous, but if Jack wanted you back you're right here. All he has to do is ask if you'll be with him again, if you'll be his again. You’re sure if he does after tonight it'll be out of pity for you, or some kind of fucked up trauma bonding, or for the comfort and familiarity, or just for stress relief. You also know none of this is that simple and that Jack does want to ask, that Jack wants you but has his own reasons for not.

It's impossible for sleep to find you despite how tired you are. You keep thinking about everything that could happen, how scared you are, how much you miss and love Jack. You lay awake for what feels like hours but is really only an hour and a half according to your phone.

You're not sure what it is but something about that little time passing and it feeling like forever breaks you and you finally start to cry, finally give in to all your emotions and let yourself cry and panic and be overwhelmingly sad and anxious. The problem is that then you can't stop.

You can't stop and you know how to get yourself to stop and you lay in the spare bed for as long as you can possibly stand feeling like this before you wipe away all the tears you can and try to pull yourself together at least a little so that you're not visibly shaking when you get out of bed and walk to Jack's bedroom door. The tears you've wiped away have long since been replaced but you're not choking on air anymore, so there's that at least.

"Jack?" you call his name as you knock on his door. Your voice is broken and raw and the tears immediately start to fall harder because you can't believe you're doing this to him, making him deal with this on top of everything else.

Jack only managed to finally get his brain to turn off enough to fall into a light sleep thirty minutes ago when you knock. And the only way he was able to do that was by telling himself that he needed to be at least somewhat rested to protect you the best.

But he jolts awake at the sound of you calling his name and the knock on the door. You sound upset, deeply so and it spikes his anxiety, has him wide awake and calling your name back in half a second. "Come in, what's wrong?" he rushes out as he sits up, dressed in only his pajama pants from earlier. "Did something happen?"

You open the door and take a step in as he turns his bedside lamp on and starts moving to get out of bed. "Nothing happened," you shake your head, almost squeak out the words. "I just can't stop. I'm scared, Jack, I'm really scared and I, I, I…" You can't finish that sentence. Can't tell him how you're feeling. Can't guilt him into being with you. "I started, started crying and panicking and now I can't stop and I didn't know what to do and I thought, I, I thought, maybe just being able to see you would help. I don't want to impose-"

"Hey, hey hey hey," Jack cuts you off gently, voice low and soothing. "Come here?" He stays sitting on the edge of the bed and holds his hand out to you, nods at the bed. "You wanna…?" Jack doesn't want to put any pressure on you. "Or I can stand or we can go sit on the couch?"

Maybe you should fight it more, tell yourself and Jack this isn't appropriate, that this isn't what this is, but you don't. "Are you sure?" you ask quickly, equally as concerned with pressuring him to let you into his bed and wanting to be in it just as much as he wants you to be in it. Your eyes flick to the bed just to confirm what you want.

He gives you a small smile and nods and it's all you need, your feet carrying you around the bed to your side where you slide in and under the covers so fast he laughs under his breath as he lays down on his back propped up just slightly and looks over at you. Big, wet eyes with tear clumped lashes stare up at him as your lips and chin shake and your breathing starts to become hitched. It's not an unfamiliar sight, Jack used to hold you while you cried all the time, but there's an edge here, one of true terror and fear that he's never seen before.

Jack will kill this asshole. On fucking sight.

Nobody gets to make you look or feel the way you do right now and live to tell the fucking tale, not as long as Jack's alive.

Jack knows that's all hyperbolic, something only in his dreams. Because if he killed the guy then he'd go to prison and that, him going to prison for you, would destroy you, regardless of your relationship status.

He holds his arms open for you in offering and tilts his head, silently telling you that you don't have to come into his arms, he just wants to offer. But there is quite literally nowhere else in the fucking world you'd rather be. As you almost scramble to shift and get closer to him Jack angles himself on his side just slightly so that he can hold you better with both arms and you can rest your head in the crook of his neck and shoulder and hide from the world easier. You fall into him and the position easily, burrow into him as much as you can and throw your leg over the top of him, cling to the warm skin of his chest and shoulders and back.

Once you're finally safe in his arms you start to sob again, cry into him, and in the moment it's hard to tell if you're crying because you're scared or because your heart is breaking all over again. It doesn't really matter, you guess, because you're here doing it, sobbing into Jack again like you used to when you were upset and it's so fucked up and unfair of you.

You're not sure how long you cry into him like that, aren't sure how long Jack holds you and whispers soft words of reassurance similar to the ones he used to when you were together and he'd hold you like this. There's a few he can't say anymore, that don't feel appropriate. I've got you. I'll always have you.

I love you.

Eventually you do cry yourself out, take a minute or so just resting in Jack's arms and trying to recover and get it together a little bit before you speak.

"I'm sorry," you sniffle. You take the tissue he offers you and wipe his neck and shoulder and chest before you clean your own face up and blow your nose. "This is so unfair of me Jack, dragging you into this out of the fucking blue and I feel so bad. I don't want you to think I'm using you and I don't know how you can think anything but that and I'm sorry, Jack," you start to get yourself worked up again, "I'm really sorry."

"Shh, shh, shh," Jack soothes you. "It's okay, I promise it's okay and I don't think that. Please don't cry over that, I promise you it's all okay. I know you're not using me. I know you came to me because you're scared and you didn't know where else to go and I'm glad you did." You try your hardest to believe him, are able to enough to at least stop yourself from losing it again, take in some big racked breaths against him. "Can you look at me?"

You nod against him and start to pull away and the way you move together to adjust your positioning so that you're on your sides and can see each other while still so close is painfully natural and practiced. Your legs tangle together like they did when you were lovers, the rest of your bodies following the same. Jack's top arm stays wrapped around you, his lower hand splaying out on your upper chest above your breasts so that you can feel him. You keep your arms tucked between the two of you, your lower hand resting on top of his on your chest, your top arm splayed on his chest similar to his hand on yours.

"I don't feel used or like you're using me and I don't think you're being unfair. I wish I could make you believe that, or accept it, maybe is the better way to put it because I know you know and believe that I wouldn't lie to you." He gives you a small smile and then looks away as he licks his lips, his face setting into something far more somber, something almost like grief and worry. "I'm glad that you came to me. I'm glad that you walked into my ED and found me, I'm fucking thankful." The word comes out as a breath almost, loaded with the feeling it labels and just slightly shaky.

"I'm glad that you didn't go inside your place and that you weren't alone." Jack's lips fall into a line and tremble slightly, his eyes growing glassy with tears. "Because the thought of this night going differently and you being wheeled into my ED and me finding you on a gurney in my trauma room barely alive is something I can't fucking handle. And it could've so easily been a reality if you hadn't come to find me. So no, Sweetheart," Jack shakes his head as best he can laying on his side. "I don't feel used. I feel thankful and grateful. I'm so fucking glad you did."

Your lips tremble harder than Jack's as his words wash over you while he says them, a couple of tears slipping from your eyes. "Jackie," you whisper, unable to come up with anything else.

"I know," he murmurs, blinks back his own tears somehow. "We're going to get through this, okay? I promise. We'll figure it out."

You shake your head this time. "No, Jack," you whisper. It makes him start to spiral. "You don't have to do this with me, you shouldn't have to. Doing this with me, that isn't fair. I just, I needed somewhere safe for tonight and I came to you because you're the only place I've ever truly felt safe and I knew you'd help me and I am so, so grateful, Jack and I hope this doesn't start to make you feel used. I'll, I'll go get some security stuff tomorrow, cameras and alarms or whatever and get them set up during the day and I'll be back out of your hair and you can have your life and home back. I never meant to make it feel like this was something you were going to have to deal with long term with me. I'm not asking you to take this on with me, that wouldn't be fair."

"You're not asking and I know I don't have to, that I'm not required to. And I never wanted you out of my hair to begin with." The second sentence is whispered. Jack almost feels bad saying it, like it's somehow pushy or seems like he's trying to blame you for what happened when he's not. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't either of your fault's. But he knows you and so he knows you blame yourself.

After a couple second pause Jack continues. "Cameras and even alarms aren't going to make it safe. This guy isn't going to care. He'll cover himself up so the cameras can't identify him or he'll just do it on camera and not give a fuck. And alarms might bring attention but there's still so much he could do in the time it takes for anyone to respond to them. I'm not saying that to scare you, I'm saying it because it's reality. You should stay here until we get it figured out and taken care of. You need to. Or, or," the thought hurts but Jack has to acknowledge it, "if you don't want to stay here then somewhere safe, somewhere truly safe that he doesn't know about."

"No, Jack, it's not that I don't want to stay here, it's not that at all," you reassure him. "It's just, it's a lot to as-," you catch yourself, "it's a lot to take on. And who knows how long it'll take." Jack doesn't say anything, just gives you a reassuring smile and a small shrug to tell you that it doesn't matter to him. "If it gets to be too much promise you'll tell me, Jack."

"I promise." He doesn't vocalize how that could absolutely never happen, but he sure thinks it. Jack takes in your face for the hundredth time tonight. With your eyes swollen and bloodshot from crying you look even more exhausted than you did earlier. "We can talk about everything more tomorrow, okay? Try to get some sleep."

"Okay," you nod. You roll with Jack to keep your positioning as he reaches behind him to turn the lamp off, the two of you resettling how you were just with you somehow burrowed into Jack a bit more, his bottom arm wrapping around you under your shoulder to hold you tighter. "Do you work tomorrow?"

"Nope," Jack pops the 'p', clearly very happy about it. "I'm off the next three days."

"That's good," you murmur, pause for a moment. "Thank you Jack. For everything."

"Of course, anytime." Jack gives you a sleepy smile and repeats what he said earlier. "Always."

"So, I guess we can do all the seeing each other for the first time in over five years shit now," Jack smirks, teasing himself for the words he used last night at the Pitt.

The two of you are sitting on the couch again, eating the breakfast that you made together. Well, that Jake made, really, your only contribution the toast and moral support you provided by being in the kitchen with him.

You laugh softly. "Yeah, I guess we can."

Jack nods to tell you he'll go first once he finishes this bite. "Should probably start with the most obvious. Why are you back and how long have you been back?"

You forgot that with everything that happened last night you never got around to telling Jack how long you've been back and why you are in the first place. "I moved back a couple of months ago." Jack's going to have a reaction to this next part, a big one. One you know he's justified in having but that you didn't let yourself have, would never let yourself have. Because somehow you bullshitted your way into the job and eventually it's going to catch up with you. Jack's going to call you on that too, the imposter syndrome. "I got a job at CMU. Assistant professor. Tenure track."

Jack is mid-bite when you say it, raises his eyebrows and widens his eyes at you as he smiles and chews faster. "Holy shit!" he laughs, beaming at you. "Sweetheart, that's fucking insane, holy shit! Congratulations! That's what you always wanted, and right out of school too, that's so fucking amazing. I'm so fucking proud of you. My-" Jack stops himself before the rest of that sentence comes out and hangs awkwardly in the air between you. My girl's a professor, that's so fucking hot. "I hope you're proud of yourself."

"Yeah, it's good," you shrug, trying to downplay it how you always seem to do with your achievements and successes.

A softer, crooked smile settles onto Jack's face at your reaction. It's what he expected but hoped he'd be wrong about. "I'm sorry the imposter syndrome hasn't gotten any better, but you deserve your position, Sweetheart. You didn't bullshit your way into it or trick them into giving you the job, and you didn't bullshit your way to a PhD. You're just truly that smart and intelligent and incredible. You should be proud of yourself, you deserve to be proud of yourself."

You've never been good at accepting compliments, never been good at accepting Jack's compliments. It's something he finds so incredibly endearing about you for some reason. It's just one of those things that's so you and so genuine, not an act to try and get more compliments. He can always tell by the bashful smile that pulls onto your face, like the one that is now, and the way you have to break eye contact with him, like you do now, that his words mean so incredibly much to you, are something you hold so dear, even if your brain struggles to let you accept them at first.

"Thank you Jackie," you murmur, looking down at your plate and glancing back up at him. He's still smiling so widely at you, his eyes sparkling with pride and adoration and something you know you recognize but think you’re making up. Love. Active, heart on fire, soul consuming, all encompassing love.

Neither of you can find the confidence to bring up getting back together. Because somehow neither of you are sure if the other would ever even want that. You're both scared to lose the other again if you bring it up and are rejected. You're both scared to rock the boat or make the other feel forced. There are so many reasons and while many of them are valid, they're also bullshit in a sense. You're soulmates. You both know it. You both know it was time and distance and circumstance that made you break up, that it wasn't your relationship deteriorating or deciding you were better as friends or any other reason. And yet neither of you will make any sort of real move. Slipped uses of Sweetheart and Jackie don't count.

You take another bite and Jack looks at you for another beat before he does the same, doesn't push you to say you're proud of yourself or anything. He never would.

Once you've finished that bite and taken a sip of coffee you look over at Jack again. "What about you, what have you been up to for the last five years? Or should I say who?" You try so hard to smirk when you ask it but it doesn't quite work. You want to care, think you should probably feel embarrassed, but you don't. You just need to know.

"Ha!" Jack laughs before he takes a sip of his coffee. "Hardly. There wasn't much going on there for me. I kept myself too busy."

Jack starts to ask, but doesn't have time to before you're volunteering the same information. You're not sure why you do, aren't even sure he would've asked. "Same. I was too busy for the most part. What did you do to keep yourself busy?"

You look down at your plate and miss the way Jack's head cocks just slightly. For the most part. What the fuck does that mean?

Despite how badly he wants to, Jack doesn't ask what 'for the most part' means. "Played doctor." You give him a look and he grins at you. "I did a little teaching of my own at the med school." You're almost dumbstruck as you think about Jack teaching, about Professor Abbot. Fuck. It's obscenely hot to you.

You pull yourself back to and continue listening to Jack. "Published some papers, went to conferences." Thought about flying to you and asking to get back together. He picks his cup of coffee up and brings it close to his lips. He knows you're not going to like this next one. "Went back to TEMS," Jack mumbles almost against the lip of the coffee mug and then takes a sip.

"Jack." You frown, concern flooding your face, an anxiety along with it that Jack hates seeing on your features. That look is exactly why he stopped shortly after you got together.

"I stopped, I stopped, I promise." He gives you a little smile, hopeful and playful, trying to get you to laugh or smile at him. For him. "I took up yoga in its place."

That gets him the smile he wants, amused and intrigued, your eyebrows raised, lips pressed together as you smile and bob your head to the side as you nod it at him once. "Yoga? Really?" He nods at you and you smile so beautifully at him Jack thinks his heart might stop. "Why yoga?"

He shrugs. "I lost a bet at work, a long story for another day once you've met some people, but I actually ended up kind of liking it so I went back and kept doing it and found I really enjoyed it." The two of you share a laugh and you nod approvingly at him, teasing smile on your face. "Maybe I'll drag you to a class or make you do it here with me. I don't do classes as much anymore. It's too difficult to work into my schedule with going to the gym and running."

"Maybe I'll let you," you smirk at him.

Jack rolls his eyes at you but then thoughts of you in tight yoga clothes hit him and he's shifting on the couch and moving his plate to conceal the semi he's getting that his pajama pants are doing absolutely nothing to hide. If you were still together, his answer would be obvious. Maybe I'll make you. But you're not together. It's one of those moments where it really hits him. You're not together. He does his best to not let it decimate his mood.

"I went on a big cooking kick for a while there. Taught myself all sorts of shit." Jack huffs a laugh. "Robby liked when I was on that kick. I'd make him come over to help me eat whatever I made."

You wonder if he ever cooked for another woman. If that's why he learned. It's so fucking ridiculous that this is where your mind goes, but it's where it goes. And then your thoughts devolve further.

Did he ever bring someone back here? To your place? Did he fuck someone else in your bed?

You immediately feel so nauseous you set your half eaten plate on the coffee table like you're done, sit back on the couch and pull your knees up in front of you like it'll protect you from any further hurt. You can't hold it against him if he did. It wasn't your place then. It isn't your place now.

You have no idea where Jack was planning on having you sleep tonight but you're not sure you could sleep in his bed with him, in what used to be your bed with him, if he fucked someone else there. But it's not your business. You have no right to ask. You try to distract yourself by thinking about what you did for the last five years.

Jack's eyes track you carefully, stay trained on your face trying to read your micro-expressions to figure out what's going on. "Something just happened."

Damn. You hoped he wouldn't notice, but it's Jack and even after five years he still knows you the way you know him. You furrow your brows anyway. "What?"

"Something just happened," he repeats, nodding at you. "You just thought of something."

You push your bottom lip out and shrug. You don't shake your head, you can't, because you can't lie to Jack. "I'm just full. And I'm trying to think about what I did. You did so much, it's kind of embarrassing for me."

Jack decides to let it go. For now. He'll circle back to it because you thought of something that distressed you enough to make you unable to eat.

"You earned a fucking doctorate." Jack laughs, raises his eyebrows as he smiles at you and sticks his head out a little in emphasis. "There's nothing embarrassing about that. And I'm sure you did some other stuff."

You grimace at him and shake your head. "I don't know, Jack, not really. A little bit of traveling but not enough. I was just busy with school constantly. I was TAing and studying for exams and writing and researching for my thesis." You don't say that the reason you didn't do much other than school was because you were too fucking depressed to do anything even when you did have the time. "And you know how I am." You shrug at him and smile. "Homebody."

Your stories of the last five years perfectly demonstrate how you and Jack react to that kind of depression that can threaten to consume you in such different ways. Jack tries to keep his mind busy, constantly doing and learning, even if it's learning how to clear his mind with yoga. And you shut down and revert into yourself a bit, throw yourself into school and your studies and let that consume you.

Jack hums in agreement. You can be a homebody and it's honestly something he loves about you and that was always so good for him. You balanced him, helped him slow down a little. And he balanced you, kept you from stopping completely. "That's true."

A comfortable silence falls between the two of you as Jack finishes eating. There's an edge to it though, something unresolved and not forgotten.

When he's done eating Jack sets his plate next to yours and grabs his cup of coffee before settling back on the couch. He looks at you and catches your gaze, holds it and raises his eyebrows slightly. "Are you going to tell me what you thought of?"

"No," you whisper. At least you're being honest. "It's one of those things that's none of my business."

"Try me," he says softly, giving you a warm smile that's really just the corners of his mouth quirking up.

You shake your head. Jack respects it, doesn't push you to answer or ask you again or try to guilt trip you somehow. But he does let the silence linger.

After a minute you sigh and look away. You're going to have to ask him at some point because, assuming Jack would want you there, you won't be able to get anywhere near that bed again until you know.

When you finally force the question out it's so quiet Jack almost misses it. "Did you sleep with someone else in that bed?"

He immediately knows exactly what you mean, exactly what form of ‘sleep with’ you're talking about and which bed is ‘that’ bed.

"No." The word is firm, clearly meant and truthful, but not harsh, not full of judgment for asking, not irritated or annoyed or put off by the question. "In both senses. I barely ever brought anyone back here at all." He gestures to the room so you know he's talking about the place in general. "I couldn't. It always felt so wrong."

You nod slowly, let yourself soak in his words and try to relax. You force yourself to look at him again. "Thank you. For answering."

"You're welcome." Jack's eyes flick down to your lips and he shifts in his seat so he's sitting up more and not leaning into the couch as much, sets his mug down on the arm table.

The romantic and sexual tension that's been building between the two of you suddenly triples when you mirror him, shift so that your knees are no longer bent in front of your chest opening you up to him more. When Jack's eyes find yours again there's something smouldering about them, glinting with something that feels almost possessive, his pupils a little wider than they should be in this much light. And you, you're doe eyed and looking far too innocent, your pupils as wide as his as you breathe a little too deeply for someone just sitting on the couch, chest heaving a little too much.

You think Jack's about to lunge for you and kiss you, run his hands over your body and take you back to that bed that's still yours and yours alone the way he did all the time when you were together. And Jack thinks you'd let him, thinks you'd happily give in, melt into him and let him worship you and apologize for ever letting you go and coax his name from your lips in the sweetest moans over and over.

But then you look away and clear your throat, convinced Jack wouldn't be doing it because he wants you but for one of a dozen other reasons your mind makes up. You reach for your phone on the coffee table and frown as you look at it and settle back into the couch. You won't let yourself look at Jack. You're not sure you want to see whatever it is that's written on his face, try not to think about all the things that could be.

Jack's face falls when you break eye contact with him, hurt and a kind of pain that cuts him deeper than he can admit to himself right now flashing over his features. He's not sure what he was thinking, why he thought now was the time. He just got caught up in the moment and convinced himself it felt right, that it was happening naturally and on both sides and could be the start of reuniting, of getting back together.

His expression turns to concern quickly though as he takes in your face while you look over your phone. "Everything okay?"

You swallow hard and shrug. You haven't looked at your phone since you went to call Jack when you first got to the Pitt. It's just not worth it. Looking at your phone has become more of a traumatizing ordeal than anything. Because your stalker just blows it up and it seems to have escalated dramatically now that he doesn't know where you are.

"I…" You shake your head and toss your phone at Jack because you don't even know where to begin. "Passcode's the same."

Jack shares another few seconds of eye contact with you before he grabs your phone. He can't see what the messages say yet but he sure sees the notification count. 738 messages. 243 missed calls. From one number.

Shaky fingers type in the passcode and start to go through the texts and Jack's head fucking spins at them all. They vacillate between threats and declarations of love and apologies and yelling at you and calling you names and asking you out on dates to make it all up to you.

"Jesus fucking christ," Jack breathes, runs a hand through his curls. After another thirty seconds of scrolling Jack locks your phone and sets it back on the couch between the two of you.

You're staring at the wall when Jack looks at you and he easily recognizes that you're completely and totally dissociated. He's seen you dissociate before of course, but there's something different about it this time that almost scares him. "Sweetheart?"

It doesn't break through and Jack lets out a strained breath. He's not irritated or annoyed or mad or anything like that. He's just worried, and his heart hurts at how badly he knows you're hurting and how scared he knows you are. And Jack knows there's no good way to get you back to him that won't startle you.

But he needs to.

He slides down the couch so he's next to you and grabs your hands, laces your fingers together with one hand and brings your other hand under his shirt and adjusts your fingers so that they're over one of his shrapnel scars a little above his hip and in. You and Jack had figured out this was the best way for him to get you back with him when this happened. You still startle but you calm much quicker with Jack's hand squeezing yours and your fingers feeling a scar you know is his.

"Sweetheart." Jack says it much louder, squeezes your hand hard but not enough to hurt you. This time it does get through to you and you flinch and take in an audible deep breath as a moment of disorientation and fear wash over you. "It's me, it's me. It's Jack. You're okay, you're safe."

Your eyes focus on Jack and you let the breath out slowly, nodding and squeezing his hand, your fingertips running over his scar. "Fuck," you breathe. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Jack shakes his head. The look in your eye and way you shrug tells Jack you don't want to dwell on it or talk about it and why it happened. So he doesn't ask or bring it up. "I know we talked about it a little at the hospital, but what's this guy doing? How far has he gone?"

"The phone stuff, blowing it up with calls and texts, emails. I block his number but he just gets a new one through google or whatever so it just doesn't stop." Your fingers stop over his scar and just rest there. It's so natural, something you did so often when you were together, trace his scars, that it doesn't really click in your mind how somewhat inappropriate it is for exes, for two people who are now just friends.

"Thinking back I swear I've seen him on campus once or twice, but I think that's just my mind looking for something else." You shrug. "Like I said, there's nothing that makes it explicitly clear it's him and nothing violent or that suggested violence like the photos maybe do." Jack bites his tongue to not interject that it's not a maybe. They suggest violence. They're a threat. A direct threat. "It was harassing and annoying and maybe a little scary, but it wasn't bad, I guess. Like I didn't go to the police or anything because there didn't seem like much of a reason. It just kind of escalated to… what was in the envelope overnight."

"When did you find it?" Jack asks gently, squeezing your hand. "And where?"

"Last night at my front door. I didn't go inside or anything," you shake your head. "I was too scared to. Luckily I had a really great uber driver who was going to wait until I got inside and when I told her she drove me to the hospital."

"Good," Jack nods. "Good. Do-"

"Jack, I'm sorry, but can we just… take a break? From talking about it." You look so mad at yourself after you say it and it kills Jack, as does you finally pulling your hands away from him. You shut your eyes and shake your head. "I know that's a shitty ask when I'm asking so much of you because of it. I should be willing to talk about it as much as you want."

"No." Jack squeezes your hand. "No. That's not how this works. You don't owe me anything or have to talk to me about it at length or when you don't want to."

You chew on the inside of your cheek for a few seconds and then look back at him. "Okay," you whisper.

Jack knows he needs a way to lighten things, to help get your mind off everything that's going on right now, or at least as much as possible. You guys can't, or shouldn't, really leave here and be out in public for too long, just in case. Watching TV doesn't really sound like enough right now and it's not like he can take you back to bed and fuck you and the two of you can just keep yourselves occupied in there all day.

But then it hits him and he gives you a lopsided smile. "You wanna do some yoga with me?"

Over the next few days you and Jack adjust to the situation you find yourselves in, both of you hesitant to call it a new normal, and your stalker continues to make it clear via text just how displeased and angry he is that he no longer knows where you live and isn't able to track you for long you once you leave school.

The biggest 'adjustment,' to put it lightly, is Jack switching with Robby to work day shifts until you figure this all out. It had come up that Saturday while you and Jack were having breakfast. Jack said he wanted to go see Robby and when you asked why Jack explained that he was going to see if Robby would switch and work nights for him so that he could be home every night with you. You said no at first. Absolutely not. That was way the fuck too much.

Internally, of course, you were fucking delighted at the idea and that Jack had the thought. It made you realize how much just the thought of Jack being home with you during the night relaxed you. But you couldn't ask him or Robby to do that, couldn't let them. It's just you. You don't deserve that kind of treatment, from anyone, much less them, especially after being gone for five years.

Somehow, though, Jack had brought you around. All he really had to do was let his true anxiety and fear about you being home alone at night show on his face and you were in. You couldn't stomach the thought of him being that anxious over you for his entire shift.

You know you can find ways to thank and apologize to and repay Jack and Robby for having to switch shifts and for fucking up their lives. There's absolutely no way to thank or apologize to Jack for making him suffer through that anxiety when he offered to do something simple to prevent it. There's no way you'd ever forgive yourself.

And so Jack and Robby switched shifts.

On Monday you start taking ubers to and from school, scheduled ones so that you know who the driver is in advance, and you've been going and will continue to go to the hospital every evening when you're done at school, regardless of whether Jack is working. You're able to find a picture of the guy and Jack makes sure everyone in the Pitt sees it, keeps a copy taped to the back of the break room door.

The hospital is a good place to get lost with all the entrances and exits and being able to be brought back into the actual Pitt by whoever happens to see you first. You switch where you enter and where you exit, leave wearing a different shirt or Jack's jacket and casual pants and shoes kept in his locker for you to change into. And Jack has been and will continue to be there each day to make the trip back to his place with you.

Your stalker blows your phone up even more. Every blocked number is so irritatingly and quickly replaced by a new one he gets from google voice. There's texts, hundreds and hundreds of texts spanning the spectrum of emotions, usually filled with anger and annoyance, but sometimes trying to be sweet and apologize like that'll work on you.

You haven't bothered blocking his latest number, have just turned off notifications for the number and let him go off. It's more work for you to keep blocking numbers. You know you can't delete the messages but you stop reading them because it just distresses you. But with your permission, Jack reads every single one each night.

The guy calls too, but less and less when he realizes you're not going to answer because he appears to realize he can't leave a voicemail, though you wonder to yourself how long that will last and when he'll start typing shit to have the computer read it out for him. He sends some stuff to your personal email and blows that up for a while, but seems to abandon it as you block each new email address so that he can focus on creating new numbers, and then never seems to pick emailing back up again after you just silence his current number.

Your stalker is smart enough to realize that he has to be a bit more chill at the school, probably realizes that you've talked with campus police and notices their increased presence around you and the building your office is in and the classrooms you teach in. But you can just feel him watching you at times when you're walking to and from class. A few times you've seen him, you know you have. By the time you can even pull your phone out for a photo, though, he's gone.

You're sure he knows by now that you went to the police. You and Jack went that Saturday after talking with Robby. You were able to go with an officer to your place on Saturday without Jack and pack some bags so that you had clothes and toiletries and things for work and your other electronics, and you're sure he was watching your place just hoping you'd come back alone.

It had been a whole elaborate thing on the way to Jack's to make sure the guy didn't trail you after you left your townhouse and end up finding out where you were staying and that you're staying with another man. You and Jack had decided it would be best to try and keep the guy from knowing about Jack's presence in your life for a number of reasons.

But other than that the police weren't particularly helpful. They told you that as of right now proving the identity of your stalker would require search warrants for google and ISPs and potentially reviewing hours and hours of security camera footage just for the guy to either never appear or be so well covered up you can't tell it's him. All of that takes time and manpower and this is Pittsburgh where the latter of those is in short supply, and with all the crime the city faces every day, your 'non-violent' and 'vaguely threatening' stalker isn't high on the priority list.

And you and Jack know it won't be unless and until you're injured or killed.

It absolutely fucking infuriates Jack.

Your stalker is unfortunately also smart enough to know that he can't outright threaten you constantly and that his threats generally need to be extremely subtle and written between the lines and phrased in terms that one could plausibly argue contain some other legitimate meaning. After the outright threatening nature of the photos he left you on Friday he doesn't explicitly threaten you again until Tuesday when you're walking accompanied by a campus police officer to the uber that'll take you to the hospital.

The longer you hide, my darling love, the longer my love will have to hurt you once I make you mine.

You only see it because it comes up as you're looking at your phone to confirm which car is your uber. And it's the only message you've received so far that you seriously consider deleting so that Jack doesn't see it because you know he'll lose his fucking mind over it.

And he does.

In a way it's adorable of him, how protective he gets, the way he paces to try and burn off some of the adrenaline and how he breathes harder with his jaw set and rolling, mouth in a line when he isn't voicing what he thinks about this guy and brainstorming ways to keep you safe. It's loving. It's how a boyfriend would react.

There's a couple of seconds there where you forget that you and Jack aren't together. This isn't your boyfriend pacing in front of you. You can't go fuck this out for lack of a better phrase, can't take him into the bedroom and help him relax and burn off that adrenaline and end soft and sweet and intensely intimate. You can't do anything other than try to verbally reassure him things will be okay.

It's around ten p.m. on Wednesday night and you and Jack are chilling on the couch and finishing up the bottle of wine you started while cooking and that you've been sharing since he got home. It was a long day for both of you, but especially for Jack. Today was Jack's first shift since you showed up at the Pitt on Saturday a little past one in the morning. It was his first day shift in he can't remember how long.

It was rough. Not so much the shift itself, nothing of great note happened and he enjoys his day shift colleagues, but the missing you and the worrying about you and the not being able to have his phone on loud and know he could run to you the second he needed to if something happened. That was rough, to say the least. 

He held his breath every time Dana told him an ambulance was on its way, just waiting for the time she said a professor at CMU was viciously attacked or stabbed or shot. Sitting on the couch now he realizes he doesn't even know off the top of his head if CMU is in the Pitt's catchment, if you'd even be brought to him if something like that happened. He needs to find out.

The two of you finally got to the conversation about your love lives tonight, talked about what it was like for the last five years. You've spent the last hour or so sharing stories about the cringe worthy first and second dates you went on over the last five years. You'd touched briefly on your romantic histories at breakfast on Saturday but nothing overly specific. You both know far more now.

Jack didn't really consistently see anyone, didn't really try to. He'd go out on one or two dates, maybe three and inevitably break it off, a few developed into something closer to friends with benefits, with friends being a loose term. It was more someone known and safe where there was enough attraction and good sex. Jack doesn't tell you but he just couldn't do it. He couldn't date someone who wasn't you. It took him a while to be able to have sex with someone who wasn't you and it had to be with someone he didn't really have any feelings for, it had to be meaningless, about stress relief and feeling good and distraction and that's it.

Like Jack you had a few friends with benefits, but yours were closer to true friends, guys from your university who were in your friend group or your friend group's orbit who were known and safe and you were attracted to enough for there to be good sex that was understood to be meaningless and for stress relief and to feel good and be distracted and nothing more. It had taken you longer to even try dating and to have sex than it took Jack.

But unlike Jack, you did consistently see a few guys long enough to reach the define the relationship conversation. Only one survived that conversation and was labeled a relationship where you called him your boyfriend and he got to call you his girlfriend. You were only together for seven or eight months, and when Jack asks you're candid and share that he told you that he loved you, but you never said you loved him because you didn't, and ultimately that's why you broke up. You knew you would never love him.

Still. It's hard for Jack to hear. It's hard to know that another man got to share a bed with you for seven or eight months, got to fuck you and make love to you and kiss you and hold you for seven or eight months. Got to call you his for five or six or seven or however many months. He knows he shouldn't be relieved that you didn't love the guy, that he should want you to be happy, whoever that's with. But he wants you to be happy with him. He can't help the jealousy that works its way through him.

And it's fucked up and Jack knows it but it hurts that you wanted that. That you were able to do it, to date someone who wasn't him, to be in a relationship with someone who wasn't him. It doesn't feel like betrayal or like you cheated on him, you very clearly weren't together, and he doesn't hold it against you or think anything less of you for it, he isn't hurt by you. He's jealous. And he knows it. He knows that's what he's feeling.

There's a lull in the conversation as you split the rest of the wine between your two glasses and both of you take a few sips.

Jack breaks the comfortable silence as he sets his glass down and watches you take another sip. "Can I ask you something?"

You smile at him softly and it's almost enough to make his mind go blank and reset. Almost. "Of course."

"Why didn't you call me when you moved back?"

It's a fair question. You know it is. And he's asking it with genuine curiosity, you can tell. He's not trying to be a dick, and while you can tell there's hurt to it and can hear the pain and self-doubt and sadness behind his words, and can put the pieces together fast enough to realize that your conversation helped bring this on, you know it's not meant to make you feel bad or to hurt you because he's hurting. It's not vindictive.

It's a question you've asked yourself a thousand times.

The worst part is that you don't have a great answer, you don't have any answer other than, effectively, you were a coward. You were too scared to. You love him enough that you wanted him to be happy and fulfilled and being actively loved and getting to love someone back even if it wasn't you. You were just terrified you'd find out that he was happy and in love with someone who wasn't you.

You were terrified you'd find out Jack had replaced you.

You were terrified you'd find out you were replaceable to the one and only person who ever truly mattered.

And that's not a fair characterization, you know, and it's not what it truly would've been, you know, but it's how your heart and your brain and your soul would've taken it and the move and total life upheaval again and all of the change had you even more fragile. So your mind just paralyzed you so that you couldn't. It didn't matter that you might have found him single and wanting you back, your brain in some sort of weird self-preservation wouldn't let you risk it.

You swallow your sip and set your glass down, take another twenty seconds to try to organize your thoughts and formulate an answer.

"I was scared," you finally whisper. "I was scared of finding you happily married, maybe with kids, or happily in a relationship."

Jack nods slowly. So it's not that you don't want to be with him again. That you just weren't interested. He's not sure if that would've hurt more or less because now he just kind of feels like he wasn't worth it. He wasn't enough. "Finding out I was single wasn't worth the risk?"

Your face falls and you tilt your head at him slowly before straightening it back out. It's another fair question. It's another fair question that's asked out of curiosity and not spite or to be mean and that's even more loaded with self-doubt than the first.

But it’s impossible for your mind not to read him blaming you into the question. "Don't. Please don't do that Jack. Don't blame me. Don't make me feel worse than I already do, about everything. I'm not asking you questions like that. It's not that you weren't worth the risk. It wasn't that at all. You were and you are and I, I, it's not that I didn't want to be with you again either, or that I don't want to, it's not, it's, it's… It's not that I didn't want to call you, I did, I constantly did. I was just paralyzed by my anxiety and fear. I couldn't, I didn't know if I'd survive finding out I'd been replaced. I was scared. I was fucking scared. I don't know how to explain it. I was frozen Jack. I couldn't, no matter how much I wanted to. I know I would've once I was feeling better, once I had come out of it a bit and was more settled, I just, I, I needed time. I needed time."

The question rolls off his tongue before he can stop it.

"How much time?"

It shatters you.

"I don't know Jack, I don't know. I don't know how much time." Tears hit your eyes and are so obvious in your voice and you know your reaction is out of proportion. You know it's not even him or his questions that are hurting you but your own internal voice and thoughts about yourself that the questions trigger. You know your reaction is ridiculous and dramatic and way the fuck too much but you just… have it.

"Please, Jack, don't. Please don't. I get it, I do. I know. I know I fucked up, I know I fucked up when I even started contemplating actually going over there, and then I fucked up more when I even contemplated it once I knew it would mean we would break up. I know I fucked up every day I didn't quit and come home to you. I know I fucked up by not calling you or trying to find you as soon as I got back, and I know I fucked up trying to see other people and landing us in this whole mess."

"I know I fucked up, I know I constantly fucked up, I hate myself for it all the fucking time, I don't need you hating me for it too. I wrote to you every single fucking day, Jack. I kept journals, diaries, but instead of 'Dear Diary' every entry was 'Dear Jack,'" your voice breaks over his name, tears finally starting to stream down your face, "and I have them all. Five years and however many months and days worth, I fucking have them all. You can read them, they're at my place, we can bring them over. I know how it must feel like I'm using you and how unfair of me it was to just show up and drop this all on you and ask you for your help and how unfair it is for you to take me in like a helpless stray and change your fucking work schedule, I know how unfair it was, it is, and I hate myself for that too. So please, Jackie, I know. I fucking know. I know and I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry for all of it. I, I, I know and I…"

You sniffle, wipe away the tears just for them to be replaced and then take in a deep shuddery breath and let it out. "I'm sorry," you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. You sound crushed and defeated and resigned. You sound like you truly hate yourself like you just said. It makes Jack nauseous. He didn't want this. He didn't mean to cause any of this. "I'll get out of your hair as much as possible tomorrow, be out of here and take as much of my stuff as I can, come back for the rest at some point that works for you. Thank you for everything Jack and for how truly above and beyond you've gone for me, with all of this and when we were together. For whatever it's worth I really do, and will, cherish these few days we had together. I'll um, I'll leave my key under the mat."

Jack's eyes widen and his face falls as he takes in all of your words and watches tears start to fall and you rush toward the bedrooms.

"Woah, hey. Hey." He sits up quickly as he calls your name, grabs his crutches and starts standing to go after you. "Sweetheart! Please come back and talk."

He crutches forward a few steps but stops when he hears a door shut. You need space, some time to yourself before you talk again. He knows. He recognizes the signs. So as much as he's desperate to follow you and hold you and talk it out with you, he sits back down on the couch.

Jack feels awful. He truly does. He never meant for his original question to become this, to make you run off feeling awful and like you need to leave. That's the absolute fucking last thing he wants. But as he reflects on what just happened and what he said and how he felt when he said it, Jack realizes that subconsciously, yeah, he was probably trying to make you hurt a little bit the way that hearing you had a boyfriend, someone serious in your life who wasn't him, hurt him. 

While he can honestly say it wasn't his conscious intent, he still should've caught himself, should've thought about his words and the context and how he was saying them and how they'd make you feel more than he did.

His head also spins with everything you said. He hates the fact that it seems like you think and feel, at least sometimes, like all you did was fuck up over the last five years. Like every choice you made was wrong. Like it was all your fault and you were the only one who made choices and decisions relating to your relationship and potentially getting back together over the last five years. Because it wasn't just you. It was him. He could've quit at the beginning or he could've quit and gone to you at any time.

He hates that you think this, coming to him and staying with him once your stalker escalated, is somehow using him and unfair. He hates that you hate yourself for doing it because he is so fucking glad you did, that he can help protect you. He hates that you think of yourself like a helpless stray, because you're not. You're so overwhelmingly not, and Jack really hopes that you don't think he sees you like that and that he doesn't make you feel like you are.

And Jack hates the fact that you hate yourself all the time, for anything, but especially for what happened between the two of you and you coming to him for help. He hates it so much his skin itches and it's almost hard to breathe. He can't stand the thought of you thinking about yourself like that, of you being in that much psychological and emotional pain, because Jack gets it, he understands what it's like to hate yourself. And he never wants you to hate yourself, never wants you to feel like that.

Then there's the journals. The revelation that you wrote to him every fucking day for the last five years and however many months and days. He is desperate to read them, wonders what you had to say to him every day, how you wrote to him when you were in a relationship, if your words will make him laugh or cry, if they're short little entries or longer ones. Jack ruminates on them while he gives you space.

You stare at the spare bed for a moment before walking over to it. It's made again. You haven't slept in it since that first night when you only did for a couple of hours. After that first night it was just one of those unspoken things like you sleeping in the spare room had been originally.

The justifications are unspoken, it's safer and it lets you both sleep better. You haven't cuddled like you did that first night, haven't been close like that and snuggled up together. Not deliberately or consciously, at least, but you always end up waking up curled into each other somehow, drawn to each other in your sleep.

You pull the comforter and sheets back and slide in, roll onto your side and curl in on yourself as you start to cry silently. All the things you said to Jack that you feel are amplified right now, swirling through your mind so fast all you are is one big ball of sadness and anxiety and self-hate and worthlessness. It's hard to even organize your thoughts with how loud they scream at you but somehow you're able to hear and feel every single one of them.

Tears are still streaming down your face intermittently when there's a knock on the door and a quiet call of your name. You don't say anything, a move that makes you feel like even more of an asshole and a childish one at that. Jack opens the door and uses the light from the hallway to look at you. Your back is to the door, your breathing fairly even. And you're still. Still enough that from the doorway Jack can't quite tell if you're asleep.

He leaves the hall light on for now and the door open a crack so just enough light trickles into the spare room. He crutches over to the empty side of the bed and sets his crutches aside, slides in behind you. You're awake. He can just tell now that he's closer to you. You're not necessarily pretending to be asleep, you're just being quiet and still.

Jack knows you'll tell him if you want him to stop so he feels comfortable getting closer to you. He slides further over toward you, his top arm wrapping around your tummy and pulling you back into him gently as he presses himself up against the back of you, spooning you from behind.

You don't respond because you don't know what to say. Instead you respond with touch, move your top arm and grab the hand of Jack's top arm that's wrapped around you, hold onto it and tuck his arm under yours, guide his hand to your chest and lace your fingers through the back of his and hold your hands there.

"I'm sorry," Jack whispers, kissing the top of the back of your head. "Please, please don't hate yourself Sweetheart. And please don't blame yourself, for anything relating to us and to this situation." The words are truly and genuinely begged. Jack is begging you. "I don't want that. I don't want that at all. I don't blame you and I certainly don't hate you. I never could."

"I never meant to make it seem like I blamed you for anything or like I resented you or like I wanted you to blame yourself. I know that doesn't mean I didn't make you feel like that and stir up those emotions, I just want you to know it wasn't intentional, that I wasn't trying to be mean. I'm very sorry my words hurt you and I can easily see how they would've made you feel like I was blaming you or thought you'd fucked up."

Jack takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "If I'm honest with myself I can admit that I think there was a piece of me that was subconsciously trying to be a bit dick-ish because I was hurting after hearing about your relationship. But I promise that I wasn't consciously trying to hurt you even though I know I did. I didn't think about what I said before I said it or about how I said it. I'm truly sorry and I hope you can forgive me."

"It wasn't you," you whisper. "It wasn't you. I appreciate you coming and apologizing and if you need my forgiveness I forgive you but it wasn't you, Jackie. You have nothing to apologize for, I don't feel like you have anything to apologize for. You didn't say anything mean, you asked simple questions. You didn't blame me. I was twisting your words because of how I feel. You and your words didn't cause any of this. I've been feeling like this and telling myself everything I just said or at least parts of it for the last five years. It's been constant since I moved back." You pause for a second and squeeze Jack's hand, his lips pressing another soft kiss over your hair in return.

"I know you don't blame me, but I blame me." You let go of Jack's hand and scoot away from him, roll over to your other side so you can see him, your bodies naturally coming together, Jack's arms wrapped around how you both need and want. You're teary and the small, albeit somewhat sad smile drops from Jack's face almost instantly. You take a shuddery breath in, lips and chin trembling as you shrug. "And I don't know how to forgive myself or let it go or move past it. I'm sorry Jack, I'm so so sorry. I'm sorry for everything, for all of it. I'm so sorry."

Jack brings his hand up to your face and wipes away some of the tears even though they're quickly replaced. He makes sure he has your eye contact or at least the best he can through your tears. "I forgive you," Jack murmurs firmly but with all the warmth and softness and love in the world. "I don't think you have anything to apologize for and I don't blame you for anything, but I know you need to hear this. I forgive you." He leans his head forward and kisses your forehead before settling back and looking at you again. "I forgive you and I want you to forgive yourself. And I'm going to help you get there."

Your tears finally become audible as you start crying properly again. You shake your head at Jack because you hate that you're like this, that you're just crying instead of talking more because your head is too fuzzy from your previous crying and the thoughts flying around and the wine.

"It's okay," he whispers. You know exactly what he means, that even though there's still more to talk about, it's okay that the talking has ended for tonight, that he knows it was a long day for you and it was for him too, that he knows you're both tired and struggling with your emotions more because of it and that it's better to continue this conversation when you're both fresher. "Come here."

Jack's arms wrap around you a little tighter and you naturally move further into him, your head tucked just under his chin as you cry into him again. He holds you through it, steady and unwavering as he rubs your back and whispers little reassurances and squeezes you to let you know he's there with you. That he's got you, no matter what you are to each other.

He gives you a couple of minutes of silence once you stop crying to let you settle before speaking. "Come to bed with me?" Jack murmurs. "Please."

You nod against him. "Yes please," you whisper back to him.

The two of you force yourselves to separate and make your way into Jack's bedroom. You both get ready for bed quickly and then turn off the lights and slide into Jack's bed, meeting in the middle. And just like that first night you snuggle into each other, little, if any, space between you. You fall asleep in Jack's arms again, the lines of what exactly you and Jack are to each other right now blurrier than ever.

Friday night finds you and Jack in bed laying on your sides chatting.

There hasn't been much change with your stalker and his behaviors. You and Jack are both thankful for that and that there hasn't been an escalation. Or at least not a provable one. You're sure he's been on campus watching you more but you can't prove it so it leaves you feeling like a paranoid mess, which is probably what he wants.

You try to ignore it once you get home, distract yourself with Jack and making dinner and baking him his favorites and anything to get your mind off it.

"So you're actually liking day shift?" you smirk at him, eyebrows raising a touch.

You both know there's probably something a little too intimate about laying in bed together like this on your sides and chatting, even with all the space in between you and the way you're not touching at all. You guys can't help it. You end up like this naturally. You did yesterday and nothing really happened so you tell yourselves it's fine, you're just talking, winding down before bed, only the soft glow of the warm toned light-bulb Jack keeps in his bedside lamp illuminating the room.

But unlike yesterday you both start to move closer to the other every time you speak. It's subconscious and not something either of you even realize is happening. 

It's leading somewhere, to something even the universe is surprised has taken this long to happen.

"I am," Jack laughs. "It's been a refreshing change of pace."

"Yeah?" Your smirk deepens as you laugh with him.

"Yeah," he nods, laughter trailing off into a smile that steals your breath. "And I like that it gives me more time with you. Or at least it feels like it does right now."

"Jack," you giggle, "that is so not a reason to like a shift."

He tuts at you. "Abso-fucking-lutely it is!"

It's not that neither of you realize exactly what Jack's words about day shift giving him more time with you mean. It's that the meaning is so natural, so obvious and true and makes so much sense with what the two of you have together that it's just not something that strikes you.

But the thing is, you both seem to be forgetting the two of you don't have that together anymore. That you're not together, not a couple.

Since Wednesday night the tension between you and Jack has started to break like a sheet of ice over a pond, cracks forming just beneath the surface that strain to keep separation between water and air. Between you and Jack.

You roll your eyes at him playfully, close enough now that your legs tangle with Jack's. "You're ridiculous."

Jack continues moving closer, your thighs pressing against each other's and then your lower abdomens, and then your upper abdomens, the two of you pressed together and cuddling like you used to when you were lovers. You couldn't get any closer and still be able to easily see all of each other's faces as you chat. Jack pulls his lips down in consideration, raises his eyebrows, eyes glinting mischievously, but in a way that tells you he means it and is being serious. "Might ask Robby to make it permanent."

"You love the night shift." You shiver when Jack drapes his arm over your side and starts running his index finger up and down your spine. "You'd resent me for making you change after a while."

"You're not making me do anything. It would be my choice." Jack's head moves closer to yours and you rest your top hand along the crook of his neck, thumb brushing absentmindedly over his skin. "And we'd have to try to actually work it out, but if day shift gave me more time with you then I'd easily love it more than the night shift."

"Yeah?" you breathe, everything finally hitting your conscious mind at once. Your head only moves closer to Jack's in response.

Jack's conscious mind is hit by it all at the same time, his heart starting to race at how close yet how achingly far away his lips are from yours. "Yeah," he whispers as you both move your heads in to close the last of the distance.

Your lips hover a millimeter apart for a few seconds ghosting over each other with breaths that are hot against sensitive skin before they brush a little more firmly, something you can really feel as you both whisper another "yeah."

You and Jack finally kiss, soft and short and sweet. Your foreheads rest against each other's for a second before you both pull back just enough to look the other in the eyes.

And then the tension shatters around you, and you and Jack are finally kissing.

Kissing like you used to. Kisses that are gentle and achingly loving and lingering building into kisses that are hungry and needy and passionate building into kisses that are hard and consuming and possessive.

The first time Jack's tongue slides into your mouth and he lets out one of those groans from deep in his chest that says I love you so fucking much and always will just as loudly as it says I fucking need you and to be inside of you it's like everything falls back into place in your world, and it's exactly the same for Jack when you moan into his mouth and wordlessly say the same exact thing. Everything is okay again. Happiness feels real again. You think you could make it through anything again.

Jack lets you into his mouth, sucks on your tongue because he fucking can and because he knows you like it, nips and sucks on your bottom lip for the same reason. Your hands roam each other, rub and tease at all the right spots because you still have each other memorized. When your hand finds the curls at the nape of his neck and tug Jack needs more, knows you need more too.

It's natural the way Jack rolls you onto your back in the middle of the bed while still kissing you, still pulling the sweetest sighs and hums from you. Your legs wrap around him to keep him close and open yourself up for him further. It lets you both get more friction when your hips start to grind and roll against each other's.

After who knows how long you slide your hands under his shirt, let them glide over firm muscle that's covered by the perfect amount of softness that's always driven you insane, that you've nibbled on and sucked hickeys into hundreds of times. The fabric comes with you as you move your hands up Jack's chest and he gets the picture, shifts to support his body weight on his knees while your legs drop off him so that he can reach back and pull his shirt off like you're silently asking him to.

There's hardly any time to truly appreciate him and his body in earnest because his abs are strong enough that he can stay low and hold himself up without his arms to get his shirt off. You'd whine about it but Jack's lips are back on yours claiming you again, and his warm, smooth skin and the muscles you can feel rippling beneath it make it all better.

When you both need more air than you can get while kissing each other Jack moves his lips to your neck. As you try to catch your breath while he lavishes your neck with kisses it hits you. 

You fucking can't. You cannot do this.

"Jack," you breathe out. You move your hands to his chest and push gently. "We, we have to stop, we can't…."

"What?" he asks in a breath of his own as he pulls his head from your neck. He sits back on his knees between your legs, always a man to stop and get off you first and ask questions second. "What's wrong?"

You look up at him and open your mouth to say something but no words come out. It's unusual, and it almost never happens, or it almost never happened in at least the last two years you were together, but Jack can't read the look in your eyes. He can't tell what this is.

Jack lets the confusion wash over his face, brows furrowed as he cocks his head at you and shakes it slightly. "I, I have condoms and I'm clean if that's what you're worried about."

You shake your head slowly, tears filling your eyes and something Jack easily recognizes as heartbreak and emotional pain pulling onto your face. "It's not that Jack," you whisper. "We can't because I, in the morning we'll, I'll…" You have no idea why you can't find the words to finish your sentence and explain how you feel.

But you don't need to say anything else. It clicks in his mind.

"Oh," Jack whispers.

Regret. That's the look in your eyes that he couldn't place, couldn't read, regret. Because you've never looked at him with regret, like he's something or someone you could regret until now. A pain so sharp he can't breathe for a minute hits his heart, his stomach in a knot and head fuzzy as the blow emotionally levels him.

"Wow," Jack finally breathes. You don't think you've ever heard him sound so hurt and it destroys you, tears falling immediately because you did that. You hurt him like that. You made him feel like that. Other than the slight creak of the bed and the sheets rustling as Jack moves away from you to the edge of the bed so that his back is to you the room is silent and still. Tears line Jack's eyes as he forces the words out. Forces himself to acknowledge it. "I didn't think I'd ever be something you could regret. A mistake."

"What?" you whisper, genuine confusion and horror in your tone.

"We have to stop and you can't because you'll regret this in the morning, that's what you were going to say. Regret being with me. Regret me." Jack thinks he might actually be sick as the tears start to fall, is so breathless and having such deep pain in his chest he's worried he might actually be having a heart attack. "Fuck, wow. That… That hurts."

"No!" you gasp, the shock still running its way through your system. "No. No, no, no, no." You sit up and scramble to sit on your knees next to him at the edge of the bed. "Oh my god, Jack no! No. That's not why, that's not why at all." You've started to shake, watching Jack's heart break in front of you something you'll never be able to unsee or unhear. When you broke up you'd both managed to keep it together until you parted, fell apart and let your hearts break in private. But Jack's just broke right in front of you.

Tears that match Jack's own stream down your face as you beg him. "Look at me, please. Please, Jack." It takes him a second but he does, looks at you without trying to hide a single emotion on his face because he knows it would be futile, that he couldn't right now. "Never," you breathe, shaking your head at him. You take his head in your hands and hold his gaze as intensely as ever. "I could never regret you. You could never be a mistake. Please know that. I'm sorry for making it seem and feel otherwise for even a second. I'm so sorry, Jackie. But that is not what I meant, I promise. There is no part of me that could ever regret you, regret being with you and loving you."

Jack's lips tremble and a cascade of tears fall down his cheeks before he leans his head into one of your hands, your words and how desperate and panicked you look for him to believe you reassuring him that this has been some sort of miscommunication.

"That's what I thought," he whispers. "That's how you always made me feel, like you could never regret me and that's why it hurt so badly. I shouldn't have assumed, shouldn't have put words in your mouth."

"It's okay," you murmur. Jack nods his head in the direction of the headboard and shifts, gets comfortable sitting up and leaning against it. You crawl onto his lap, wrap your legs around him between his back and the headboard and hug him. He hugs you back just as tightly, holds the back of your head to keep you close. "It's okay, Jackie."

The two of you sit like that for a while, soak up each other's presence and closeness and heal so many pieces that neither of you thought you'd ever be able to.

It's Jack who breaks the silence praying his curiosity won't ruin everything. "If it's not that… I respect you saying no and that we have to stop and I'm not pushing you for anything or to start again and I recognize you don't owe me an explanation so you don't have to answer of course, but why…? Why we can't do this again?"

You pull out of the hug and look at him, hopeless and helpless almost. You start to move and Jack thinks he's ruined everything but you just move back off his lap so that you're sitting between his legs, your calves still on top of his thighs.

"I just, I said we can't because… It's me, Jack." You shrug at him as tears hit your eyes again. "I'm not strong enough for this. I don't want you to regret this in the morning. And I don't want you to be doing this because you feel bad for me or feel bad in general or because you're tired and your judgment lapsed or because I'm here and comfortable and familiar and sex is good stress relief or because of some sort of trauma bonding thing that's happening and bringing us together for a short time."

You shake your head at him, crying and looking devastated in the most beautiful way that makes Jack want to sob. "I can't do this casually with you, Jack. I can't just be friends with benefits and two people having sex and almost playing house because of circumstance. I know we're halfway there and just the playing house alone is killing me slowly I think. I need the divide, the intimacy divide. So I can't do this and have there not be an us. I can't do this and not have you, for real. Like I used to. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, I just can't. I promise you it has nothing to do with regret though, Jack. I could never regret you."

"I just couldn't survive our casual arrangement ending and losing you again. I barely survived losing you the first time, Jack, and I never got over you." You sniffle, wipe away some of your tears just for them to be replaced. "I'm still hopelessly and completely in love with you Jack. So I can't do this, I can't be with you casually until all of this passes and then we just go back to strangers who know each other far too well. I can't do this and not be in a relationship with you, not be yours again and get to call you mine and show you and tell you I love you."

"And there's way too much going on for you to be able to decide with any clarity whether getting back together with me, truly getting back together, is something you'd want or would be good for you and your life. It's not fair of me to ask you to make that decision right now. So I'm sorry." Your lips and chin tremble as you take in a deep, shuddery breath and let it out, tears flooding your cheeks again as you do. "I'm so sorry, Jack."

It's quiet for a few seconds as Jack lets all your words sink in. And then he gives you the quietest breathed out laugh because this is so fucking silly of you and you're so fucking cute and precious and worried for no fucking reason and he gets it, he so fucking gets it because he feels the exact same way and he just loves you so much.

"Sweetheart," he whispers. Jack tilts his head at you and licks his lips before giving you an empathetic smile. "First of all, you never need to apologize to me or anyone else for having a boundary and setting it and enforcing it, okay?"

You nod and sniffle again, wipe away some of your tears as you try to pull it together. Jack leans forward and grabs his shirt from up near the other pillow where he tossed it after he pulled it off and offers it to you as a handkerchief. You huff a laugh and smile all watery at him as you take it and use it and Jack thinks he has to be glowing at how good and how proud he feels for making you smile and laugh, as small as they were.

"Second of all," he continues on, "I could never regret you either. You are the best thing I could ever do, will have ever done.” Jack gives you a little wink. "In all senses."

"Third, this, what we were just doing, kissing and working towards foreplay and sex, it was never casual or just sex to me. With everything else going on, how we were talking and interacting, how we have been since you moved back in," that's a little Freudian slip because you haven't really technically moved back in, "this was us getting back together. For me this was us getting back together. And I very much should've clarified that and asked you and not assumed you just knew and felt and thought the same way as me, but that's what this was. For me this was the start of you getting to call me yours and me getting to call you mine again."

"And fourth," Jack has to laugh a little at how adorable you are wiping your nose and face with his shirt and then looking at him so earnest and concerned and in love. "You think I'm not hopelessly and completely in love with you still? You really think there's any question in my mind about whether I want to be in a relationship with you again? A question about whether I want us again and to call you mine and be called yours?"

"Because there's not," he shakes his head, smiling widely at you, though it falters a little with tears you know are of love and happiness. "Wanting this, wanting you and us again, it's not because of trauma bonding or because you're here and familiar and comforting, though you are. It's because I am so goddamn out of my fucking mind in love with you. And I want to get to tell you that I love you again, get to show you again, and I want to wake up and have the privilege of loving you and on you every day for the rest of my life."

"I've lost over five years with you and I don't need to lose a second more thinking about whether I want you as mine again and whether I'm doing this for the right reasons because the answer is yes. You know how many times I thought about quitting or taking a leave of absence and going to you and begging you to take me back and for us to figure it out? Too many to fucking count. There hasn't been a single day that has gone by since we broke up that I haven't thought about you and haven't wanted you back."

Jack drops his voice a little, a heartfelt if not slightly anxious smile pulling onto his features. "But you have a lot going on too and it would be hard for you to make that decision with clarity. I don’t want you to feel like you have to or like I’m taking advantage of you and how you're feeling and where you're at emotionally. I respect you saying no. I don't want you to think you have to do this for me, have sex or get back together with me, in order for me to help you and protect you because you don't. You absolutely fucking don't. If you want to get back together, like you do with me, I want it to be for the right reasons and not-"

You toss Jack's shirt to the side and shift, climb back onto Jack's lap properly and shut him up with a lingering kiss that turns into several. "I love you too. I always have and I always will. There hasn't been a single day since we broke up that I didn't love you. I can show you the journals. I didn't always say it explicitly but I'm pretty sure it's there in the words," you murmur.

"I want to be yours again. I want you to be mine again. I never didn't want to be yours Jack, and the number of times I almost quit and came back for you is probably concerning," you laugh softly. "I wanted to find you as soon as I got back but I was too controlled by my fear of finding you with someone else or married with kids or whatever. I'm sorry I didn't call you the second I landed, shit, the second I took the job and knew I'd be coming back."

"I haven't said anything or tried to instigate something or anything like that because I didn't want you to feel forced or like any of the other things we talked about. But I've been dying for this, Jackie. For us to be back together." You kiss one of his cheeks. "For me to be yours again and you to be mine." A kiss to his other cheek. "For you." You kiss his lips chastely. "I've been dying for you, Jack."

"You want to be together again?" Jack just has to double check. "You want to be us again?"

"Yeah," you giggle, nodding at him. "To both. Do you?"

Jack laughs, his hands coming up to hold your face. "Yeah, I do."

You and Jack smile at each other for half a second and then your lips are on each other's again, picking up right where you left off. It's a little more hurried this time, each of you loving this but desperate for Jack to be inside of you.

He sits up onto his knees carefully and repositions the two of you so that you're beneath him again, your head comfortably against a pillow as he grinds down into you, his mouth claiming yours until you have to pull away from him a little to catch your breath. Jack uses the time you need to catch your breath to pull your shirt and pajama shorts off so fast you've barely processed your shirt coming off by the time Jack has your legs in front of him and resting against his shoulders as he pulls your shorts off and sets your legs back on either side of him like they were putting you on full display for him.

Jack's eyes run over your body greedily, his chest starting to heave because fucking look at you. "God, fuck!" he groans, palming his cock over his pajama pants as he stares down at you, at all of you. "All five years did was make you get even more beautiful for me. Look at you. Your beautiful face. Your fucking tits and pussy, so perfect just like the rest of you, fuck. I'm so fucking lucky."

"You're one to talk," you breathe out, eyes raking over the half of Jack's body revealed to you just as greedily. "You're so handsome it's almost painful Jack. And the salt and pepper and the white stubble."

"And the crow's feet?" Jack drags his eyes up to yours and smirks at you.

You laugh softly and lick your lips. "You won't believe me but yes. Fucking yes. I find them so hot, you have no fucking idea."

He teasingly rolls his eyes at you and goes to lean back over you to kiss you again and grind into you more but you stop him. "Nu-uh, Sir. Take your pants off."

Jack clenches his jaw, you calling him sir and the needy, desperate look in your eyes making him leak for you. "Anything for you, Sweetheart." He works his pants off and tosses them aside, gives you what you want and pushes up so he's standing on his knees and you can take him in.

Your eyes roam him just as greedily as his did yours, and you can feel yourself get wetter for him. "Fuck, Jack," you moan. "Look at you." Even with your legs spread enough to accommodate his frame you can start to feel your heartbeat in between them.

You lean up on one elbow and reach out with your other arm and take Jack's cock in your hand, stroke him up and down slowly, twisting at his head how you know he loves. He feels good in your hand and it makes you realize how badly you need him in your mouth.

"You, you gotta stop, Sweetheart," Jack groans a laugh. "I'll embarrass myself and come way too fast for you. Being inside of you again is already going to be challenging."

"I don't care," you hum, but let him pull your hand away from his cock. "Just as long as I get to feel you inside of me."

"You're very sweet." Jack leans back over you and goes to kiss you again, his hand wrapping around your wrist and pinning it to the bed. "But I care," he murmurs against your lips.

He moves his hand off your wrists and brings it down between the two of you, shifts so that he's on his side a bit, one arm planted and taking some of his body weight for you as the fingers of his other hand nudge your clit.

"Oh." The word is almost all air as Jack's fingers start playing with your clit, teasingly diving down closer to your pussy every few strokes. "Jack, fuck!"

"So wet for me already," Jack whispers at your ear as he starts to kiss your neck, suck and nip at it in the places he knows are the most sensitive for you. He starts circling one of his fingers around your entrance teasingly, will barely dip inside and smile against your skin when you buck your hips as much as you can to try to get him inside of you. He can feel how hard you clench when his finger starts to dip inside. "Relax for me, Sweetheart."

"Jesus Jack," you laugh through a moan. "How the fuck do you expect me to do that when you're teasing me with your fingers?"

"I believe in you."

You have absolutely no explanation for why that's one of the hottest things Jack's ever said to you but it sure fucking is, sends a bolt of pleasure up your spine and makes you clench even harder for a second. Your eyes flutter closed and you focus on relaxing, focus on staying relaxed when Jack's finger starts to push inside of you, your mind fixating on the praise you hope to earn.

"Mm," Jack hums in approval as he starts to pull his finger out. He starts to finger you properly, crooks his finger and drags it just where he needs to. His lips find yours for something soft, that barely counts as a kiss. "See, I knew you could do it." He gives you a kiss this time, followed by what you were so hoping to hear. "My good girl."

As he says it he slips a second finger inside of you with the first and you jolt for him, eyes flying open at the rush of pleasure his two thick fingers bring you when they work that spongy spot inside of you so insistently before starting to fuck you again. He keeps at it, works you so perfectly and has you teetering so close to the edge before he finally puts his palm flat for you and lets you grind your clit up against it.

"Jack," you pant, stilling your hips so your clit doesn't grind against his palm as hard anymore. "Jackie I'm so close, I'm so… You're so good, make me feel so good."

"I know you are Sweetheart." He kisses along your jaw, starts to suck and lave at one of the most sensitive spots you have just below and slightly behind your ear. "Come for me."

"No." You shake your head and wrap your hand around as much of his wrist as possible to stop his movements. "The first place I'm coming for you after five years is on your cock Jack Abbot."

Jack chokes out a groaned laugh, his cock throbbing against him and smearing precum over his abs at your words. "Jesus fuckin' christ, Sweetheart."

"Jackie," you pout, play into it for him a little. "Please! I need you inside me. Need your cock inside of me."

He shivers at the thought, can't believe he's about to be again and not just in his dreams. "Alright, shh, I've got you." Jack pulls his fingers from you, moans when he sucks them clean and gets his first taste of you in five years.

You can see it in his eyes, know what he's thinking about. "Later," you pant. "You can eat me out later. I need you to fuck me, Jack. No condom unless you want. I'm clean and still on birth control." Both you and Jack are struck by how inadvertently heady your words are, the thought of him fucking you raw and coming inside of you making both of you a little dizzy for a second. "I need you inside of me, need you back where you belong, please."

"I know," he soothes, "I know, I'm gonna give it to you, I promise. Tell me if you need me to stop or slow down, okay?" 

You bite your bottom lip and nod and Jack adjusts both of you, slides his cock through you a few times to get himself slick. He notches himself at your entrance so all he has to do is press in steadily and claim you again.

Before he does he slides his arms under your shoulders and takes your face in his hands so gently. He holds your face like that and the two of you hold eye contact as Jack sinks inside of you, the stretch exactly what you remember, almost too much but also almost not enough, intoxicating and addictive, words that also describe how your pussy feels to Jack.

"Fuck Sweetheart," Jack groans, raw and vulnerable almost, so clearly holding nothing back and letting you hear exactly how you make him feel.

"Jack!" you gasp, your breath stolen by so many things, the size of Jack, the way he feels so familiar, how right it feels to have him sliding back inside of you, how good him just being inside of you makes you feel. "JackJackJack."

"Oh god, I missed you," Jack rasps, his chest heaving. He couldn't describe this, how good he feels, how right and perfect everything feels if he tried. "Missed you like this, so fucking much."

Jack's still, rests his forehead against yours as he gives you time to adjust and both of you time to just enjoy this, the feeling of each other, of being one again.

"I love you," he whispers through soft pants. He pulls his forehead from yours and looks down at you. "I never stopped, I could never stop. I never didn't want you." Jack leans down to kiss you and just that little movement of him inside you makes you both keen. "You've always had me and you always will. I'll always be yours. That's all I want in life, to be yours."

"Oh Jack," you whisper. Tears start to leak from the corners of your eyes and Jack's face furrows in concern and confusion. "They're good tears, Baby," you reassure him. You press your lips together hard and click your tongue against the back of your teeth before you speak again. "I just missed you. I missed you so much and I never stopped loving you either, I never didn't want you. I was and will always be yours too, and that's the only thing I'll ever need in life to be happy. You're the only thing I'll ever need. Just you." You lean up a little and capture his lips with yours, kiss him like you're trying to pour five years of missed love into his heart and soul, because you are. "I love you."

Jack's teary when pulls back to look down at you and hold your gaze as he says it back with the sweetest love drunk smile. "I love you."

Jack draws his hips back slowly, groaning low as he thrusts back inside of you at the same speed. He wants to make this last, wishes it could never end, this feeling of being reunited and finally home and how good you feel after over five years.

"I missed this," Jack groans, "I missed you, missed you like this, god I missed you so much." He can't stop going on about it because he did, he missed you more than should be humanly possible, your reunion underscoring the feeling for him.

"I missed you too. Love you so much Jackie," you sigh, the sound so pretty Jack chokes on his breath and has to clench his abs hard to make sure he doesn't lose it and spill into you far too early.

Jack continues to fuck you slowly, but hard, with his whole body, his back hunching with every thrust as he uses it to drive himself into you. With your legs wrapped around him Jack's able to hit deep, makes you feel like he's the only thing to exist in the moment as he steals your ability to think of anything but him.

You slip a hand into his curls while the other wraps under his arm and back over his shoulder, clawing at the muscle to help keep you grounded to something. Jack grunts in pleasure when your hand finds his curls. He loves the way you tug at them, scratch at his scalp before you get so fucked out that all you can do is pull on them.

Jack buries his head in your neck at first, whispers the sweetest little things. And then he starts sucking and kissing at your neck, nipping at it as he makes his way up to your jaw and then over until he's finally kissing your lips again.

You make out for what feels like forever but isn't anywhere near long enough as Jack fucks you, moan and sigh into each other's mouths as you take all the pleasure you can from each other, show the other how much you love them with your bodies. When you break for air Jack pulls one of his hands from your face and slides it between the two of you and starts rubbing your clit perfectly.

"Fuck, Jack, you feel so good, make me feel so good," you start to babble, a little oxygen deprived on top of how fucked out and cock drunk Jack has you.

Jack picks up his pace, but it's nothing too fast, still very much love making as opposed to outright fucking. "Yeah, you feel so good too, pretty girl," Jack pants. "You're so fucking tight, so fucking wet for me."

You tug at Jack's curls hard, claw your fingers into his skin enough for it to give him the perfect little edge of pain that encourages him to pick his pace up just a little more.

"Jack," you breathe his name and he can hear it, can hear how close you are for him, can feel how close you are, how good he's making you feel. "Don't stop, please don't stop. Jackie, please… please, I love you, don't stop."

"Come for me Sweetheart," Jack murmurs, voice raspy from all of his groans. "Make me come." He gives you a lingering kiss and then nuzzles his nose against yours before looking you in the eyes as he pants out another instruction to you, uses the pet name he doesn’t use often to keep it special, the one he knows is simultaneously the one you find hottest when he calls you it in bed and the one that makes you tear up and get all mushy and lovey when he says it outside of bed. "Let me feel you, Baby."

And you do. You absolutely shatter around Jack, soundless with how hard your orgasm crashes into you. All of it, Jack's words and the look in his eyes and his cock and his fingers, is far too much for your system to handle in the best way.

"Jack!" you moan loudly, higher-pitched and needy. "Oh, god, Baby! Fuck- Jack, I love you," you pant, so obviously fucked out of your mind that you're struggling to remember how to catch your breath. "Shit I can't breathe, it's too much, you feel too good, can feel you everywhere."

"Fuck you look so pretty when you come," Jack nearly growls, pulling his hand from between you to give your clit a break, his pace picking up just a little more, fucking you through your orgasm and chasing his own. "Just like I remembered, just like I fucking remembered, could never forget my beautiful girl." The words drip off his tongue, pleasure slurred and nearly pained in ecstasy. "Shit, Sweetheart! I'm gonna come, fuck, fuck, I'm gonna come."

The thought of Jack coming in you brings you back enough to encourage him, to focus on him and how he's feeling and how it feels when he comes in you, your pussy clenching and fluttering around him at the thought. "Please, Jack, I need it. Need you to come, need to feel you come in me."

"Yeah," he pants, "yeah, I will. Claim you again, make you mine… yeah."

Jack comes with the most erotic groan of your name, the sound pure gravel and sex, lined with an adoration that screams how hopelessly in love with you he is and how much he loves that fact. "Oh, oh Sweetheart, fuck," he groans. "Oh I love you, I love you so fucking much, fuck, you feel so good, I missed you."

He fucks himself through it, his entire body trembling with the sheer amount of pleasure rushing through his veins, oxytocin and endorphins and adrenaline and dopamine flooding Jack's system as he slows, mumbling your name and "so good for me, you're so so good for me, thank you Baby, love you so much," over and over until he stills completely, keeps his cock buried inside of you.

"Jack," you whisper, staring up at him with eyes drowning in pleasure, airy smile on your face as the intoxicating afterglow of sex with Jack settles over you. "That was…"

"I know," he whispers back, his blissed out smile taking over his face far too much for him to give you the teasing, self-satisfied smirk he tries to. "I agree."

Jack leans down and kisses you, the two of you making out slowly as your heart rates return to normal, your breaks for air punctuated by kisses to each other's faces. When Jack starts moving his kisses down your neck and keeping them teasingly soft to tickle you, you tug gently on his curls.

"Come here, Handsome," you say softly, knowing he'll understand your request for him to lay on top of you and cuddle.

Jack nods, presses one last kiss against your lips. He looks down at you for a moment, eyes running over your face and then holding your gaze. "You really are my beautiful girl, you know that? You always have been, even thousands of miles apart and not together," he murmurs.

A lump forms in your throat and you can feel the tears start to threaten. You never thought you'd be one of those people lucky enough to be looked at the way Jack is looking at you, and it hits you that, while there is something special and particularly intimate about this moment that adds a bit of an extra edge, Jack is looking at you the way he always looks at you.

What you don't realize is that you look at him the exact same way. Always.

"Jack," you whisper, unable to come up with anything to say other than the only thing that matters to you. Him. 

There's so much you want to say to him, so much that you need to say, to make sure he knows just like there's so much he wants and needs to say to you, to make sure you know. But it's not the time, both of you know that. So you settle on the words that say everything all at once but will still never be enough to truly express how you feel about him. "I love you."

He smiles at you, teasing and a little smirked, too handsome for his own good, and so genuinely and purely happy that you think time stops for you. "Yeah," he breathes out, lowers himself on top of you and buries his face in your neck, nuzzling his nose against you. "I know." You bite your lip and giggle quietly, barely let the sound out of your chest and Jack hums a laugh with you, moves his face and kisses just below your ear, sweet and tender and lingering. "I love you too."

The next two weeks go by surprisingly fast.

You're pretty sure the first of the two weeks went by so fast because your stalker seemed to keep intensifying and get more threatening without doing anything that would be enough for the police to get truly involved, and so you were just so scared that time was blurry. He continued to blow up your phone and you continued to do your best to ignore it. You know you saw him on campus each day, but still never got a picture. It was like he wanted you to see him and know he was there and watching you, waiting patiently for what exactly you weren't sure and weren't going to think about too hard.

You found little gifts outside your office door that first Tuesday and Friday. At first you thought the one on Tuesday was from Jack, a cute little plush of your favorite animal, a sweet note that it's there to keep you company until you're back together again. When you called Jack to thank him and he had told you that it wasn't him, that he didn't get you anything, and you realized it was your stalker you actually had to hang up on Jack and were sick into your trash can at work. Jack had called you back in a panic of course, but you reassured him you were fine and went about your day as much as you could with how distracted you were. When you saw the box on Friday you immediately texted Jack and when he said it wasn't him again you didn't even open it, just threw it away.

That Saturday you'd gone with a couple of Jack's friends to your old place and finished packing everything and getting it all out. Luckily you'd rented a furnished place since you were moving back from another country, so you didn't have a ton to move, mostly just personal stuff. It was a whole fucking ruse to get everything to Jack's while making sure you weren't tailed, but you all seemed to have pulled it off together.

You're pretty sure the second week, this past week, goes by quickly because it's so… quiet. You don't hear anything from your stalker that Sunday. You think it's strange and the silence is almost more disconcerting than anything but you try to rationalize that, as awful as it is, the guy probably found someone else, and so you try to be cautiously optimistic. Jack is less so. He doesn't like the sudden complete disappearance.

Because that's what happens. It stays silent. Your stalker disappears. You don't hear from him the rest of the week, don't find any presents outside your office, don't see him on campus or feel like you're being watched. He's just gone.

You'd been terrified when you went into work yesterday morning. Despite your attempt at being cautiously optimistic you couldn't help the pit that had formed in your stomach and told you something was wrong and was going to happen. You were sure you were going to walk to your office Monday morning and find something, that your phone would start to go off again with even worse and more threatening messages. But there was nothing waiting for you anywhere and nothing happened. It was a normal Monday.

And Tuesday starts normally.

Jack sits on the bed next to you and leans down, kisses your face and lips until you wake up for him. He has to leave to get to work on time far earlier than you have to leave for work, especially today. "Hi Sleepy," he greets you with another kiss.

"Hi," you hum against his lips. "You off?"

"Unfortunately," he sighs. He hates leaving you, even now that things have calmed down. The silence feels wrong. It feels like your stalker is trying to lure you into a false sense of safety.

"It'll be okay." You reach up and run your hair through his curls. "Just another day still sticking to the plan. I'll make sure I'm not alone and I'll come to the Pitt right after my last class, okay?"

"Okay," Jack nods slowly, biting his lip. His face furrows, lips pull down in a frown. "I'm not trying to be controlling, you know? It’s the thought of something happening to you, I, I-"

"Hey," you interrupt him gently, give him what you hope is a reassuring smile. "I don't think you are or are trying to be controlling, I promise. I know it's just that you love me."

"Good," he nods again, looking so serious for a few seconds before he lets out a long breath and manages to give you a small smile. "Good. Because I do and that's what this is, it's just me loving you and needing you and to keep you safe. I love you so much. I love you more than you'll ever know."

"I love you that much too, Jackie." You lean up on your elbows so you can kiss him. "I love you as much as you love me. And a little extra because I love you more."

Jack laughs softly against your lips. "In your dreams, Sweetheart."

You smirk against his lips, press a light kiss to them. "In my reality, Sir."

Jack pulls back and shakes his head at you, chuckling as you giggle for him. "Just text me yeah?" He raises his eyebrows at you a touch. "So I know you're okay. I might not be able to respond much depending on how things get there, but I like knowing."

"Of course," you nod. "And I'll call once I'm in an uber on my way to the Pitt. If I don't get you I'll call the desk."

"Thank you." Jack leans back down and wraps his arms under you in a hug and kisses you. And kisses you and kisses you and kisses you until he knows he has to pull away and finds the strength to do so. "I love you, Sweetheart. I love you so much."

"I love you so much too, Jackie." You steal one last kiss from him before letting him go.

Jack walks over to the bedroom door and looks back at you, heart aching beautifully at the sight of you already looking at him, curled up on his side of the bed with your head on his pillow. He smiles at you. "Bye. I love you."

You give him a beaming smile back, happy you were able to make him smile one last time before he really had to go. "Bye. I love you."

When you get to school you head to your office to get your stuff for your first class, check your email. There's nothing waiting for you outside the door and you feel some tension melt away. And when you get back to your office from your first class there's still nothing waiting, your phone still silent other than wanted texts from Jack. You lock your office door and spend the next few hours working until it's time for your second class, and then you go straight from your second class to your third when a couple of students stay after class with you and chat with you in the busy hallway.

After your third class you're relieved when you walk up to your office door and don't see any packages waiting outside for you. Another day without anything happening at school. You unlock the door and walk in, set the bag you use for all of the class shit you have to haul around with you in its spot and then go to grab your purse.

But that's when you see it. Another present, placed right on the center of your desk.

It's an oversized ring box that's intricately wrapped with what would in any other situation be a very beautiful bow. This present hits harder than all the rest for two reasons. One, it was quiet. You had over a week of silence. He was gone. He was supposed to be gone, your life was supposed to be able to go back to normal. And two, it was in your office. Your locked office. He had to break in to plant it. Sure it's not some biometric ultra secure lock situation, but still. He broke in. During the day. That's an escalation.

You scream at yourself not to open it, to do what you did with the last one you got and just throw it away. But there's just some nagging feeling you have that tells you that you should open it.

So, with shaky hands, you do.

You sit in your chair and then tear the paper off unceremoniously and throw it away before opening the box. What you find is so fucking cliché that in any other circumstance you'd laugh or roll your eyes at it. But right now, knowing it's from your stalker who has a gun it's anything but. It's a threat all on its own.

Where there would normally be a ring there's a bullet with your name literally engraved on it.

You stare at it for a solid minute before you're able to remember how to move your eyes and look at something else. A neatly rolled scroll of paper wrapped in dainty twine is wedged into the top of the box. At this point you don't want to look at it. You don't want to know.

But you have to know.

You pull the note out and get the twine off, unfurl it and start reading.

Make sure you have this with you when I get you from school. And don't worry, my love, as long as you finally behave and cooperate I won't use it anywhere fatal, just somewhere it'll hurt enough to teach you a lesson.

Your blood pressure skyrockets so fast so quickly that you think you lose vision for a moment, are able to feel your heart pounding in your eyes. You take in a gasping breath, hadn't realized you’d been holding it since you started to read the note.

You're frozen as your brain tries to process the last four minutes. Tears hit your eyes but they're not even for yourself. They're for Jack, for what you know this is going to do to him. You can already hear him talking again about getting out of the city while he hires a private investigator to prove it's the guy.

There's a knock on your door and you leap out of your seat and turn around, think all of this might not matter in the end because you're going to have a fucking heart attack and die right here on your office fucking floor. Your hand flies to your chest and you take in gasping breaths when you see it's just one of the campus police officers.

The officer looks horrified at the reaction he caused. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to scare you Miss."

"No," you shake your head at him, take a second for a couple of deep breaths before grabbing the box and closing it. You shove it in your purse and grab your phone. "No, it's me, I'm jumpy." You force a laugh. "I'll call the uber while we walk if you're okay waiting with me there?"

"Of course," he nods.

"Thanks," you give him a small smile that doesn't meet your eyes and walk out your door with him, lock it behind you and wonder why you're bothering when it's apparently so easy to pick.

Normally you chat with whoever's walking with you but not today. You can't. Your brain is way too consumed by what you just found. Ordering the uber as you walk is hard enough, but you manage to do it.

You're so in your head as you order it and walk that you don't hear the officer telling you to hold up, he has to go check on the kid that just crashed his god damn e-scooter and call for someone else to come.

So you don't stop walking.

You don't follow the officer over to where the injured kid is and hover close enough to be safe. You just keep walking by yourself to the area of campus always deserted at this hour because classes in these buildings finish much earlier, the usual desertion amplified by the threatening thunderstorm such that the area is nearly empty, only a few students in headphones with their heads down trudging along. You just keep walking until you're by yourself.

Alone.

You only notice when you go to look up at the officer and tell him it should only be three minutes. Your head turns sharply to the other side when you don't see him next to you, but he's not on the other side of you either. You turn all the way around hoping he's right behind you and you were just walking faster than normal. But no. He's not here. You're all alone.

You're all alone and you already know it's going to happen. It doesn't matter how you came to be alone, just that you are. Your stalker will capitalize on this moment of vulnerability, on your fucking mistake. How could you have let this happen?

It doesn't even occur to you at first that you're just standing out in the open and not at least continuing to move and get to where your uber is supposed to pick you up and where there will hopefully be more people. Your heart races again, just as fast as when the officer startled you but now it's sustained, it's tiring, mentally and physically.

And you're scared. You're fucking terrified.

It's the movement in the corner of your eye that makes you realize you have to start walking again. You turn your head in the direction to see if it's the officer, but it's not. You catch another glimpse of him before he's hidden by pillars supporting the building and you know it's him. You know.

Fight or flight finally kicks enough for you to take off at essentially a run. When you hear footsteps pounding behind you instinct tells you it's time to hide, that you're never going to outrun him.

You duck into the next building you pass, mercifully spot a single stall bathroom and run into it and lock the door. As you walk backwards until you hit the opposite wall and slide down it so you're sitting on the floor you clamp your hand over your mouth to try and quiet yourself so that maybe he won't know where you went to hide. You know that's unlikely because it's so fucking obvious, especially because you're sure the classrooms are all locked by now, but it's worth a try.

Time ticks by, your sense of it skewed, you're sure. But nothing happens. You don't hear a door to the building open or footsteps outside of the bathroom. Could you seriously have made all of that up? Seeing him? Being chased?

Tears sting at the back of your eyes now that you're not in quite the state of extreme panic you were when you were running. You start to stand to splash some cold water on your face when someone tries to open the door, pressing down on the handle and jiggling it, pushing the door against the frame and lock and clearly leaning their body weight into it.

Your stomach drops again as a jolt of panic and terror and fear rocking your system so hard everything goes blurry for a few seconds. You cover your mouth with your hand again and bring your knees in front of your chest like it's going to do anything to protect you.

Then it stops just as abruptly as it started.

You have no idea if the person walked away, couldn't possibly hear footsteps over the beat of your heart and how hard you're breathing. You're sure it's not over, tell yourself to be prepared for him to come back.

It's useless. You jolt just as hard again when they start playing with the door handle again, jiggling it and pushing against it like they had been. But then the noise changes and it dawns on you. It sounds almost like they're trying to remove the handle so they can get it.

"Yo!" The noise stops. "Wrong bathroom. We're here for the one on the second floor."

"Oh," a male voice from right outside the door calls back to the other one. "Makes sense. I wondered why this one was locked." When you hold your breath you can hear footsteps receding in the direction you know the stairs are.

The relief that floods over you is euphoric in its own way. You've never known anything like it.

Slowly you move your hand from your mouth and let yourself take in the big, panting breaths that you need to recover. Somehow your mind is still, almost feels empty and like pure fuzz as you get your breathing back to normal.

When the ability to think starts to come back you try to figure out what the fuck just happened. Maybe it wasn't footsteps pounding behind you, just the beat of your heart, or your footsteps echoing, or your mind imagining things. It doesn't matter, you chastise yourself, that's really not the thing to be focusing on right now.

You take a second to try and calm yourself down, sort a few things out in your head now that you're at least in a locked room. You can't leave. He could be counting on that and waiting right outside for you. Someone is going to have to come get you and it's going to have to be one of the officers you know, so that you know their voice and that it's really a campus police officer before you open the door. That sounds so fucking paranoid and you have to let out a pained laugh as you sit on the bathroom floor because this is your fucking reality.

Your hands, like the rest of your body, are shaking so badly that you fumble with your phone. But you're able to get it unlocked and your contacts unlocked and instead of calling campus police first like he'd absolutely fucking want you to, you call Jack.

"Jack?" you ask the second the ringing stops mid-ring and he picks up. "Jack, I'm so sorry but-"

"Guess again, Sweetheart."

And just like that three words bring your entire world crashing down around you.

Ice runs through your veins, your entire body going nearly numb in seconds as the unmistakable voice of your stalker comes through crystal fucking clear. As the unmistakable voice of your voice comes through Jack's fucking phone.

Which means…

"No," you whisper, barely audible, heart racing in a completely different way now. "No."

"Mm," your stalker hums, a laugh to it that almost makes you sick. "Yes. He's right here with me. You're on speaker."

You thought you knew what fear and terror were, thought you had experienced true fear and true terror, though you had felt both. Fuck, you thought you just did when the officer scared you and when you realized you were alone.

But in this moment you realize you had absolutely no fucking clue what true fear and true terror felt like and had never experienced them before. Because you're feeling both now and it's unlike anything you've ever felt before, suffocating and almost blinding in intensity.

This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to know about Jack, he never said anything about Jack. Jack was never supposed to be in danger. It wasn't something you'd even really considered because you thought he didn't know about Jack, were sure that if he did he would've texted something about Jack.

"No. No! No, please, please, don't hurt him, don't hurt him! Please don't fucking hurt him," you beg, breathless and trying so hard to come up with things to say or offer or do while your brain just uselessly sits there, too overwhelmed to do much of anything. "What do you want? Tell me what you want and you can have it if you'll let him go and don't hurt him." The tears finally hit and you stifle a sob. "Anything. Just please don't hurt him."

"You, my love. I want you." He says it like it's so simple. Like it's a choice you're going to make, him over Jack. And then you're leveled. "In the interest of honesty, and a bit to shut you up, you should know that it's a little too late for you to beg me not to hurt him."

"What did you do?" You've never heard yourself sound this way before, sobs and terror and fear transformed in a quarter of a second into sheer rage, quiet and calculated, the question snarled as you think about what you'll do to him if he hurt Jack and you get your hands on him, consequences to yourself fatal or not be damned. But then just like that another quarter of a second passes and your voice and brain and emotions are right back where they were. "Is he alive?" you whisper just loud enough to know your stalker will hear you.

"Yes, he's alive and… Well, he's alive. Here." Seconds that feel like an eternity pass and you feel your phone buzz as your stalker starts to speak again. "Check your texts quickly. I sent you photos to update you on his condition and prove he's alive."

You close your eyes and swallow hard. Selfishly, you don't want to look. You don't want to see what you caused to happen to Jack. But you have to. You owe Jack it if nothing else and he's the love of your life, you have to know how badly he's hurt, have to know just how alive he is, if he's alive but really closer to death than life.

You pull your phone from your ear and pull up your messages, click on Jack, the only person you have pinned. And while you know that you're not prepared for what you're going to see there's some part of your brain that tries to tell you that you are because that would mean it wasn't that bad.

But there is nothing that could've ever prepared you for what you see.

Jack is bound to a chair, forearms zip-tied to the armrests with his hands splayed out at the wider endings, upper calves just below his knees zip-tied to the front legs of the chair. He's naked except for his boxer briefs, his prosthetic removed and mouth covered in duct tape. Seeing him bound and gagged like that is bad enough but that's the easiest part of it all to look at if you had to pick an easiest part.

You torture yourself and flick through the photos. Once you save Jack you won’t survive this. You’ll never be able to live with yourself for causing him to be beaten like this, tortured like this.

Jack's right hand is definitely broken, swollen and bruised, and his right wrist isn't at quite the correct angle for the position it's in telling you it must be dislocated. He’s covered from head to toe in bruises, cuts and abrasions that you're not sure if they were made by a knife or some other weapon deliberately or if what he was hit with just happened to break skin. His left knee is disturbingly bruised and swollen and it spreads both up into his thigh and down into his calf and you know there's likely multiple fractures and torn ligaments.

Jack is littered in bruises and burn marks from what you're guessing is a cattle prod, and the longer you look the more you realize his one collarbone is swollen, the same shoulder being held a little too high leaving you assuming it's dislocated too. And he is bloody everywhere from the cuts to his skin and what’s dripped down from his face and head.

Because his face hasn't made out any better than the rest of him, one eye swollen and black, his nose clearly broken with how swollen it is, fresh blood still dripping from it down over the duct tape covering his mouth and onto his chest. Another bruise is blooming along his swollen jaw on one side, and he has to have a deep laceration somewhere on his scalp because while you know scalp wounds bleed a lot, this seems excessive even for that, his curls matted and one half of his face and neck and chest covered in blood that obviously originated at his scalp.

All of Jack's bruises are concerning and nauseating and dizzying, but for you the worst are the ones that are deep blue and purple, almost black in some areas. Because those ones, they cover the sides of Jack's chest at his ribs and are present on way too much of his abdomen and chest. You know most, if not all of his ribs have to be broken. And it's impossible to know if his bruising is truly from his skin or if it's reflective of internal bleeding deeper in his chest and abdomen. It’s impossible to know if it's reflective of Jack slowly bleeding out internally.

Words and diagnoses and brief descriptions of them that you haven't really thought about in five years suddenly pop up from memory just to terrorize you more. Hemothorax and pneumothorax and flail chest and punctured lungs and ruptured spleen and shattered kidney and lacerated liver and myocardial contusion and valvular disruption and hemopericardium and hypovolemic shock.

It's all too awful and horrific to even begin to describe, but the worst part is how exhausted Jack looks, how you can tell he's struggling to keep his head up because it's so much work for his body as it deals with the assault and his injuries, with the pain and the blood loss and the way he's not getting enough air because his mouth is covered with duct tape and his broken, swollen nose has narrowed his sinuses so it's hard to move air, a problem only compounded by his certainly damaged lungs.

The sob that rips from your chest is tortured, reflects the emotional and psychological fucking agony you find yourself in. It's a pain like nothing you've ever known. 

"Oh!" You think it's screamed but it's strangled and choked out at best, barely audible because all the air has truly been knocked from your lungs and the little that's left struggles to find its way out. "Oh, Jack," you whimper. "Oh Jack, no, no." You put the phone back to your ear hoping he'll be able to hear you, that he's conscious enough to hear you say words that will never come anywhere close to enough. "I'm so sorry," you sob, barely comprehensible. "I'm so sorry, Jackie, I'm so sorry," you choke out. "Jack, oh my god, no. No, this can't be happening, this can't be happening."

"And yet it is Sweetheart." You can hear the smirk in your stalker's voice.

"Please," you whimper, "please don't, don't, don't hu-hurt him anymore! I'll do anything, anything, please."

"I take it you found my present?" You make some strangled sound of affirmation that's good enough for him. "Good. Why don't you tell Jack about it?"

"It," you're overcome by a huge wracking breath that you try to rush through so he doesn't get mad at you. "It, it was a, a," another uncontrollable wracked breath, "a bullet, and my, it," and another, "it has my name engraved on it."

Your stalker must be closer to Jack because even over the sound of your sobs and breathing you can hear a muffled reaction from Jack like he's yelling and straining against the zip-ties.

"The message is a little moot now, but I thought you should read it anyway since that last part is still so true. Read it out for Jack, hm?" he hums. There's a groan of pain from Jack and you know your stalker is likely pressing on one of his injuries or inflicting another one.

As you pull the box from your bag to get the message you force yourself to get control of your breathing, the shot of additional adrenaline that hearing Jack in pain and being desperate to avoid hearing again gives you helping you keep it together long enough to get the message out.

"Make sure you have this with you when I get you from school. And don't worry, my love, as long as you finally behave and cooperate I won't use it anywhere fatal, just somewhere it'll hurt enough to teach you a lesson."

"Very good," he hums at you. "Tell me, do you know what kind of bullet it is, my darling?"

"No," you whisper.

"We can't have that, Jack in particular must know! It's a nice 9mm JHP. These ones are specially made for me, designed for maximum damage. They're in the gun now," he laughs darkly, and you try to tell yourself it’s not what you think, but you hear the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking. "What do you think about that?"

There’s a vague ripping sound and then a voice that's barely recognizable as Jack's.

"I'll fucking kill you," Jack takes a wheezy and labored and clearly pained breath in, "if you even try," another breath in that sounds so painful it's hard to listen to, "to touch her."

"Is that so?" your stalker chuckles. "Look at you, Jack. You’re too weak to do anything right now. And she's going to hand deliver herself to me. So I think I will touch her, wherever and however I want. Maybe even in front of you." You can hear Jack say something in the background but can't make out any words because your stalker just talks louder. "I'm texting you our address to come to. Your life for the life of your dear Jackie."

"Okay!" you cry at the same time Jack's voice is clear in the background yelling as best he can, "Do not!"

"I'll be there." You sniffle, try to wipe your face off and pull it together because you have to do this. You have to do this for Jack. "I'll come, I promise, just give me time! Please don't hurt him, please don't hurt him anymore, I'll come, I promise."

"Do not!" Jack yells. "Do not come here!" His breath in is gasping and it somehow kills you even more inside. "You do not fucking come here!"

"As much as I'd like to kill him, I promise that I'll let him go if you come. At least I'll know he has to live knowing you're with me. That you chose me over him." You can just hear the smirk in your stalker's voice again.

"Okay," you whisper.

"Do not," Jack is so clearly forcing and straining out as many words as he can in one breath, his cadence punctuated by them. You'll never forget it. "Do fucking not!… Don't! Don't come here!… Don't do this, I don't… I don't want you to do this… I don't want you to trade your life for mine."

Your stalker scoffs. "He really is so dramatic isn't he?"

"Please," Jack has dropped his voice, his tone pleading and desperate and sad. "I love you… so much and I need you… to please do this… one last thing for me… and don't… don't come here, please Baby." As Jack gets the words out through labored breaths you realize what he's doing.

He's saying goodbye.

Jack asking you, pleading with you to do this one last thing for him and using that name while doing so absolutely fucking decimates you. 

There is nothing left of the you that existed thirty minutes ago.

"I have to Jack, I'm sorry." You sniffle hard, tears pouring down your face again as your sobs return. "I have to. I can't let you die for me. I couldn't live with myself knowing I got you killed. Getting you beaten and, and tortured," you choke out the word, "is bad enough. I have to Jack, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry and I love you so much."

"There's an awful lot of talking going on and not very much getting in a car and getting to where I fucking told you to come going on," your stalker snarls, a much louder groan coming from Jack this time.

"Okay! Okay! I'm going, I promise! Please don't hurt him, I'm sorry!" You scramble to try and get up and on your feet.

As you try and fail to stand with how dizzy you get, you hear his voice again. "What? Wait- How did you get out-"

The next three things you hear are far too loud and clear for the circumstances, and knock the wind completely out of you, make your heart stop, and tear a scream from your chest in that order.

A scuffle, a gunshot, and a body hitting the floor. 

Reader can't be the only one who's ever in mortal danger, right?

I really don't have much to say for myself. 😶

I have plans for a Part 2 obviously lol, as long as it's wanted. I'm not sure if we're over me and my cliffhangers and same species of angst. 😭 I just really love it, I find it so fun to write. 🫠 Thank you so much for taking the time to read, I know it was long!! I really do love hearing your thoughts and comments and reactions, they often make my day and week! ♥️ Thank you again for all of your support!! ♥️

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Titus

They had gathered for his father’s 90th birthday. The old sack was close to dying, finally, so he had been adamant to cash in on just as many promises, I-owe-yous and revenge plots that seemingly fell through the cracks over the years. 

Luckily for him, his tenacious sister Ursula had taken care of all the planning, making sure that the weeklong celebration would be the goriest, gnarliest, most satisfactory of his life. Even Titus had promised to be on his best behavior, and even though that meant little, it would help them get through it gracefully at the least.

Their estate had started buzzing with people as early as nine in the morning. It somehow felt inhuman, ungodly, for so many people to be parading themselves up the driveway in their summer best, fake laughter and polite conversation filling up the breathable air with tension and distrust.

It was no secret the other families didn’t respect them. They didn’t have to, it had always been enough for them to be feared. That’s how they maintained their power. How they kept everyone pliable and loyal. But it was at these gatherings that it became unbearable for Titus to deal with the phoniness.

He could smell the discomfort on them. Would catch the slightest flinch, the tension in their bodies, the disdain hidden behind turbulent eyes. They though they were so clever, locked like vaults, but the truth was that Titus always knew.

It took everything in him to remain stoic. This was a celebration for fuck’s sake, why was no one acting like it? Why were they all cowardly and—

“Oh ma petit fille!” His father’s voice broke through Titus’s daydream. He’d gotten as far as ripping Mr. Kipling’s throat out with his pick axe, the mere thought of his warm blood bathing him the first comfort he’d felt all day.

That was until his gaze focused on the person who had elated his father with her presence this much.

His heart nearly stopped on its own, his brain desperately urging it to keep pumping, to not let him show even an ounce of distress, but it was near impossible. His sister caught onto him almost instantly and smirked lightly under her breath, stepping back so that her father could push himself forward to meet you.

“C’est moi, papa,” you replied in your perfect French as you crouched down to plant two kisses on either cheek, causing the old man to blush lightly. 

Disgusting. Titus had his gripes with his father, that much was obvious, but this, this display of affection towards you always made him remember just why he wanted the old man dead and buried.

He wasn’t your biological father, Titus had made sure of it. For a long time neither him or Ursula were fully convinced. The way the old man had doted on you was…concerning to say the least. Ursula loved you, but the mere possibility of having to fight with you for their inheritance made her spiral to the point that he had ordered a DNA test.

He would be lying if he didn’t have ulterior motives at play. You simply could not be his sister too. You were already half his age, the kid he saw grow up, cared for, nurtured and — maybe it would’ve been easier if you were related. At least all those urges would finally have to be put down to rest and he would be able to move on with his fucking life.

But an even more fucked up part of him couldn’t help but celebrate when the test came back negative. No relation whatsoever. Fair game for him to do whatever he wanted. That was if his father didn’t have anything to do with it, and unfortunately for Titus, the old man did.

“Ça va?” His father held your hands in his tightly as you answered. Last Titus knew you were in…Florence? God knows, his father was cryptically vague every time Ursula brought you up. Oh she’s in France, she’s in Tokyo, she’s…anywhere but here.

For the first few years it felt like punishment, as though the old man was doing everything in his power to keep you as far away from Titus as humanly possible. He’d even been foolish enough to try to find you one summer, had flown himself halfway across the world but by the time he’d made it to the small chalet in Switzerland, his father had informed them that you had decided to surprise him for the holidays instead.

He’d almost laid waste to the entire village that night, the bloodshed something that he’d been slightly ashamed to admit to as his family’s attorneys worked overtime to make sure no one ever knew what had truly gone down. A “freak accident” was all that got reported, not that Titus concerned himself with things like that.

“Ursula, my darling, I will take her inside to get settled, please tell our guests that I will be with them after for lunch.”

He didn’t even get to say hello to you, only managed to catch your eye and soft smile as you walked past him. You still smelled the same. Like pears and soft linens and summer. He caught himself closing his eyes, inhaling your scent before he could stop himself and it took him a long second to regain his composure.

Ursula cleared her throat. Behave. 

But whatever promises he had made to his sister were no longer valid. Not when you were now involved.

He was practically buzzing with excitement. So much so that he could not be bothered engaging in meaningless conversation with the remaining families, almost brazenly rejecting every single advance from their daughters and some of their sons. He didn’t realize that he too was playing a role this weekend, one that he’d been able to dodge thus far.

But not again.

By the time lunch was served in the outdoor courtyard, you were nowhere to be found.

Titus lingered in wings, always away from the group as he nursed his first glass of scotch. He waited, impatiently, until Ursula brought their father out onto the patio. The second he saw the old man, without you finally, he slyly stepped back into the house to go find you.

Their family estate was enormous. So much so that they had to move around in golf carts if they wanted to get anywhere at a decent enough time. The main house was no different. It was regal in a way that would easily spook anyone who didn’t have intimate knowledge of the family and their ways of life.

Titus never remembered you being intimidated by it. If anything, you had always felt like you belonged. You’d moved in after his mother passed away, the daughter of their newest housekeeper. He’d met you only once as a child, a simple introduction that he didn’t care about as he was much more interested in getting his dick wet and terrorizing every single girl that looked his way. 

No, it was only after you’d graduated from the posh boarding school his father had shipped you off to and had been allowed to come back to the estate for the summer that he really paid attention.

He had been an asshole then. You were freshly eighteen, had your entire life ahead of you, and if it hadn’t been for Ursula’s warnings and his own father’s protection, he would’ve used his power over you to claim you as his own.

Now he was thankful that had never happened.

Instead the two of you had become friends. Well, as friendly as Titus let anyone get.

You’d gotten comfortable as part of their lives. Riding with Ursula, learning how to fence with her private instructor, and even helping out with the chores of the house when their father wasn’t looking. He would not have you lift a finger, not after…well, not after their proclivities had cost your mother her life.

They’d given you everything. And in return — Titus didn’t even want to let the thoughts he was having get confirmed into reality. He knew his family, knew what they were capable of, and he simply could not allow himself to even think what disgusting and depraved things his father could possibly be asking from you.

He practically skipped up the stairs towards your room, two at a time, as he ventured into the sealed off wing of the house, one that he had frequented enough over the past few years.

Everyone on staff knew about it, they’d caught him in your room plenty of times not to know. But they were all loyal, all rooting for him to finally get the girl, get you, so they had never told his father about what they had found him doing.

Their staff were not paid to have opinions, but they certainly had eyes. To say that he’d had to replace your entire underwear drawer countless times would be a understatement. They had no idea how Titus did it, but the mess, the stickiness would get so severe at times that the only thing he could do to fix it was to simply buy everything brand new and pretend like it had always been that pristine.

The door was closed, like it usually was. His heart hammered against his chest, causing his ears to clog up. He shifted his weight from the balls of his feet to the front, desperate to not make a single noise as he pressed his ear to your door, eager for even a morsel of sound to indicate you were in your room.

He couldn’t wait any longer. Could barely contain himself. He knew this would most likely be his one chance to strike. If his father would not let him fight for you, he would take you by force, not that you would object anyway, he knew the second his hands grabbed a hold of you, any reservation left behind by the poisonous words of his father would disappear and you would be his.

His to claim, finally.

The door swung open then and he practically jumped out of his skin.

It wasn’t you. It was Alina, one of the cleaning staff.

She tried her best to maintain a plain expression but he could tell she wanted to smirk brightly at his childish display of emotions.

Fuck. 

Titus stepped away to let her through, cleared his throat and straightened himself back up, smoothing down his jacket and pocketing his sunglasses before he…he should’ve turned to leave, should’ve known where you’d be hiding if it wasn’t your room. But curiosity would always win over with him.

Your suitcase was wide open on the bed, as if you’d started unpacking and something pulled you away to a much more interesting task. 

It had always been like this for you. You drifted from one thing to the next without a care in the world, always following curiosity like an itch you needed to scratch instantly and would leave behind the second it no longer satisfied you.

How you’d managed to get through undergrad and a masters program had been beyond him. But there they were, your two degrees hanging on the wall beside countless pictures and tokens of your years living in the estate.

He loved the polaroid pictures you had taken of him and Ursula the summer before you left. His sister had been dating some venture capitalist from Italy and you had spent the majority of your time practicing your Italian with him while they lounged by the pool.

He’d almost killed him right then and there for taking up so much of your time. He wanted your attention on him instead, craved it desperately, but he didn’t speak any other languages, didn’t have a way with words like you both seemed to, didn’t know how he could communicate so much longing in a way that would not scare you away from him.

So he stayed quiet, like he usually did, and instead tried to show you through his actions.

He’d been unbelievably gentle, fleeting touches to the back of your neck to guide you in and out of rooms, a subtle hand under your knee to help you on and off the saddle, a gentle graze of your cheek with his thumb as you cried when the house erupted in violent screams and bloodthirstiness.

The Italian had been unfortunate in his wedding night game choice. It was sad, Titus had actually grown to tolerate him. But the second he understood what was really happening and the type of family he had married into, the idiot had ran straight to you, to “save you”.

Titus had disregarded the head start the second he heard you scream. He would pay the price later, rules be damned. He bolted up the stairs to this very room and found you on the floor, the man practically berating you as he called you every name in the book. He tried to explain that he was just trying to help you escape his fate, but Titus didn’t even register his words as he only saw your nightgown torn, your cheeks stained with tears and scratches tainting your soft skin.

He didn’t even think about it, only registering what he’d done when your sobs filled the room for a different reason this time.

The sad sack of an excuse was lying on you, lifeless, blood gushing from the impaled pick axe on his cranium, covering you completely in crimson.

If it had been any other circumstance, Titus would not have hesitated in devouring you whole, his tongue masterfully licking up any and every drop off your skin in penance for getting you dirty.

But his eyes finally found your own and he saw the worst sight he’d ever been privy to.

Fear.

He inched forward, hands out in surrender but you flinched back.

His heart broke.

He stood there for a long second, unsure on what to do, on how to fix this.

It wasn’t until Ursula rushed into the room and yelled at him to leave that he finally allowed himself to move.

Had his father not told you? Was this how you were finding out what kind of family they truly were? What kind of man he was?

He didn’t even have the time to explain himself as, by the following morning, you were gone.

God, you looked exactly the same. You’d obviously grown up significantly since the last time he truly saw you. Your hair was longer, wild and free, a stark contrast to the pristine Danforth image his father had tried to keep. He’d finally allowed you to stop lightening it too as it was now back to its natural dark brown. And your body? It finally made him understand why men would go off and fight in war — all so they could come back home to see how much the women they loved had changed in their time away.

Your body was curvy and plump in all the right places. No longer shy about the weight of your breasts or the way your waist accentuated your ass. You carried yourself with confidence and divinity. You were a vision, would’ve been written about by the ancient Greeks, would’ve easily had wars started for your honor if given the chance.

He glanced down at your suitcase, eager for something to steal to let you know he’d been there. But mostly in search for something he could use to deal with the tightness in his pants.

“There you are—”

He almost celebrated, almost thanked the universe for all its divine intervention until his lustful brain finally took a back seat and his faculties processed that the voice wasn’t yours.

He swallowed an annoyed groan as he turned to face the fresh, pink clad woman. He didn’t recognize her, didn’t care to honestly. She was just one of many, all equally as uninteresting, all desperate for his attention. All destined to never get it.

She took a step forward, into your room, into your private space. Titus’s jaw clenched instantly and she could tell something had shifted in the air. Her once glossy stare turned sharp, fight or flight causing her stomach to drop. She didn’t know why but she was suddenly feeling overwhelmingly exposed.

She swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Danforth, I—”

He didn’t let her finish, didn’t have the patience for it. It wasn’t the release he was searching for, but it would have to do, for now.

His hand wrapped itself around her neck and he squeezed, tightly. She struggled against him but he was stronger. Would always be stronger than these weak, whiny, desperate women that deemed themselves so worthy of breathing the same air as him — as you — that they would dare disrespect him, his family, his home, his future w—

Crack.

He barely got the chance to enjoy the way her body went limp, the familiar and comforting weight of lifelessness nothing more than an annoyance as he let his grip falter. Not even the thud of the body slamming against the carpeted floor brought him any satisfaction.

“Jesus fuck, Titus,” his sister’s shrill blended in with his boredom. “You promised—”

“I rescind my promise.”

And with that he finally allowed himself to leave your room, practically running away from his sister and what would most definitely be a chide later when everyone else had gone to sleep.

By the time he returned downstairs, the meal was over. He glanced over to the table, your seat still empty and his father not in the slightest bit concerned. He must’ve known where you were to be this calm. Who wasn’t calm at all were the Kiplings, both husband and wife whispering harshly as Titus noticed the empty seat that most likely belonged to their darling daughter beside them.

That almost made him content. He couldn’t help but smirk, putting his sunglasses back on and exiting onto the patio to pretend at the very least that he was his father’s prized son.

He’d tried to get information from his father all afternoon, but the old man was tight lipped and almost annoyingly cryptic about everything that left his mouth. It wasn’t until staff began ushering wives and children towards their respective lodgings for the week like prized cattle, and all the heads of the families retreated to the study that he caught a glimpse of you.

You’d changed out of your pale yellow dress, the one he was certain his father had made you wear as it resembled an eggshell white, a not subtle nod to your status within the family, and now wore a silky maroon gown, his favorite color on you.

His gaze followed your movements as you snuck into the kitchen, expertly avoiding every single person left in the house. But not him. You would never be able to dodge him.

He waited a second before he stood up from the leather loveseat he’d practically been bullied into by one of the heads. The man had been talking about his business, how well it had been doing the past two quarters and how his daughter was the sole heir to it all. A well endowed fortune for the Danforth’s to acquire.

He almost rolled his eyes as he stood up, making up some whatever excuse so he could leave this conversation. And he did, without so much as a care in the world. He didn’t need some dumb girl as his consolation prize, didn’t need a new “successful business” to add to his portfolio. He already had the world in the palm of his hand.

The only thing missing was you.

He didn’t enter the kitchen right away. No, he lingered again.

“¿Con qué te ayudo?”

“Mi amor, no te preocupes. Déjate consentir, es lo mínimo que podemos hacer por ti, por favor.”

“Marta—”

“Te vas a tener que acostumbrar, cariño,” he heard their head of staff chuckle lovingly yet, there was an air of sadness. “¿Ya se comenzaron a pelear?”

Titus’s Spanish was…good. Enough. But even that had him reeling. 

Have they started fighting yet?

Oh his father was definitely a horrible man.

You were here for exactly the reason he suspected and his father hadn’t even given him the chance to fight him on it, to fight for it. 

“¿Lo has visto?”

That’s what did him in. He couldn’t hold back any longer.

He pushed the door open, stoic. “¿Visto a quién?”

Both your gazes snapped to him. Marta’s cheeks blushed crimson as she excused herself from the kitchen and escaped as quickly as she possibly could while you offered him a smile, unrestrained yet tired and heavy.

“Your Spanish got better.”

“You’ve been away a long time.” He shrugged, hands clasped behind his back as if to physically restrain himself as he paced forward, closer and closer to you.

He caught your breathing picking up, how you instinctively began to play with your fingers, how you practically heaved with expectation and desire. It was subtle, but to him even the slightest twitch registered in his mind, filled his lungs with pride.

He almost smirked, almost, but then—

“Sir, not another step forward.”

He turned to the other side of the kitchen. A man, dressed in a polished suit, earpiece and most definitely a high caliber handgun strapped to the back of his pants, stood in the shadows.

“Oh yeah, did I forget to mention Duke? A gift from your father for the week.”

Titus fully chuckled then. He had been foolish to think the old man had no idea how he would react the second he realized you were their prized possession for his birthday.

He also knew right then and there that you could not speak freely, could not breathe without this neanderthal running to tell his father. This would definitely be reported the second you went to sleep and he tried to sneak through the secret passages into your room.

He finally accepted what the secret meeting being conducted upstairs had been about and his stomach burned.

“How many?” How many do I have to kill?

“God knows, well, no, your father’s handling it. They’ll ‘get a good look at me’ tomorrow for brunch and then they’ll decide. But they’ve begun conversations already.”

You were too calm. It honestly made his blood boil even more. Part of him couldn’t help but think that you wanted him to do something about it. He knew you couldn’t outwardly say it, couldn’t defy his father’s word in any way other than what you had already done a couple of summers ago, but the person that you had been beaten into was definitely not the person he remembered from back then.

You were like this now because of him and it broke his heart all over again.

“Do you want anything?” You asked him as you moved around the kitchen like you owned the place, because you did, you always had.

“What are you offering?”

“Sandwich?”

“Fine.”

He watched you, still like a statue, hands still locked behind his back. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare test his luck, his status, his power. Not in front of you, not now when you were so broken he wanted nothing more than to take the last few years back and having had the balls to run away with you.

Duke almost leapt across the room as you stepped up to Titus, plate in each hand. He was so close he couldn’t help but lean in, slightly. You ushered him back to the kitchen island with nothing more than a twitch of your brow and he obeyed, walking in tandem with you until you were caged in by the ivory marble.

The ceramic plates echoed in the quiet kitchen but neither of you cared. It was a silent taunt, a test of boundaries and orders, and when Duke didn’t pounce, you sneakily handed Titus a note.

The man before you practically beamed, pocketing the piece of paper instantly as if nothing had really happened. The two of you ate in silence, uncomfortable and charged, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered because his mind was made up. And he would be damned if he didn’t start a war in your honor.

Titus didn’t want to leave you, but when his sister walked into the kitchen and told you that their father was expecting you, he had no choice but to let you go.

Unfortunately for him, it meant his sister was finally alone in a room with him. All anger and unbridled rage.

“Leave her alone while you still can,” she commanded but he knew she didn’t mean it.

“You knew.”

“Of course I knew, don’t be so naive little brother. What did you expect would happen?”

Titus didn’t answer.

“I was able to keep her away long enough but we both know she’s his final chance at an heir, at the continuation of our line.”

“She’s not his to sell—”

“She is! She’s not yours, not mine. She belongs to him and he will do with her whatever he pleases.” She took a step forward, pleading. “You had your chance and you blew it. Now you know how much it cost her.”

His entire body itched with distress. He needed to kill something. Needed to scratch until all he saw was red and all he could feel was your soft skin under his fingers again. He knew, fuck he knew how much he had cost you, but he hadn’t seen it until today.

“So get your shit together and snap out of it.”

Two years ago…two years ago he could’ve had it all. But he had been foolish, had gotten comfortable and believed that he had time. 

Alone in the kitchen, he finally allowed himself to look at the note you left him.

Your father’s study, twenty-three.

He didn’t have time to process the words as he glanced down at his watch. That was five minutes ago. He rushed to the pantry, expertly pulling the hidden door open and running in the literal dark up the stairs.

You’d spent enough time hiding in the walls of the house to know them inside and out. You wanted him to bare witness to something, so much so that you had stated it as your first and only real communication with him in over two years.

He made sure to skillfully sprint up the stairs, sucking in his stomach to slide in between the panels and finally squeeze himself behind his father’s bookshelf. He slid the piece of cardboard you had left behind to eavesdrop to the side and pressed his eye through the hole.

You sat across from him, his father’s back to him as you both sat in your respective armchairs. 

“I don’t know why you’re shocked, you knew how he’d react,” you spoke, composed and calm.

His father coughed in response. “I had hoped he’d be less foolish.”

“Hmmm.” You took a sip of your drink. “This is good.”

“Glad you like it,” the older man leaned forward. “I’ve chosen already.”

You nodded, so out of it you could barely contain your disdain.

His father slapped you then, too hard for a dying man to be able to do. You barely flinched, only tightened your grip on the glass, not daring to spill a single drop.

“Need I remind you of your place?”

You shook your head, pliable and submissive. Oh what Titus would give to have you in that state only comfortable and taken care of, loved. 

“No sir.”

“Good,” he coughed again. “I don’t have time for your disobedience, not right now.”

“It’s not disobedience, sir,” you whispered. “I just thought they would…” you lost your courage for a second but then your gaze lifted and met Titus’s. You took a deep breath, tears falling from your eyes finally. “I thought they’d honor tradition and fight for it.”

Titus only grew angrier as he heard you call your hand in marriage nothing more than a thing, an object, something that could be bought and sold with no greater weight to it.

The old man laughed, cruelly. “Oh sweetheart, we both know why that’s never going to happen.”

“You should at least let them try—”

“He won’t try, he’ll win, and I can’t have that.”

“I’ll give you grandchildren,” you blurted out and it was as though all the air was sucked out of the room, Titus’s front tightening against his pants. “You’ll have your heir before you die.”

“I could have my heir whenever I wanted, with or without your consent,” the old man struggled to stand up but he still made the effort, towering over you with an infernal passion that even made Titus shiver. “I could have you carrying my offspring tonight if I really wanted to—”

“You couldn’t,” you replied, defiant, finally. Titus couldn’t help but feel his heart swell. “My mother was many things but she wasn’t stupid. The deal she made is still in effect. I would truly hate to see you explode before you have the chance to die a slow and painful death.”

That seemed to shut the old man up.

He sat back down, coughing more than normal. The door swung open and Duke rushed inside, his father’s nurse right behind him. They placed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth which he removed for a second to tell you—

“Fine, my daughter, you’ll have your hunt.”

And with that you left the room.

Titus let you disappear back into your room to calm down. He needed to prepare, had to get ready for what would be the most important hunt of his entire life.

He practically salivated at the thought of what was to come, of the carnage and bloodshed he was about to be allowed to enact. All in the name of love, in the name of you.

“Sir,” his thoughts were cut short as the head of his security stepped into his room. “We’ve got a situation developing up in the northern boundary that needs your attention.”

He should’ve thought about it for two more seconds. Should’ve been more distrusting of anything and everything that was being said to him. But instead, he simply grunted in annoyance and followed the man onto their truck, setting off into the night.

Unbeknownst to him, dinner had been served back in the main house, all the families had been gathered as his father finally paraded you around for the other families to see.

From what Ursula told him later, every eligible male (and the old sad sacks that accompanied them) were practically drooling at you as you took your seat at the head of the table with them.

“My friends,” his father started. “It has been such a delight to have you all here with us this evening. I am thankful for your continued support and loyalty, it is only together that we can truly maintain our grip on this industry, on the world,” he tipped his glass towards you. “On our legacy.”

You finally smiled, a true smile, eyes searching for Titus around the table. But as you found nothing, your stomach dropped. Ursula noticed, concern laced on her features uncharacteristically.

The old man chuckled as your eyes met, only then did he continue his macabre speech.

“My beautiful daughter,” he pointed towards you. “Was supposed to be wed this year, but I believe I have an even better prize for you all tonight— whoever can bring me her head by dawn will get to choose one of my blood children to wed.”

Murmurs of excitement brought the night are ablaze, further feeding into the spectacle, into the grandioseness of the event. If the Danforth patriarch could give up the child he’d raised to be a part of his family, part of his blood and sacrifice her to their demonic leader all for a show of good grace and betterment of their clan, they too could let themselves be seduced by the call to make you bleed.

“We begin…” the clock struck midnight. “Now.”

You

You should’ve fucking known. Should’ve anticipated it. Should’ve at least considered it as a possibility.

You knew the old man wasn’t stupid. You knew he knew you weren’t stupid. This submissive act had fooled no one, if anything it had only made him angrier and he’d kept you alive out of spite, to play with his meal before he brutally murdered you and broke his son’s heart forever.

He could’ve let you wed three years ago. Should’ve allowed you to by honor and law. But he refused. He’d been so adamant in his punishment, so infuriated when he’d found out that he’d confined you to a prison of his own making. Isolated and alone. Destined to go through all the pain and sorrow alone. Forgotten.

Titus didn’t know. There was no way he did or else his father would not be alive still.

You wanted to tell him, were going to tell him so many times but each one got you a week in solitary confinement and after a year of living like that, you decided to stop trying.

By the second year, the trauma and pain had subsided. You had become soft and pliable, exactly what Mr. Danforth wanted. You were close to giving in, close to accepting the terms of your contract and agreeing to marry whatever dumb finance bro the old man had his sights set on for the good of the business, but then the letter arrived.

You had been holed up in their Spain estate, close to the factory and closer to where the old man kept his doctors. You didn’t know how or who slipped the first one through the crack in your door, but suddenly there it was.

You tried to rip the envelope with poise, not daring to cause a sound that wasn’t within your normal ones. You still didn’t know who you could trust, who was guarding your door, who could hear you through the microphones and cameras that they had certainly hidden throughout the room.

You waddled over to the balcony, where you knew you had a blind spot and pretended to look through the mail that had been delivered. This was normal for you, the smallest of privacies that Mr. Danforth allowed you to have since he knew everything that was being delivered to you.

Almost everything. 

It was his handwriting, messy and imperfect, but his nonetheless.

He’s getting ready to move to back stateside. Things have gone down that he’s not happy with. His health is deteriorating. Play the part. Convince him to bring you home after you graduate. Have him marry you off here. Don’t forget.

Don’t forget. How could you? How could you ever forget the promises that were made? The confessions spilled through ragged breaths, tangled sheets and petit morts?

It was two summers ago.

You had somehow found yourself back at the estate after a private plane malfunction. You were stuck for 48 hours with nothing but your carryon luggage. No security, no fuss, no nothing. Just you, the eighteen people on staff and the entire grounds.

You’d spent the first day lounging, walking through the entirety of the grounds on foot and remembering just where everything was. You’d helped clean stables, feed the chickens, work on the laundry and even cooked up a feast with Marta for lunch.

You’d opened a few bottles of wine, who cared really, you would buy new ones. Could still use credit cards at that point, a simple joy.

You were hiding away in the staff’s quarters, still drinking with the younger maids as they recounted the last few years of drama that had gone down at the estate. Oh you had missed so much.

It was bittersweet. On one hand you were glad they could still find pockets of joy and lightness while working for the Danforth’s, but on the other, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of the atrocities they had to witness, a personal failing on your part to them.

But the even darker truth — you were all prisoners here. You were closer to them than you were to the Danforth’s, no matter how much they considered you family. You would never be family.

“Marta!”

The yelling brought you back to reality. Was that…?

With a scrunched brow you got up, body wobbly as you managed to make your way to the window.

It was indeed.

“I’ve never seen Titus Danforth yelling before.”

He seemed to become frozen as he looked up to see you, blinking a few times to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

For a second he didn’t know how to act, causing you to giggle.

“Marta’s busy right now, can I help you?”

He gulped. “Yes.”

With rosy cheeks and the confidence from good quality wine, you left the group behind and made your way down to meet him.

You had changed into comfortable jeans and a long sleeve to help with the sun. You were a mess, sweaty and dirty, not the vision that Titus claimed to have seen.

“Hi,” you greeted, suddenly very shy. He simply nodded his response, fighting every single urge he had to reach out and grab you. “Ugh this is ridiculous, Titus.”

And then you hugged him.

You were so warm, the smell of grapes a comfort that drew him in instantly, his arms wrapping themselves around you tightly as he practically squished you against his body. You hummed contently, head buried in the crook of his neck, soaking him all in. Meanwhile, his hands kneaded at your skin, unafraid and unashamed of just how much he was pushing that invisible boundary he’d set up five years prior.

“I missed you.” You murmured against his chest.

His grip tightened in response. He was never letting you go again that was certain.

After much convincing, he allowed you to detach yourself from him enough to open the main house back up. None of you had any idea he’d be in town but apparently Mr. Danforth had grounded everyone for some unknown reason and he was close enough to the estate that he decided to sleep in his own bed for a night.

You sat on his bed while he unpacked. You managed to pull a few anecdotes from his travels but he mostly let you talk. And that you did.

You filled his cold room with so much warmth, stories from your studies, your friends, the life you had built for yourself in Europe melting the ice that had began to build around his heart.

You were older now, had lived enough that it had changed you. You didn’t resent him for what had happened five years ago, didn’t blame him for any of it, weren’t scared of him. You held his gaze, made him smile and laugh, did your best to show him that whatever your feelings had been then, they were not the same now.

“I thought…” he started, losing momentum quickly. 

You shifted on the bed, coming up to your knees as you shuffled to the edge, towards him. Your hands landed on his, encouraging, and he finally allowed himself to look into your eyes.

He was met with the most beautiful sight. Pupils blown, brows scrunched, pleading.

He couldn’t remember what he thought. It didn’t matter. None of it did.

He succumbed. He failed. He finally put down his weapon and accepted defeat.

He leaned in, his lips brushing yours too softly.

You wouldn’t have it.

You practically threw yourself on him, lips opening, hands landing on his shoulders to give you better leverage.

He groaned, possessive hands flying out to grab at you. The second he made contact, every reservation left behind disappeared.

Eager fingers dug into your plushness, grabbing handfuls of your ass and thigh as he pulled you into him. You moaned into the kiss and he somehow deepened it, his tongue devouring you, showing you just who you belonged to.

“Ti—” 

A gasp flew out of your lips as he picked you up and slammed you down on the bed in one swift movement.

No talking, there would be plenty of time for that later. Now he needed to act.

He wasted no more time getting you naked, a flurry of pants and shorts being discarded until you were left in only the lacy pair of underwear you had picked out.

They weren’t…he’d never seen these before. He studied them for a second too long, the wear around the cups, the discoloration from years of use. You smirked, bringing his gaze right back up to your face. You looked…devious, in a way he’d never seen you before. Like you knew. 

“Got them five years ago in Prague the second we landed,” you blushed, shame beautifully coming into the mix of your arousal. “To remember…”

His eyes sparkled at the realization. To remember how he’d killed—

Titus groaned, loudly, pressing his clothed chest back against your scantily clad one. The friction of his coat against your skin was divine, causing you to moan louder as his lips met yours once again.

He liked you before, his vision clouded by the desire to corrupt you, to take the good, gentle, angelic kid that he knew so well and transform her into a deranged psychopath like he was. But this version of you? Oh he loved it.

You were just as sick and twisted. He didn’t even have to try to persuade you into his darkness, it was as though you had been there all along, just waiting for him to realize it.

His teeth nipped at your lips, tugging enough to draw blood, to give him something to consume, something he could use to prove that you were alive, that he was alive. You returned the sentiment, biting down on his bottom lip and bringing him back down on you to mix in the iron flavor of the two of you.

His hips began to rut into you, deep and determined, his bulge already a tent against his thick pants.

“Ti please.”

He did not need to be told twice.

His hand snaked down between your bodies to hastily set his erection free from the confines of something as stupid and trivial as clothing, something he would never let you wear again.

You felt him smack against your clothed mound, thick and warm, and couldn’t help the ungodly moan that escaped your lips. He chuckled over you, one hand pulling your thong to the side, his fingers barely grazing your slick folds but enough to have him shivering.

You beamed at the reactions you could pull from him, how quickly and easily he came undone because of you.

His tip was inside of you in an instant, not gentle, not kind, nothing more than demanding and claiming. You’d been with other people before, that was no secret, at least you hoped it wasn’t because now, now you needed him to go rough.

Luckily for you, he felt the same way as his hips thrust into you instantly.

He was so hot. You were scalding. You could feel everything, ever vein, every ridge, every breath he took to steady himself so he didn’t blow his load immediately. 

Oh this motherfucker was going to knock you up.

You clenched around him without meaning to.

“Oh?” He chuckled, his eyes searching for something within your own. You covered your face with your hands instinctively, the blush that had creeped up your cheeks telling. “Oh.”

With that he sheathed himself inside of you to the hilt, his hips digging into your own painfully so, determined to flush you out of your shame. After a second too long you yelped loudly, hands coming off your face to push against his chest.

He relented, pulling back enough to where it wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. He took your hands off his chest and up towards his mouth, softly kissing each one before he pulled out of you and slammed back in.

“Yes, I am, I will,” he murmured into your ear. “And you’re going to love it. So full of me, of us, you’ll beg me to keep you like that forever.”

You whined as he lifted your legs towards your chest, knees practically touching your shoulders. His thrusts were unhinged, the lewdness from wet, slapping sounds filled the room as the chorus of your moans urged him forward.

You were so close, so overwhelmed by him everywhere, his pinewood and leather scent, his silky sheets against your back. This felt right, finally, as though the entire puzzle had been unlocked with just one piece.

“Let go, angel,” he commanded. “Cum with me.”

And so you did. My god you did.

Heat erupted from your core like an avalanche, the pleasure having never felt this perfect before. What made it even better was feeling him, hips pressed against your entrance as he locked himself deep inside of you and came, hot and long, filling you up like his life depended on it. Because it did. This was everything that mattered now.

Your entire body jerked occasionally as you came down from your high. After what felt like too long, Titus finally let himself fall down on your chest and you ran your fingers through his scalp, nails gently scratching and he hummed in satisfaction.

You stayed like that for a long time. Nothing outside of this room mattered. There was nothing that could make you give a fuck about anything that wasn’t him.

“Marry me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

“Titus—”

“No,” he raised himself back up to tower over you, causing you to shiver slightly. The toothy grin on the motherfucker was ridiculous and you loved it. “You will marry me and we will have a big, obnoxious family, and we’ll be happy, together, finally.”

You wanted to say yes. You should’ve said yes. But you didn’t. You hesitated.

“Why?” He sighed. “I can give you everything, anything, angel.”

“I already have everything.”

He shook his head. “You don’t. You could be free.”

“Free? With you?”

The way his face contorted into confusion and pain physically hurt you. But you knew, and he knew, that you were right.

You didn't have time to think about the past, not right now.

The second the old man began his countdown, you got up, poised and delicate, unafraid and calm. You smiled at Ursula, a silent plea she knew exactly what to do with, and excused yourself from the table.

One hundred seconds.

You walked into the house, aware of just how many eyes were on you.

Ten families had come to the celebration. Each one being around three people. There was no clarity on who could participate, only that they had to deliver you, preferably dead by dawn. Thirty people, well, twenty-nine after the early departure of Miss Kipling earlier in the day.

Watching Titus kill her had been a thrill then, a comfort now. If he had been at that dinner table too he would’ve wasted no time starting the clock early. He would not have held back, would’ve covered the entire lawn in crimson and you most certainly would be dead already.

The second you were out of view you ran.

That stupid silk dress had been a mistake. A mistake to think that you were safe. A mistake to think that you were home, especially when you knew what home meant for this family.

You kicked off your heels and practically rushed through your routine. You were supposed to go pheasant hunting with the other ladies in the morning so your outfit was thankfully already laid out for you.

You had to be quick, had to make it into the passages before you heard the gun go off, before you—

“They took him north,” Ursula’s voice cut through your panic, instantly putting you at ease. “You remember where he's stashed guns?”

You nodded, lacing up your boots at last. She stepped forward, looking down at you with an expression you could only describe as worry. It wasn’t just for you but for herself as well. You knew she’d tried desperately to find a match that would work but after three failed hunts, her resolve had been getting thin.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let them win.”

She nodded, her thumb ghosting over your lips for a second too long. “I know.”

And with that she was gone and you were alone again.

With one last breath, you opened the false wall behind your dresser and stepped into the house’s secret passageways.

The gun had gone off a second after, causing your heart to practically implode against your chest.

God, you hated hunting.

Every time Ursula invited you to her home you refused to play. It’s not that it appalled you, in all honesty it filled your body with a burning desire that made no logical sense. Instead, the pleasure you derived from them was found afterwards, when adrenaline was high and everyone seemed to be desperate for another form of release.

You would forever be thankful to Ursula for her guardianship, for the safe space to explore yourself, your sexuality, your desires. And since your father trusted her more than Titus to be the voice of reason, the “lead by example” child, he would let you free whenever she called on you. He didn’t need to know about the lewd nights of debauchery and how you always seemed to find yourself in her bed with whatever human toy she was messing around with at the time (if they survived the day that was).

Ursula empowered you where Titus tended to mold you, and that was the only reason why you managed to keep on a clear head as you slid into his room in search for his many weapons.

The light turned on suddenly.

“You’re exhaustingly predictable, you know that?”

Fucking Duke.

You turn to face him, leaning against Titus’s armoire, fingers softly searching for the gun you knew was taped to the side.

“And you’re pathetic if you think he’s gonna let you stake your claim on Ursula.”

“So you do remember me!” He chuckled darkly, slowly stalking his way across the room towards you. “I wasn’t sure since you seemed to be so out of it last time I saw you.”

You smirked, hand finally reaching the cold handle. “What can I say? I always remember someone who can’t make a lady cum.”

You definitely should not have said that, poking the tiger as it were, but you couldn’t help it. When he didn’t immediately pounce, you just kept going.

“Had to eat her out after you came too quickly,” a flash of shame in his eyes, emasculated. “So pathetic, actually.”

He pounced. You pulled out the gun, took off the safety and shot. 

The bullet pierced his shoulder, but he did not stop. 

Fuck.

His large hands wrapped around your own, pushing the gun into the air as you fired again. You were drawing too much attention, they were going to be on you soon enough. So you played dirty.

Your foot smacked him right between his legs, merciless. He instantly contracted in pain, hands letting go of yours and it took no time for you to aim the barrel between his eyes, pulling the trigger as if it were just another Friday night.

His body fell to the floor as the door burst open.

Back to running it was.

Before whoever had entered could see where you had gone, you were already on your way back downstairs. Maybe it was enough time to stall, to get down to the kitchen and slip out through the server’s entrance. You knew they always had a golf cart waiting, maybe you could figure it out.

You open the kitchen hatch slowly, peeking inside before actually rushing into the room because unlike everyone in this fucking family, you actually learned from your mistakes. With the coast clear, you slid into the eerily quiet room.

“Marta?” You whispered into the air.

Nothing.

Oh if something had happened to her—

“Mija—”

You still instantly, hiding behind the kitchen island. Your heart was racing already, adrenaline making you jumpy and jittery, and not in a good way. How Titus and Ursula got off on this feeling you’d never understand.

A set of keys slid across the marble floors towards you and you understood. You grabbed them, slowly rising to your feet as you started down the hall down to the cellar. While the property was connected through the gigantic gold course that ran between the resort and the lodge, underneath there was a collection of tunnels that did the same thing, a detail you had hoped no one knew about since most high ranking members did not concern themselves with the comings and goings of staff.

Unfortunately for you, that did not seem to be the case tonight as you felt a body slam into yours from behind before you even made it down the stairs.

You groaned in pain, gun falling from your grip towards a dark corner in the room.

You couldn’t tell who it was, who kept holding you down against the scratchy stone floor, who pressed their knee into your sternum, who cradled your head in their hands and squeezed.

All you knew was that you were not going to go down without a fight.

You scratched, you squirmed, you thrashed — your body wasn’t yours, it was wild and unrestrained. Your nail managed to stab right into their neck, right next to their carotid, enough for them to stumble backwards but not enough to incapacitate. But it didn’t matter. You just kept going.

Feral hands kept scratching, kept digging, kept stabbing.

It was only when you felt a gush of warmth dripping on your skin from above that you stopped, swiftly standing up and making a run for the cart. You got on and sped off into the night, not caring to stick around to see if they would make it or not.

You wiped as much blood off you as you could, following the directions you knew in your bones to the north side of the compound. You needed to let him know, needed to get in touch with him.

Desperate hands searched the glove compartment. There had to be something you could use. And luckily, there was, a fucking walkie.

You hastily turned it on, not caring if the sound might attract unwanted attention.

Channel 7 was alive as the guards kept each other appraised of what was happening throughout. Most families were still at the lodge, good. They had locked down every exit, also good. And then—

“Anyone got eyes on Mr. Danforth?”

“Still negative, sir. He heard the gunshots and bolted. My two guys are still crit.”

A broad smile adorned your lips. Good, he was definitely not going to stop now, especially if Ursula got to tell him what was happening.

“Be glad they’re still alive, Parker,” it was him. “Your men get in my way again and they won’t be so lucky.”

Fuck you almost cried tears of joy.

So you changed course. 

You pressed the talk button twice then waited for nine seconds before you pressed it again, quickly switching to channel two.

Your heartbeat was all you could hear for what felt like a small eternity before the decide on your lap came alive.

“Angel?”

You let out a disheveled sob at the sound of his voice and you could hear him inhale sharply on the other end.

“Ti—”

“Are you safe?”

“Almost.”

“Good,” he cooed. “You know where to go?”

“I do now.”

“Good girl,” he sighed in relief. “I’ll come find you once it’s done.”

“Leave it on,” the words slipped past your lips before you can stop them. “I wanna listen.”

The groan that erupted from his chest was feral.

“Anything for my bride.”

For the next hour, the only comfort was hearing the strained groans and screams from every single person Titus came across.

He unfortunately couldn’t kill them given the stupid rules, but he could make them hurt.

His father had been vague with his own rules for this challenge, and with that came a lot of room to get creative. No one would miss a few fingers, no one would question a few broken bones or ripped out hair. The human body would heal. But his pride, his rightful status as the head of this family required bloodshed, penance from his flock.

You were uncomfortably wet, your underwear soaked through as you made it into the little chapel on the property. In no normal world should Titus’s actions turned you on so much, but in the one you’d been groomed to take part of, every plea for mercy, every grunt, every scream, every breath that came out of him only aided in getting you ready for him.

You wasted no time slipping out of your pants, of your shirt, of every ounce of clothes that made you feel like you were being held prisoner. They had all been chosen by his father, by the system that he had wanted to keep you under. But what laid underneath, that worn lace that hugged your curves — that was all yours, all his.

You laid down on the table behind the altar, your fingers quickly found your soaked folds, eagerly smearing your wetness all over your slit as you began touching yourself. You pressed down on the call button and let out a strangled moan at the contact and Titus instantly stilled on the other side of the call.

“Are you touching yourself, angel?”

You held the button pressed again, moaned louder, encouraging, demanding.

“You’re playing with fire, little girl.”

“I’m just playing with you, over.”

The walkie came to life.

“If you don’t stop touching what’s mine there will be consequences.”

“I still belong to me, Ti,” you teased. “At least until sunrise.”

The door slammed open and you didn’t even flinch, only tossing the walkie to the side as he stalked forward.

You sat up from your hiding place, darkened eyes devouring him whole.

He was dripping, entire body covered in blood. The thick wool of his coat was soaked through, the substance seeping through and onto his button down as he made swift work of the buttons holding him captive.

“Well, good for you, I don’t give a fuck what you think.”

You smiled up at him, opening your legs as he wasted no time squishing your body under his. His mouth found yours instantly, one hand holding your jaw hostage as his tongue rammed inside of yours.

You were all his, finally, completely at his mercy, perfect, angelic, faintly smelling of iron and dirt and—

His eyes gave you a quick once over, noticing the bruising on your neck, the scratches on your cheek, the dirt in your hair.

“Angel—”

His voice was too soft and you hated it.

“Shut up and make me yours,” you demanded. “Again.”

That was all he needed to let himself go.

Possessive hands dug into your hips, his own pressing forward, his crotch rutting against your own. The stiffness of his clothes against the lace over your mound made you moan loudly. He rolled his hips again and again and again until your clit was swollen and raw. Your own hands tried to get his zipper undone but he was having none of it.

He bit down on your chest, right above your heart, and you stilled your movements instantly, body spasming as your orgasm took you by surprise. He chuckled darkly, the vibrations only prolonging the sensations.

When you were finally able to see straight again, he removed himself from your chest, his teeth perfectly imprinted on your skin, now purpling and bleeding slightly. Only then did he undo his pants, letting them pool at his feet as he set his erection free.

Satan, you’d missed him.

He swiftly flipped you on your stomach, pulling your ass up to where he needed you before he buried himself inside to the hilt.

You screamed, already so full of him that you didn’t know what to do with yourself

And then he started moving and you lost all sense of self.

There was no you anymore. It was only him and the two of you, your role as his bride, his wife, the mother of his children, his. 

He was ruthless and insatiable, didn’t care about your discomfort as he pistoned in and out of you in a feverish haze of desire and the need to claim. Titus had always been entitled to everything he had in his life, but you were not just something that he was owed, that he owned, no, you were everything to him.

He slowed down when he felt you getting close, his hand snaking in between your legs to rub your clit slowly, coaxing another orgasm from you. Only this time it wasn’t rough, it wasn’t demanding, it was loving and kind and soft.

You let yourself go, walls tightening around his impressively stiff length as he continued his slow movements all the way through. The tears started spilling after that, hot and unstoppable.

It was only when a sob erupted from your throat that he slipped out of you, flipping you on your back once again so he could bury himself inside of you, holding you tightly against him, his lips quickly meeting yours once more.

He knew you were a very sentimental person. You’d always cried on your birthday, always felt the need to pick up every stray you encountered, made sure that everyone in your life knew how loved and cherished they were.

His tongue licked up your face, cleaning up the wetness that had gathered. They tasted salty, like victory and success, like sticking it to his father and finally feeling like he was wanted by someone who didn’t have to accept him just because they were tied by an invisible blood bond.

It was only when your grip on his arms tightened that he started moving again. Slow, steady, knowing fully well that you were ovulating, because he knew, he always knew.

“You told him you’d give him grandchildren before he died,” he groaned in your ear, causing a shiver to run through your body. He chuckled, satisfied with your response. “Which means you better pray I get you pregnant tonight or else he will definitely not live long enough to satisfy your promise.”

You moaned as you felt his tip reach your cervix.

“Guess you’ll have to fill me up until it takes—”

His hips snap, painfully so, and you can only chuckle in response.

“Oh I intend to,” his lips ghost over yours. “My wife.”

The coil snaps then and you’re both coming undone.

You can’t help but wrap your legs around him tightly, hands scratching across his clothed back as his own leave bruises on your hips, pulling you so tight against him the pain snaps up again, mixing so beautifully with the pleasure you’re certain he’d be successful.

By the time he’s done you’re leaking but he doesn’t move, doesn’t dare detach himself from you. He’s gonna keep you there, stuck beneath him until the night is through, until he can put a giant rock on your finger and show you off to all the pathetic people who dared to think they could harm you.

He leaned down again, soft lips meeting yours in a silent promise, a possessive remark.

“My husband.”

He hummed, then, finally at peace. “My wife.”

a/n: I've been writing this since January and I have finally been able to finish it. God I love Titus so much, send me requests for him please!!

The morning of the Governor’s Ball, you wake up to Titus rattling off orders down the hall in the living room. You only catch every few words, but the tone is serious and low. The bedroom door is still open; he’s okay with you overhearing the conversation. You slowly get out of bed, stretching upward and then downward to decompress your spine. After brushing your teeth and taking your prenatal vitamins, you grab Titus’ favorite robe: Floor length sky blue silk with white lace trim. Your nipples press through your barely-there bralette and the thin luxurious fabric. Tying the waist tight to accentuate your curves, you exit the bedroom and head toward Titus’ voice. You know he likes to show you off.

When you approach the living room, you’re taken aback mid-step a few paces from the archway by just about the biggest man you’ve ever seen in your life, standing opposite Titus with his arms crossed over his massive chest. Titus is already tall and broad, but the man towers over him. In a tight black button down and dress pants that strain against his meaty thighs, he’s definitely dressed for a job interview. That’s what makes you realize.

You listen for a few more seconds before making yourself known just to get confirmation.

“-the most important position I’ve ever hired for,” Titus finishes his thought. “I expect you to be willing to put your life on the line for her. To kill for her and to die for her if you must.”

“Understood, sir.”

Titus nods slowly and swallows hard. He still hates the idea of having someone new following you around when he’s trusted his own detail for two decades, but it’s a necessary evil. With a tight sigh, he insists, “Repeat back the core rules to me again and then I’ll get her up to meet you.”

“Never allow the asset to leave my line of sight when in public. Proactive mitigation by checking entrances and exits before the asset moves through them. Protect the asset from any and all threats by any and all means necessary.” He straightens up and offers a huge, pockmarked, tattooed hand, “It takes a lot to bring a SEAL out of retirement after a gig like the Secret Service, but the opportunity is too special to pass up. Thank you, sir.”

Titus shakes his hand firmly but responds, “Thank me again tomorrow morning after you’ve actually seen the job in action tonight.”

“I’m sure I will. You picked the right man.”

Grip turning bruising, Titus steps in closer and adds, “And if I didn’t, never forget I’m always carrying my own gun, too. There is zero room for error when it comes to my heir and my wife.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Welcome to the team.”

Suppressing a self-satisfied little smirk because of how much Titus cares for you in his way, you make your presence known by stepping through the archway and sleepily musing, “I see we have company this morning.”

“You’re awake,” Titus observes, his features softening as soon as he sees you looking so profoundly his with your bare feet and your angelic robe and your sleepy eyes. He closes the space between you in a few long strides and pulls you close against his body. Embracing you as an excuse to grab greedily at your ass, he murmurs against your ear, “You look offensively gorgeous in this robe.”

When he pulls back, you give him a quick peck on the tip of his nose and eye him knowingly. “All for you.”

God, that total submissiveness in your tone. He absolutely wants to fuck your brains out. Frankly, he’s barely above bending you over in front of the staff. But definitely not new staff. So he takes you by the hand and leads you over to the other man with the firm, neutral expression. “Darling, this is Garcia. He’ll be your personal security from now on.”

Your heart pounds slightly at the knowledge of your first staff member. It’s a gesture that solidifies your position in the family to a certain degree. You give Garcia a smile you hope is one of a sexy aloof rich lady and tease, “I can’t believe someone actually lived up to Titus’ vision.”

Garcia nods. He’s clearly been briefed on the ‘no touching outside of emergencies’ rule because his hands stay firmly at his sides. “He certainly sets rigorous standards for your safety, Mrs. Danforth. I look forward to being a part of your team.”

Titus explains further, “He’ll be accompanying us to the Governor’s Ball tonight as a sort of trial period since you’ll almost definitely be whisked away from me a few times. If you like him, we’ll keep him.” If you don’t, he already knows too much, so I’ll dispose of him. With his hand low on your hip and his lips to your temple, Titus asks, “Anything else you’d like him to know before he starts, princess?”

You can tell that he wants you to come up with something – to show you can be in charge of someone else – so you think a moment and address Garcia, “If you see me adjust my necklace, then I want you to come up and pretend there’s something very important that you have to take me away for so I don’t have to talk to whoever I’m with.”

Titus squeezes your waist and teases, “How very diplomatic of you.”

You put on a dramatic tone and feign tragedy with the back of your hand on your forehead. “If I absolutely must be separated from my darling fiancé, then I need an escape plan from Ursula’s catty friends.”

That gets an honest, rumbling laugh from him and he agrees, “That’s more than fair. I should’ve come up with something like that years ago.”

“I got the idea from Veep. You just need to watch more TV.”

“Mmm. Maybe so.” He kisses you softly – the PDA rule has gone completely out the window ever since you found the bones in the forest; Titus is obsessed with you now – and coos, “You keep me young.”

You preen a bit, give him a deeper kiss, and then tell Garcia, “And on a less fun note, my first trimester nausea is still terrible, so you should always know the closest place I can safely puke without getting caught. Carry mouthwash, too, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind anything when it comes to my work. You have my total discretion to share anything you need at any time,” Garcia assures. Titus gives an approving tilt of his chin. Committing the orders to memory, he tells you, “Those will be no problem, ma’am.”

You wrinkle your nose and correct, “And no ‘ma’am.’ Just ‘Mrs. Danforth.’”

He smiles just enough to be professional and amends, “Of course, Mrs. Danforth.”

As Garcia falls back to his post next to Smith by the front entrance, Titus nods back toward the bedroom and tells you, “Come help me get ready, bunny. The helicopter’s half an hour out.”

You pout but agree. “I can’t believe you get to take a helicopter while I’m stuck with Chip and Ursula for two hours tonight.”

“You would hate everything Father and I are doing this morning, I promise,” he replies, lifting your hand to kiss your middle fingers. “All business, no play.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t sound like my kind of thing,” you concede as you twine your fingers with his. “I like Garcia, by the way. I can tell he’ll be a good fit,” you say as Titus pulls you to the bedroom by the hand. Once you’re behind the closed door, you press your palm to the center of his chest and tease, “Good job on the hiring process, ducky.”

He rolls his eyes and scolds, “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

You smile cheekily at him and counter, Yes, I am.”

It’s one hell of a long day preparing for the Governor’s Ball once Titus is gone. Chip drives you and Ursula up to the Waldorf Astoria as soon as you can check in because Ursula’s insisted on helping you get ready for your social debut. She spends a solid hour arranging and rearranging your hair until she’s satisfied that it’s fancy enough. Once you’re tied into the royal blue gown, she holds up different sets of jewelry next to you, brows furrowed as she tries to match you with the right option on loan from a few designers in the area. She cakes your face in more glam makeup than you’ve ever worn even as a sugar baby, smoothing and contouring and highlighting. She also insists on elbow-length white gloves, heels high enough to make you wobble, and a round of professional teeth-bleaching by a dentist ordered to the hotel.

For as disoriented and nervous as she’s made you feel over the afternoon, it’s undeniable that you look gorgeous when she’s finished. The person in the mirror hardly looks like you, all elegant and at home in luxury. You suddenly understand the whole ‘I feel like a million bucks’ thing with an outfit nearing six figures draped easily over your curves.

When 7:30 rolls around, Ursula says a borderline affectionate goodbye to you, joining Father in a town car while you wait for Titus in the Waldorf Astoria lobby. You sense his presence before he’s even in the building as he gets out of his limousine. There’s a straightening of postures among the staff, a stillness in the bustle, an air that someone important is among them.

You’re glad that you see him before he sees you. This is the first time you’ve seen Titus in an ultra-formal outfit. His suit is made impeccable and timeless with a white jacket instead of the traditional black, the details finely crafted and exuding quiet wealth and status.

When he catches your eye across the lobby, he gives you a confident smile. Finally feeling some pep in your step, you breeze through the space and into his arms. He stops you just short, taking one of your hands above your head and spinning you in a slow circle.

“Absolutely divine,” he praises as he looks over your outfit properly with a discerning eye. His first finger drags down your neck in the shadow of the sapphires set in white gold that drip down from your ears. “To think you’re so lovely that you make antique Harry Winston jewelry mundane compared to your features.”

You roll your eyes just to stamp down the huge part of you that’s swooning at his sugary affection. Trying not to sound too wooed, you run your hands down his lapels and tease, “You’re such a suckup.” 

“For you? Perpetually.”

Up close, you admire the finer points of his curated look. Silver cufflinks in the shape of roses, silk bow tie, pocket chain with real pearls braided in. There’s an ever so subtle jacquard pattern on his waistcoat that matches the details on his wingtip shoes. With a dreamy sigh, you tell him, “You don’t look half bad yourself, handsome.”

“What, this old thing?”

Titus smirks and takes your hand in his, admiring your fresh French tips for a second, and leads you toward the doors. The white limo is still idling by the curb, Chip situated by the side to help you in as usual. Once you’re seated across from each other on the plush seats, you fall into a charged but comfortable silence. You’re too nervous to speak and Titus knows better than to press you when you’re focusing on breathing evenly and sorting yourself out. You’re far too independent to want a forced pep talk.

He only breaks the quiet when Chip pulls the limo into the roundabout in front of the governor’s mansion. He touches your knee to take your attention and asks, “Ready for your first evening of schmoozing and finger foods?”

“I think so.” You press your deep red lips into a nervous smile and take a slow breath. “Any last words of wisdom?”

He lifts your chin gently with his first finger and tells you, voice more fond than you’re used to hearing, “Just remember you deserve to be there as much as anyone else.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” you reply sheepishly. “I’m onlyyour arm candy. Pretty and sweet and not much else.”

Titus shakes his head and kisses your hand. “‘Only’ is a disservice to you. You should brush up on your Jane Austen.” Then he recites with a peacocking sort of smile, “‘Supposing her to be, as you describe her, only pretty and good-natured, let me tell you, that in the degree she possesses them, these are not trivial recommendations to the world in general. Such a girl is exactly what every man delights in – what at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his judgment.’” His thumb brushes your cheek gently enough to not disturb your makeup and you shiver under his complete attention. “You have no idea what a weapon ‘pretty and sweet’ can be, princess. You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe you could wield them well. Try to see that clearly tonight.”

Tears sting at your eyes and you blink them back, not wanting to mess with Ursula’s perfect makeup even though she promised everything is set to the nines. You give him a warm smile that seems almost on the verge of confidence and say simply, “Thank you.”

Then Chip’s opening the limo door, Titus is helping you out, and the night is on.

The first half hour is a blur. There are photographers swarming the place and Titus regularly reminds you to stay smiling even when you’re neutral. The moment you’re inside, you’re wading through an ocean of introductions that go by at such a pace that you don’t remember a single one of them, even hearing words like ‘congressman’ and ‘CEO’ blur by. Knowing who people are isn’t important; softening Titus and reflecting well on him is.

Pretty and sweet.

Your weapons.

You’re beginning to find your footing in the Loubotin stilettos when a woman who is very clearly Titus’ ex approaches with a huge, forced smile and wide open arms. Titus accepts a quick hug and you can tell he’s suppressing annoyance when they trade kisses on the cheeks.

“Titus, you look phenomenal,” she purrs, squeezing his bicep like it definitely isn’t the first time. She gives you a sneering sort of glance and asks him, amused and judgmental, “You brought your latest toy to the Governor’s Ball?”

“No more toys for me,” he corrects, polite but stern. He draws you forward and presents you engagement-ring-first. “Dear, this is Katherine Getty. Katherine, please let me introduce my fiancée.”

When your non-dynastic name hits her ears, she scoffs in disbelief. Despite all the surprise tonight, this is the first time someone’s been outright rude to you. Titus is barely holding it together with his set jaw and dark eyes. Katherine looks you over with fresh eyes but still doesn’t seem to find anything particularly impressive. “I never thought I’d see the day you’d settle down, Ty. I spent years chasing that ring with the best pedigree in the country. She must be more than meets the eye.”

You give a magnanimous, maybe slightly possessive, smile and lean into Titus. He takes the cue to snake his arm around your hip, delighted to see you settling into your position at his side. Making sure your gaudy ring is in full view as you touch his chest and gaze up at him, you say sweetly, like you’re truly just infatuated, “It just takes the right woman to tame a man like him.”

Stiffening up at the display of something akin to dominance, she balks. “I haven’t even received an invitation yet.”

“Ursula’s in charge of the guest list,” he replies with a mock sympathetic pout. “You’ll have to take it up with her.”

The buck successfully passed, she huffs in the opposite direction, beady eyes darting for her next target.

Before the next person can take his attention, Titus nips a quick kiss at your jaw and murmurs with a chuckle, “Jealousy definitely suits you, bunny.”

“Not jealous,” you reply jealously, lip pursed jealously, “just…okay, you’re right.” You turn to him and half-jokingly hiss, “Mine. Ty.”

He laughs sharply and then writes it off like a cough when he catches the attention of someone nearby. He shakes his head and playfully admonishes, “You’re getting me in trouble, kitten.”

You bat your lashes. “That doesn’t sound like little old me.” 

“Of course not,” he snickers. “Come on, you need to eat something.”

“I’m okay; I don’t mind-”

“I wasn’t asking,” he interrupts, pushing you forward by the small of your back, sure not to let anyone bump into you. When he spots the closest array of mouth-watering hors d’ouevres “If I know my sister, she didn’t let you eat a proper lunch with protein in the name of ‘not looking too pregnant.’”

“That would be about right,” you concede as you take in the extravagant, way over-the-top spread of tiny foods worth half a paycheck per bite. Caviar, oysters, scallops, carpaccio. In addition to this overflowing station where a white-coat chef curates individual plates, there are plenty of waiters carrying around flutes of champagne and more food. You admit under your breath, “Fuck, I am hungry.” Then you frown and mutter, “Shit, I was gonna try not to curse tonight. Shoot.”

Titus stifles his laugh and assures, “You’re doing amazing.”

A few minutes later, your mood has lifted up into actual happiness once you have a stomach lined with prosciutto-wrapped figs, pimento croquettes, polenta cakes, and a handful of other things Titus approves of for his version of a pregnancy diet. As soon as he’s promised to bring you over for equally decadent dessert decisions, though, the damn governor interrupts your joy.

You force on a glittery smile as they approach. The governor’s in a full penguin suit and his wife is wearing a dress that makes her look more like a cake than a person, but that could be your unfulfilled dessert cravings talking.

With both his hands clasped around Titus’ one, the governor opines, “Titus, thank you so much for coming tonight. It means the world to have your support so visible. You’ve been invaluable in this election cycle and I just know we’re going to do some great work together.”

“The man of the hour, as I live and breathe!” Titus gestures warmly in your direction and flourishes, “Darling, I’m sure you recognize our newly elected Governor Theodore Lipschitz and his lovely wife Diane. Lngtime friends of the family.”

The governor gives Titus an affectionate (if slightly stiff, afraid even) clap on the back and ribs, “You have to be to make it in politics these days, right?”

“Absolutely right, sir,” Titus replies, smooth and casual with amused eyes in your direction. “This is my fiancée, governor. I hope you’ve received the wedding invitations safely.”

“Of course; we’ll be there in our Sunday best.” Governor Lipschitz lifts your hand and presses his lips to your ring finger. “Lovely to meet you.” He gives Titus what looks like a congratulatory handshake and adds, “What a beautiful creature you’ve found for yourself at last, Mr. Danforth.”

“I’m glad you agree. She’s well worth the wait.” He returns a smile only you know is false and then gives you and the governor’s wife a pointed, still smiling glance. “Mrs. Lipschitz, would you be so generous as to show her around the grounds while Teddy and I catch up? It’s her first time on this magnificent property and nobody gives the tour quite like you.”

Mrs. Lipschitz lights up with a huge smile. She grabs your gloved arm without a second thought, looping it with her own, and exclaims, “What a perfect idea! You absolutely must see the new sconces I had installed in the portrait hall. See, they were imported from Italy after the late great architect…”

Then she’s yanking you toward the other side of the mansion before she’s even finished the sentence. Titus mouths an amused ‘sorry’ as you’re whisked away, leaving him with a precious few moments alone with the governor just as he’d wanted.

What ensues is the most boring half hour of your life, a smile plastered on your face as you nod at fact after fact about porcelain dishes and high-pile natural wool carpets and, yes, Italian sconces. At least Mrs. Lipschitz collects plenty of other unsuspecting guests to be part of the audience. By the end of the tour, she might as well be charging for tickets because of how many poor plus ones are following her around.

Near the end, you’re able to slip away unnoticed, slinking through the shadows into the cool night air, a welcome relief. The upper balcony looks over on all of DC, blinking into life at night, a world you never thought you’d be apart of despite only living a few hours away. Your only companion is Garcia, silent and invisible a few paces back, just keeping his eyes out so you don’t have to. After you’ve been alone a minute, long enough to recenter yourself, you hear the crackle of Garcia’s hidden radio device and Smith murmuring something on the other side. Garcia relays quietly, “Falcon flying solo on the upper west balcony. Cleared to transport eagle.”

You let out a sharp laugh through your nose and roll your eyes. Of course those would be Titus’ preferred code names. You straighten up your posture and lean against the railing, waiting for Titus to emerge from one of the exterior doors.

When he does, it’s with a wolfish grin as he approachses you fast. Before you can even greet him, he dips you into a long kiss that steals your breath away. When he feels you gasp quietly, he chuckles and pushes you further. Until you’re off balance. You flail and giggle and he catches you the way he always does. He murmurs teasingly against your lips, “Have a good tour, princess?”

As you regain your footing but stay in his arms, you reply, “Oh, it was fantastic. Exactly what I needed to pep up my night.”

Titus gives a conspiratorial smirk. “Did she tell you the whole ‘reclaimed 1700s Spanish shipwreck wood’ anecdote?”

You groan and confirm, “Who knew pirates were so influential in American colonial design?”

He snickers and places his hand on your lower back to lead you back inside the mansion’s throng of people, security flanking you at a distance. “Seriously, though, thank you for going along with her. You stole me a word alone with the governor that I desperately needed.”

“That’s my job,” you lilt easily, snatching up a few more prosciutto-wrapped candied figs from the nearest roaming waiter. “Did you get all your big boy talk done or should I fake an injury next?”

“We did,” he confirms with a much needed laugh. He murmurs against your ear, “Looks like our eight million dollar campaign donation will serve us well this term.”

You swallow hard and try not to stiffen at the figure. Titus notices the slight change to your posture and chuckles at it, still enjoying your adjustment period nerves. “What’s that kind of money get you these days? Public library? Fleet of fire trucks?”

He clears his throat and, like he’s embarrassed, admits to you, “We’re actually opening a free clinic for unhoused people in the metro area.”

You shake your head in disbelief. “That’s amazing. You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I don’t want you thinking I’m some bleeding heart,” he replies, sporting a teasing smirk but clearly telling a certain level of truth. Interesting. “Come on, I haven’t had a minute alone with you all day and I'm...” His voice drifts into quiet but his hungry eyes do all the talking he needs.

The walk across the mansion – across the ballroom floor and up a staircase, not far – takes half an hour with all the people who just have to stop Titus and introduce themselves to you. The whole time, Titus seems to be making a point of driving you up the wall with lust. He knows exactly how to look at you, exactly how to graze his thumb beneath the low back of your dress, how to murmur filth in your ear as if you aren’t in public. He’s playing you like a violin he’s been taking lessons in for a decade, tuning you to him so he can pluck out whatever melody he wants.

When he finally gets you alone in a shadowy corner, you’re, to put it simply, a problem. You yank him close by the lapels, hard enough that his instincts flare, making him want to fight you off, but he manages to control himself, turning the energy into a laugh instead. He lets you kiss him hard and harsh, your mouth needy and whiny as it meets his. He breaks it just long enough to ask, as if it isn't his fault, “What’s gotten into you, bunny?”

“I’ve just wanted you so bad today,” you groan into the kiss. “Fucking hormones and then seeing you in this goddamn suit looking like James fucking Bond ready to ravish me.”

Titus chuckles as he enjoys having your desperate hands all over him. “That mouth of yours. Always getting me in trouble.”

“Oh no,” you mock, palming his bulge through his expensive trousers, “you hate trouble so much.”

“If I hated trouble, I wouldn’t have picked you,” he laughs, taking your hand from his lower half and tugging you down the hall to a nearby door. As he presses you against it, he murmurs, “You know I always take care of what’s mine.”

The he subtly gestures ‘stay back’ to your security and pushes you through the doorway. You don’t even get a second to think before his lips are on yours, his hands groping your tits through the fabric of your dress, grinding his cock on your hip, clearly as needy as you are.

When your back accidentally bumps into a golden Italian wall sconce, you realize. And gasp. You smack Titus’ chest and whisper-yell at him, “We’re in the governor’s bedroom?!”

His fingers go to the back of your neck, hovering over the sleek tie of your halter. He raises an eyebrow and presses, “And?”

“They could come in here any second!”

He draws it out longer this time, tugging at the delicate bow behind your neck until it gives: “And?”

As the fabric waterfalls down to pool around your feet, leaving you in the lingerie set that almost perfectly matches your skin, Titus drags his hands down your goosebumped arms. You can feel your heartbeat thudding beneath his touch. “This is a bad idea, Titus.”

But those hazel eyes of his are just so damn convincing when they’re traveling all over your body like he’s admiring a precious new possession. His mouth goes to the curve of your neck where it meets your shoulder. Your resolve is melting and melting fast. As he effortlessly undoes your bra clasp to free your tits, he bites kisses up your skin until he’s at your earlobe, where he muses, “Has that ever stopped me before?”

You can’t help giggling when you catch yourself in the floor-length mirror across the bedroom, its ornate frame reflecting back a mostly-naked woman staring at a tuxedo-clad silver fox like he holds the key to the world. You tilt your head to the side to give him better access, craving his attention, and lilt, “I suppose not.”

He pulls back and strokes your cheek affectionately and goes on like he’s not even talking to you, all teasing like this is your idea, “My sweet pet needs me to take care of her. Missed me all day, she says. So pathetically horny for me. Well, I think she deserves better than some lazy bathroom fuck. I’d like to believe eight million dollars entitles me to at least one taboo tryst in the governor’s bed, wouldn’t you think?”

With him manhandling you just how you need, all you can do is nod stupidly. “Whatever you say.”

“Now that’s more like it.” He holds your chin, levels you with a heady gaze, and asks you, “So, what exactly do you need, kitten?”

With your eyes flicking briefly to his lips, somehow even sexier smeared with your lipstick, you whisper, “Want the truth?”

He raises a curious eyebrow. “Always.”

“Right now? I’ll take whatever you’ll give me.” You slowly drop to your knees and watch his pupils blow dark and wide. Resting your chin submissively on his muscular thigh, you admit, “I’m hormonal and I’m anxious and my brain is going way too fast and I just- I want you to take care of it however you think I need.”

Desire curls like smoke through his whole body. It stirs his cock and fills his stomach with unfamiliar butterflies and thickens his vocal chords.

Take care of it however you think I need.

Take care of it.

However you think I need.

Titus has never, in his long and privileged life, heard such a delectable sentence. It makes him weak. Stupid. Total deference, total trust – freely given. Not taken with violence and power but served on a silver platter by a woman who’s never taken shit from anyone.

He nearly cums on the spot.

First, as he composes himself, he offers you his hand and orders, low and borderline sweet, “No wife of mine will be on her bare knees on the floor.”

You bite your lip, suppressing a smile, as you rise to your feet and loop your arms around the back of his neck, toying with his curls. “Where should I go, then?”

“On the bed. Put your hands out in front of you. Wrists together.” As you follow his order with kindling sparking in your belly, Titus reaches up and undoes his bowtie – slowly, so you have to watch his thick, deft fingers move around the silk. You present your hands obediently and try not to be too obvious with how much his every little move is turning you on right now; he has enough of an ego already. As he ties your wrists together with a lovely bow, he coos, “There’s my pretty girl. The perfect present for me.” Then he lifts your arms up so they’re above your head and commands, “Keep those up there. Can’t have you messing up my hair, can we? Do try to behave yourself.”

You nod your understanding as you try to keep quiet. You’re convinced that your lips parting even slightly would result in a devastatingly pathetic sound coming out, the kind Titus would latch onto and torture you for.

He smirks anyway, though. The bastard. He always knows when he’s turning you to putty. In one quick gesture, he tugs your panties down your legs and discards them on the floor. After halting in a second to see how wet you are for him and him alone, Titus situates himself between your legs, shoving your knees apart, and wastes no time getting to work on your cunt. The risk and his stupidly controlling behavior have you lurching fast and mean toward an orgasm like a bullet train.

And Titus can tell. Of course he can. He has an uncanny ability to read your mind during sex, his eyes boring holes through you and into your psyche. So he slides his two middle fingers instead of your wanting pussy and sighs happily when your cunt clenches down hard around them. Titus is never so serene and simple as when he’s between your legs. He goes thoughtless in the best way, focused solely on ripping slutty little sounds and squelching wetness from you. He wants to make you a mess, to ruin you, and to consume to aftermath.

Your body’s begging so much that you cum in a matter of moments once his fingers are pumping knowingly inside of you. It’s a jet stream, not a tidal wave, the kind of orgasm that slaps you across the face instead of working you up slowly. Titus grabs your hips when they inadvertently tighten around his head, not particularly caring for oxygen when he has your juices flowing over his chin. He lets himself reach the point where his vision is spotting with black before he releases your legs and takes a second to listen to your whimpering, heavy breathing.

Titus doesn’t stop, though. Not even for a millisecond. As your moans go squeaky and stupid, he slows down and lightens the pressure of his tongue, yes, but only so that you’ll stop trying to squirm away from him. Waiting patiently for your oversensitivity to end enough for him to lick and suck as hard as he wants, he goes between gently whispering his tongue over your clit and kissing your inner thighs. Every touch ignites you more than the last. Whether it’s the hormones or the new trappings of your life, you couldn’t say, but sex with Titus lately has turned into sex with god himself.

As your breaths even back out, Titus ramps up his attention once again. This time, he eases it out of you, knowing that’s the best way to get you completely brain-dead before sending you back to sleep at the hotel. His end-of-night scruff burns against your sensitive flesh in a way that heightens your pleasure even more, the contrast of sensations ecstatic. You strain against your tied wrists just to give yourself something to focus on besides the all-consuming nature of being with Titus.

Then he adds a third finger and you’re slammed back into it. You feel your legs starting to shake from how you’re constantly tightening and loosening your muscles to try to be good. His fingernails dig into your ass hard enough you know they’re right on the verge of drawing blood. If you were at home, he’d break the skin and lick the blood from it. And you’d relish his tongue wanting to consume all of you in even the darkest ways. Now, in a place where you absolutely should not be, the only thing on your mind is how Titus could bend you over in a crowded room and you’d let him. He’s in your mind, fucking not just your body but your head.

And you let him.

You let him in.

You let him have all you without pretense or apology.

The orgasm boils up from a bare simmer, gaining strength and urgency with each passing second. Titus doesn’t rush you through it and he doesn’t edge you. Either would destroy you and he can tell. You need this, need him to recreate you into this woman who can wear the designer dress and sneak away for secret romps in expensive places. His mouth christens you.

You’re floating up out of your body in the aftershocks, claustrophobically close and so far away you might as well be in the afterlife. It’s too much and not enough and everything and nothing. When he doesn’t let up even then, even with you going limp and gentle, you wail out, still fighting to stay quiet, “Too- too much. I can’t take it.”

He can tell you don’t mean it, that really you’ll take as much as he can bear to give you, so he lifts off for only a single second to growl with harsh eye contact, “Be quiet until I’m finished.”

You whimper and thrash and whine as he latches back onto your clit, completely merciless on your swollen pussy. “Titus, I- I really-” He hears you sniffle and actually tunes in to you, trying to understand the out-of-place sound. You whisper, “I need you. Please.”

He looks at you curiously, head tilted to the side. Your tears run down your cheeks and all your features look particularly innocent and weepy. Pathetic. Prey. Almost condescending, he coos, “What’s wrong, princess?”

“Nothing. I’m so, so fucking good,” you assure, breathless and pretty and sweet, “but I need your eyes. I need to see you.”

He pauses for a second and then admits, “I don’t understand.”

You bite your lower lip to stop it from wobbling. Then you lower your voice to just above a whisper and reply, “Do you need to?”

“No, I don’t,” he agrees, moving up to lay next to you on his side. “If you need me, I’m here.”

You capture him in a deep kiss that grounds you back into your body. He notices that you’re shaking slightly from the intensity, so he wraps his arm around you and kisses your forehead. “You’ve been so good tonight, kitten. Perfect.”

Against his lips, you smile softly. “Thank you. I’m trying.”

“You’re succeeding,” he promises. Then his right hand travels between your still-parted legs and he murmurs against your ear, “Now that you have my eyes, you still have to give me one more. I want you looking completely thoughtless when we go back out. Can you do that for me?”

You catch his hazel eyes with yours and reply the truth you’ve discovered since you agreed to this whole situation: “I can do anything for you.”

“Good girl.” His calloused fingers circle your clit gently as he amends, “My good girl.”

The two of you fall into an unusual silence after that. Usually you’re both loud, filthy, whether talking or just grunting and moaning and breathing, but right now he’s being so tender with you that it’s taken not only your breath but your voice and your will away. You’re a soft, pliant thing for him, something gentle and moldable as clay. He’s kissing you over and over, both your eyes closed, your lips meeting with a hunger that isn’t violent or ferocious like usual. This hunger is something else. The kind of hunger that comes not when you’re desperate but when you’re safe, waking up from a long nap with your favorite food waiting for you in the fridge.

Then you hear Titus whimper and your arousal sparks tenfold. Rubbing his clothed cock against your hip and kissing you like a husband kisses a wife, he releases one tiny, high-pitched whine for barely a second. Like a dam cracking but still holding. He’s never made a sound like that with you. Ever. You don’t draw attention to it for even a split second, don’t give any sign you’ve noticed, and actually pretend you didn’t hear it at all.

But it’s playing on repeat in your mind and it’s making his fingers feel like a custom-made sex toy on your pulsing clit. He speeds up with each of your moans, murmuring affirmations against your ear in that gravelly voice of his. That’s it, baby. Right there. Being so good for me. You feel hypnotized by him, not just his fingers but by his very presence. For the first time, you don’t feel like his sugar baby or his trophy wife. You just feel like his.

It’s overwhelming.

Feeling how close you are, Titus orders quietly, “Give me your eyes.”

Your heavy lids obey. You’re beyond thought, so it’s instinctive. Titus asks, you do. With your hands up above your head, your chest heaves in the most beautiful way he’s ever seen. He can barely bring himself to meet your gaze because he just knows that it’s weakening a part of him he’s spent a lifetime trying to keep strong, untouchable.

But when he looks into your eyes, then, as your third and final orgasm crests the shore of your pleasure and your trust is as transparent as the tears on your waterline, he understands what you meant earlier.

I need to see you.

All of a sudden, his stomach drops in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant. His heart tightens. Because you’re looking at him. Not just looking, no. Yearning. Admiring.

Loving.

His eyes go from narrow to widened as his fingers coax you over the edge. Your back arches, your lips part, and your eyes don’t leave his.

This is what praying’s supposed to feel like, isn’t it?

Heat and pleasure and everything wash over him all at once and he nearly chokes out a sob.

Warmth spreads over his crotch.

Wet, sticky warmth.

Titus almost startles back, but your broken moans keep him in the slow-motion moment when he realizes he’s been grinding against your hip while getting you off, falling into you enough to do something he hasn’t done since puberty. He isn’t horrified, exactly, but he is shocked. It feels like his organs have been replaced by crumpled up paper, no longer neatly filed and pressed.

Then you present your wrists for him to untie and breathily offer, “Thank you.”

He swiftly undoes the silk and slips it into his pocket, hardly able to look at you for how foreign his body feels because of your…something. Your power over him, he supposes. But not quite. He still knows he’s in charge. Something else. Something even stronger.

When he doesn’t respond – Titus loves to puff up his chest when you’re obedient and grateful instead of bratty and challenging – your brows furrow. Cupping his scruffy jaw, you half-slur, not quite down from the clouds yet, “Are you okay, Titus?”

He turns back to gaze at you and realizes that, yes, he is okay. In fact, he feels fucking phenomenal. So he gives you a deep kiss and affirms, “Nothing makes me happier than taking care of my girl.”

Then he smiles.

You’ve never realized how downright cute his canine teeth are because he so rarely actually smiles with them.

You run your hand up his thigh, stopping just before touching his cock, and ask, “Do we have time to…?”

He shakes his head, glad to have the out so he doesn’t have to reveal what’s happened to him below the belt. “I just wanted to satisfy you, kitten. So you can sleep well once you’re alone. I have a long night of my own fun ahead.”

“Mmm.” You lean up and kiss him again before teasing, “As long as it’s not that kind of fun.”

“Of course not.” His index finger traces over your cheek bone, down your jaw, and between your breasts. “I know what’s waiting for me at home.”

Despite your bashful smile, you can’t help teasing, “When did you become such a sap?”

“Careful, baby, you’re still naked on the governor’s bed,” he quips back, nodding to your soaked pussy on the verge of dripping onto the comforter. As you practically leap to your feet and scamper to the bathroom to clean yourself up, Titus grins, lifts his wrist to his mouth, activates the radio on his watch, and orders, “Garcia, bring Mrs. Danforth’s makeup bag to the governor’s primary suite; she needs to touch herself up before we return to the party.”

“Ten-four.”

A minute later Titus opens the bedroom door with a shit-eating grin on his face. Over Titus’ shoulder, Garcia can see your traipsing around the bedroom naked, collecting your clothes, smiling to yourself. Obviously ravished. He immediately returns his eyes to Titus, making it clear that he has no thoughts about it. Instead, he informs the boss, “I had to reroute the governor from going into the bedroom. If he mentions it, Mrs. Danforth felt sick from her pregnancy and needed somewhere private to cool down.” Then he reaches into the interior pocket of his suit and hands over a few items in addition to the makeup bag he’d been carrying – a few individually wrapped wipes, breath mints, and a travel-sized portion of Titus’ preferred hair mousse. “I hope you don’t mind my assuming what else you might need, sir.”

Titus gives him an amused, approving look and takes everything from him. “It doesn’t bother you that you just had to cover for my wife so she could get off all over the governor’s bed?”

“My job is protecting Mrs. Danforth from danger and scandal no matter the situation.” Garcia shrugs like it’s obvious. “The situation itself is irrelevant to me.”

Titus claps him on the shoulder and chuckles, suddenly feeling better than he has in years. “The job is definitely yours, good man.”

Tuning out Jenna’s play-by-play commentary of her date last night, you tried to surreptitiously count through the money in your purse again. The downside of working as a stripper meant that all the small denominations produced an uncomfortably thick stack of bills. So thick it now made your old-school coin purse almost burst at the seams and you struggled to keep it all in hand while counting. You had discreetly excavated your stash from its hiding place yesterday while Pope busied himself with the window, as you would need most of it to pay for all the books and equipment today. There had not been time to count it last night, but now you did and… well, you didn’t exactly come up short. 

You counted through the money again — the crinkled bills shuffling between your fingers and some worn corners flapping in the wind. It had not been an exaggeration yesterday that you were good with numbers and right now they were not adding up. 

“…stuff turns to, like, rubber cement in the shower, you know? Right? Hey. Babe?” Jenna’s voice came stronger and more exasperated, as she took her eyes off the road to look your way. “Are you listening to a single word I’m saying?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you replied distractedly and flipped your fingers through the bills again. “It’s because of the protein. Use cold water and scrape it off.”

“Duh, I know, I’m not an amateur. And you shouldn’t frown like that, it’ll give you that ugly wrinkle that’s a hard fix even with Botox. What’s the deal? You got a bad bill in there or something? Suspicious stains, now that we’re on the topic?”

“Eyes on the road, please,” you admonished and automatically pulled your purse away when Jenna tried to lean over the console to see, sending an avalanche of lip balms tumbling to the floor. 

The interior of her car was a stark contrast to Pope’s truck, and you had shifted an armful of empty water bottles, sandy flip-flops and bright candy bar wrappers to the back before catching a glimpse of the passenger seat. An assortment of eyeliners and mascaras laid scattered in the console, along with bobby pins and various coins while a column of multi-colored hair ties swaddled the gear stick. The whole car smelled vaguely like the strip club dressing room, only with the added undertones of sunscreen, even with the windows open.

“I read somewhere that three out of four banknotes test positive for traces of cocaine,” Jenna continued conversationally, but with her main focus back on the road. “And that one in ten carried fecal contamination.”

You paused where you counted through the stack and grimaced. “How can you know this,” dropping the cash you grabbed some wet wipes to clean your hands, “and still put twenties up your nose to snort coke?”

“Oh, excuse me, which one of us are getting bills shoved into who-knows-where by god-knows-who?” Jenna’s manicured finger nails waved around where she emphasized her words with her hands. “Besides, I put a lot of things up a lot of places trying not to think of where it’s been before. Seriously, though, what’s the deal? Someone got into your stash again?”

“Uh, I’m not sure,” you admitted honestly and resisted the urge to do another quick tally. “I probably just miscounted it earlier this week or I’m remembering it wrong or something. No big deal.”

“But you’re like Rain Man—”

“I’m not like Rain Man.”

“Hello, your favorite party trick used to be memorizing phone numbers!” Jenna pointed out, and you rolled your eyes again, glaring out the window because you knew she had a point. “Your math is always solid.”

“Yeah, but I’ve had a busy week and been stressed out a lot. There’s probably something I’ve forgotten about.”

“Okay, but are we talking, like, a little treat or a full-blown late-night munchies takeout sesh? How much is missing?”

“Nothing,” you said and shrugged at Jenna’s perplexed expression. “There’s more money in here than I thought.”

“Oh, woe is you,” Jenna exclaimed with an extensive eye roll that pushed her fake lashes to her eyebrows. “Anyway, as I was saying, he’s sharing a bathroom with his brother, so while we were going at it in the shower, we…”

Despite doing your best to listen to her, you could not help but glance at your overstuffed coin purse again. The numbers flittered across your retina like the increasingly larger houses you drove past now. Adding all the cash tips from your jobs, subtracting all expenditures you could remember, you still came up with almost four hundred dollars less than what you had found in your stash. 

The plausible explanation was what you had told Jenna. It had been a busy week; you had been under a lot of stress, and you had forgotten about a shift at the club or something. It sounded more reasonable than someone taking the effort to locate your very well hidden stash to add money, anyway. 

You gnawed at your lip and watched the large houses give way to tall fences as Jenna drove into a richer neighborhood. Over-trusting as you might be, the math did not lie and Pope rarely cared about being reasonable.

Except he had not had the opportunity to find your stash or add anything to it. Last night, he had been with you the whole time. Or busy fixing the window while you zipped around the apartment to pack down everything you needed. No, it had to be your paranoia again, making you misremember how much was in here when you last counted it a few days ago.

The same paranoia that had made you pack enough to be able to stay with Jenna for a few days. The shooting at the club had turned out to be a coincidence, and the same probably went for that guy asking around for a stripper called Destiny. And whoever the landlord claimed he had seen hanging around the apartment complex. All coincidences that still made your hands clench into fists at just the thought of being alone right now. 

If you had to be completely honest with yourself, which admittedly also made your hands clench into fists, you wanted to be with Pope.

The number saved on your phone rested in your heart like a promise. You didn’t know how long you had laid in Jenna’s spare bedroom last night while trying to get comfortable on the unfamiliar floral-scented sheets. Just staring and staring and staring at your phone and the name ‘Andrew’. Not Pope. Andrew. 

Your finger had hovered over the call-button, imagining what it would be like if you pushed it. Daydreaming like a lovesick school-girl about what he would sound like picking up and about calling him at some point long before Monday. Maybe confessing about the guy your landlord claimed was hanging around your apartment, or finding something else that required his help somehow. Something that constituted an emergency beyond that you simply wanted to be with him.

Except he had made his predicament clear. Whatever was going on with his family or with him, he didn’t want you near it. A clear divide between his real life and the fantasy he entertained at the club. Which was fine. Really. He sought you out when he needed something, be it medical advice or whatever he got out of watching you dance or … what had he said that first time you met him? A nice conversation? 

And in return, he paid you. A lot. A lot more than he needed, to be honest. And he treated you with nothing but kindness and respect. And he used his own body to shield you from literal gunshots without a second of hesitation. And said he would never let anything happen to you. None of which was typical in platonic relationships between service providers and customers.

Then why hadn’t he kissed you last night? Why had he asked about signs? 

Jenna’s exasperated voice brought you back to reality. “Come on, babe, stop frowning! I told you, the glabella muscle takes, like, at least twenty-five units of Botox to really fix. And with fifteen bucks per unit, that’s—”

“Three hundred seventy-five bucks.”

“—not in your budget, but okay, Rain Man,” Jenna finished and rolled on the steering wheel to take a left turn up a side road. “Although I do know this girl who works at a clinic who can probably get you a really good discount if you drop my name at her. What’s up? Are you, like, solving equations in your head and stuff?”

“No, just trying to figure something out,” you mumbled, secretly wishing it was equations as those produced indisputable answers. This thing with Pope? Less so. 

Luckily, you were spared further speculation as Jenna pulled up a driveway. She stopped in front of a tall, heavy-duty, wrought iron driveway gate, complete with a privacy screen, spiked railheads and a sign that said ‘PRIVATE PROPERTY, NO TRESPASSING’ in large, easy-to-read, impossible-to-miss letters. The gate itself was almost light green in color, harmonizing with the vast expanse of trees and bushes on all sides. It gave you a distinct feeling of a fortress that did not match the typical Oceanside estates that was all about flaunting what you had.

“Jeez, Jen. You didn’t mention this Craig was your new sugar daddy,” you said while Jenna smiled brightly at a covert camera half-hidden by the foliage. The gate sidled open seconds later. “This place is huge.”

“Oh, this isn’t Craig’s. It’s his mom’s house.”

Jenna maneuvered the car inside the gate onto what you could only describe as a small parking lot in front of a huge double garage. Plenty of space to park Jenna’s car, even with the jet skis, trail bikes and four-wheelers lined up against the hedge that seemed to encapsulate the compound like a cradling hand. You even spotted a speed boat peeking out from behind the garage.

“He lives with his mom?”

“No, he’s got his own place,” Jenna explained brightly and touched up her lip gloss in the sun visor mirror. “I think, anyway, I’ve never seen it.”

“So, he’s got his own place and still stays with his mom?”

“Yeah, they all do, I think. ”

“Okay, that’s not weird at all. Wait, what do you mean you’ve never seen it? This is where you were last night? And did all that stuff you have told me about in great detail? In his mother’s house?”

“Yeah, but she’s, like, really cool. Super down to earth and open-minded.”

“She was home last night?”

“Don’t give me that look! It’s not like we did in front of her on top of the pool table or anything.” Jenna unbuckled and was halfway out the door, giving you an expectant look. “Aren’t you coming?”

“No, I’ll just wait here.”

“Now, I know you have better manners than that.”

“I don’t really feel super sociable right now, Jen.”

“Well, you can’t sit out here like some kinda stalker either. They’re gonna see you on camera. Come on, don’t be weird, please. I really like this guy. He’s so hot, you have no idea.”

With a sigh and an eye-roll, you nevertheless followed Jenna out of the car. The flat soles of your sandals padded over the smooth concrete slabs as you literally dragged your feet. “What’s wrong with being a stalker?”

“Nothing, but you gotta be a little sneaky about it, at least.” 

With that, Jenna sashayed through a second metal gate that stood wide open, but would have separated the house from the driveway if closed. It lead the two of you into a breezeway that connected the garage to the house, and you twisted your head to stare at the immaculately painted beams above. A sprinkle of beach-themed decorations lined the walls, including a wind chime that hung limply in the shade of the roof, and several pots of thriving green plants emphasized the feeling that you were entering some kind of oasis.

Birds chirped and thrilled in the impressive line of trees that circled the entire property. It made you aware of a faintly rhythmic thudding noise that grew stronger as you came onto a pool deck where you faltered a bit, not sure where to go. Any direction seemed as logical as the next, as in no matter where you went you’d end up at the same spot, only deeper. Like a spiral, with the glittering cerulean pool representing the bottomless pit in the center. 

The weird L-shape of the house that seemed to blend seamlessly into a tree-covered hill only amplified the sequestered motif and the sign on the driveway gate flashed into your mind. No trespassers, and you got struck with the overwhelming sensation that it meant you. 

“Hiiii!” 

Jenna, unaware of your brief existential crisis, positively skipped ahead and threw herself around the neck of a tall man you could only assume was Craig.

Wet kissing sounds joined the birds and rhythmic thuds and you made a great show of looking everywhere else than Jenna and presumably Craig who had lapsed into some good old-fashioned PDA. Your eyes trailed the pool area, trying to focus on the mundanity to shake the trapped feeling from your limbs. Jenna really hadn’t been kidding when she said this place was huge and you counted five separate seating areas alongside the pool’s perimeter, not including the tiki bar, lounge groups and sporadic scattering of bright-colored deck chairs.

Apart from presumably Craig, you spotted two other guys outside, presumably his brothers. One lurked behind a large, red punching bag on the opposite side of the pool, the source of the thudding noise as he steadily pounded it with sharp jabs. Another guy in a hoodie sat at a wooden dining table outside of some sliding doors that seemed to lead into the kitchen. Judging by the glass of orange juice by his side and the way his half-long hair hung down as he focused on his plate, you had come right in the middle of breakfast. Neither of them seemed remotely interested in you or Jenna, so you assumed they were used to guests.

“Hey,” presumably Craig said after lowering Jenna down so her block-heel sandals touched the deck again, while you suspected her mind still floated somewhere up above on a pink cloud. He gave you an easygoing, lopsided grin and an unabashed once-over. “I’m Craig. We talked on the phone yesterday, right?”

“Hi, yeah,” you said tightly and realized you clutched the purse in front of your crotch like a shield. You forced yourself to push it to the side of your hip and settled your hands on the strap instead, twisting it with a death grip. “Nice to meet you.”

In the background, you noted how the rhythmic thudding stopped abruptly with a swishing sound. Like a boxing glove skidding over the leather as someone almost missed the punching bag.

“Yeah, you too,” Craig said, while the pull on his good-natured grin never ceased. Jenna really hadn’t been kidding when she said he was hot, and he looked like he knew it too. He had that deep surfer tan, a dark-brown beard that looked intentional, and equally dark-brown hair that tousled down almost too casually onto his shoulders. Like he had woken up, ran a hand through his hair and decided that would do when it came to styling for the day, or at least wanted to give that impression.

A loose tank top with a faded tribal pattern somehow enhanced the defined muscles of his chest and served as a framework for the large tattoos taking up space on both of his upper arms. The tribal theme continued in the ink, where he had at some point decided to tattoo a skull with a Native American headdress on one of his shoulders. Classy.

Jenna had claimed he was easily 6’4”, and while you could not determine that for certain, he easily towered over her even if she wore heels. In fact, he had a straight-backed posture that did not match his otherwise amiable, laid-back vibe. No sign of that perpetual surfer slouch that you had seen on so many guys down here in SoCal, and for some reason it reminded you of Pope. That subconscious effort to stand up straight, like someone had repeatedly reminded him throughout the years. Carrying himself in a way that made him appear bigger, which made less sense considering Craig’s above-average height.

“Come on, I got your phone in my room,” Craig said to Jenna and wrapped an arm around her to steer her toward the house. Two steps in, he stopped and stretched around to look at you again and gestured toward the dining table. “Hey, you want some breakfast? There’s a lot more in the kitchen. Help yourself.”

“Oh, no, thank you, I’m fine,” you called out politely, completely on autopilot, still rooted to the spot like you worried the pool would reach up to swallow you if you moved further into the spiral. Also completely disregarding how Jenna’s apartment had nothing edible apart from literal edibles and you had not actually had any breakfast yet. “I’ll just wait right here.”

Craig gave you a nod and another trailing once-over, obviously appreciating your weather-appropriate bare legs. “All right, suit yourself.”

Jenna half-heartedly smacked his chest and her giggle trailed your way. “Stop checking out my friend.”

“What?”

“Oh my God, you’re so bad! Stop!”

“What? I’m just being friendly.”

It was hard to tell who pulled who along, but they made it a few more steps before something seemed to have caught Craig’s eye and he stopped again. He did a full body shrug, as if announcing his exasperation to the world, and shouted across the pool, “Bro! Come on!”

You automatically turned to see what he was shouting at and for a second you only registered that the boxer had stopped punching the bag. That he leaned onto it instead with his underarm over his head resting against the leather, his naked glistening chest rising and falling with hard breaths after what seemed to have been a vigorous workout. That he lifted his other hand to his mouth, undoing the velcro strap with his teeth, while unequivocally staring right at you.

It took you a full second before you registered that it was Pope.

Pope.

It was Pope.

Your mind blanked, only singular words popping in like bursting bubbles. Pope, here, now, shirtless, sweaty, staring.

You had no idea what your body tried to do. On a textbook level, you knew it involved your amygdala and adrenaline and tensed muscles and quickened breaths and stuff like that. In reality, it felt like you simultaneously tried to move in two opposite directions at once, only ending up flinching where you stood frozen to the spot. Staring at Pope who stared at you in turn, his face flushed red and lined with sweat.

“Pope!” Craig’s second annoyed shout cracked through your stupefaction, and you tore back to see Craig wave his hand in Pope’s direction. “Dude.” 

Pope swung his head to glare at Craig — brows hanging heavy over his eyes and his nostrils flaring from hard breaths. Some form of silent communication happened between them, and with a final glance at you where you swore you could see his eyes narrow in bitter amusement, Pope made a show of looking away. He bent his head as he shoved himself off of the punching bag and tore at his other glove.

And you snapped your gaze down so fast your cervical vertebrae flinched in protest. A million thoughts raced at a blistering speed about Jenna mentioning how Craig had three brothers and Pope also had three brothers and how had you not made this connection but in your defence Pope had only mentioned one brother by name but it did not matter because this meant that Pope was Craig’s brother and Craig was Pope’s brother and that other guy was probably also their brother and this was not just Craig’s mother’s house it was Pope’s mother’s house. Where you, the stripper he had explicitly said he did not want his family to meet, had waltzed right in first thing in the morning. 

I can keep a secret, he had told you that first time he came for a dance. Can you?

Not fully up to speed with anything, but fully occupied with keeping your breaths at an appropriate level, you didn’t catch whatever Craig muttered to the guy at the table. He was blonder and shorter than Craig — and younger, by the looks of it. Whatever Craig told him, they both snickered before Craig dragged Jenna inside the dark confines of the house. 

It left you standing there on the deck, midway between Pope and the house, not sure what to do with any part of your body. Behind you, the exit beckoned and your feet started moving on their own accord before you managed to turn it into an awkward shuffle instead. What you had thought of as a cage-like design now felt more like a lion’s den where you had wandered in like the unwitting lamb. 

It would be fine, you thought and drummed your fingers against your purse strap. Jenna would be back in a few minutes. You and Pope would pretend you had never seen each other before. You would be out of here before your heart managed to escape through your mouth. It would be fine. 

Despite this, you risked a peek in Pope’s direction, unable to help yourself. Not at all spell-bound by the way his muscles shifted and glittered on his naked torso as he undid the hand wraps with precise movements. Holy shit, was the only half-coherent thought you managed to string together. You knew he was strong — he filled out his clothes nicely and had literally carried you around with such ease last night — but it was something completely different to see him like this. 

Wearing only a pair of knee-length black athletic shorts and high-tops, most of him was on full display — a lot more than you usually saw — and your eyes did not know where to stop. It had never occurred to you to use the word ‘thick’ to describe a man before, but you struggled to find any other word that did him justice. The guy was built like a tree-trunk, with a healthy layer of padding over his muscles that was still not enough to fully conceal them. His firm obliques created a completely square frame, emphasizing that Pope obviously did not train for aesthetics, but functional strength. 

Not that you did not appreciate his current aesthetic anyway. It stirred something in you that you had never experienced before.

At this distance, he only looked tan and flushed, but you knew freckles dotted every square inch of his skin. Probably mixing with the rivers of sweat running down between his pecs and over his abdominals until they seeped into the waistband of his shorts. His damp hair seemed closer to black than its usual auburn and a few strands laid plastered onto his forehead. Right above his watchful eyes that were, again, staring right at you.

For the second time, the bones in your neck griped when you snapped your head away at lightning speed. A rush of blood scolded your cheeks as you focused on the nearby parrot cage instead, studying it with great interest until realizing it did not even have any birds inside of it. Had he been watching you the whole time? Was he still—

You risked a fast glance. Sure enough, Pope was still staring at you with absolutely no attempt to hide it and you had the feeling that had been the case since Craig moved indoors. The other guy — who you at least assumed to be the last brother — obviously could not care less. He still picked at his food with a kind of focus that told you he would rather not be bothered by any random girls Craig had over this early in the morning.

What was Pope playing at? When two more furtive glances revealed he was still absolutely staring at you, you finally dared to raise your eyebrows at him, silently asking what he was doing. In response, he only kept staring while folding the hand wraps into tight, neat squares. He held eye contact for a beat and then dropped his gaze low, trailing your legs in a completely different way than his brother had done. Ending up at ankle height, or so you presumed, where the thin golden chain laid unhindered against the bridge of your foot. 

Whatever expression Pope had on his face, it was a far cry from the smug smile he had had last night. 

You resisted the urge to cross the offending leg behind the other to hide the anklet from sight. It was not like the chain carried his initials or any other identifying mark. Nothing that would expose you and Pope’s affiliation, as far as you knew. Not that it mattered, anyway, since Pope would not stop staring at you!

You resolutely focused on some animal skulls hanging as decoration on a nearby wall, but even in your peripheral vision, you saw how Pope watched you. Almost like he couldn’t look away.

Nevermind that you kept getting distracted by the way the ridges of his obliques shifted whenever he moved. Or by the way the prominent veins of his lower arms traveled all the way up to his swollen biceps. Or by the way the thick crest of his shoulders flexed when he breathed and how you could imagine digging your fingers into them as he covered you with the full weight of his body, his hot skin slick with sweat against yours as you left scratches and bite marks all over his neck and back as you held onto for dear life while he—

Pope’s stare shifted to something behind you and that slight movement broke your trance. You became aware of some murmurs of conversation from the breakfast table, including a female voice, and then the distinctive click-clacks of high heels approaching. You turned automatically, expecting Jenna, but found yourself in front of a petite, sharp-faced woman. Maybe in her fifties or sixties with almost shockingly blond hair swept into a heavy side-part.

“Hello,” the woman said and smiled. It was a warm but somewhat unnerving smile. The heavy make-up and thick fake lashes made her eyes look like black slits over her weirdly smooth cheeks. Her plump lips twisted sideways instead of up, reminding you of stroke patients without full control of their face. In this case it was probably lip injections or a facelift or both that hindered full movement. Not that you understood why she thought she needed either; despite her advanced age, she looked incredible. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”

Her whole presence demanded attention where she stood with the deep red and black of her cheetah print blouse, a stark contrast to the mellow blues and greens of the pool deck. She had a black jacket folded over one arm, and the handle of a small suitcase on wheels in her other hand, which she shifted so it stood without assistance.

“Oh, uh, I’ve never been here before either.”

“Okay?” The woman still smiled, but crossed her arms over her chest. “So what are you doing here now this early in the morning?”

“Oh, I’m just waiting for my friend. She’s my ride, so,” you explained in what you hoped was a bright and natural voice. The woman still smiled, but you caught the razor-edged focus of her eyes shifting momentarily to something behind you. “She forgot her phone here last night.”

“Jenna?” The woman’s voice cracked into a hoarse delight and her bright teeth shone when she smiled even wider. “Oh, that girl’s such a sweetheart. Way too good for Craig, but don’t tell him I said that. I’m Janine Cody—”

You automatically shook her outreached hand — with black-painted fingernails and a stack of golden bangles on her skinny wrist — and smiled back the best you could.

“—Pope’s mother,” Janine Cody finished and it took everything you had not to tear your hand loose. Pope’s mother. Not Craig. Pope. Why had she mentioned Pope? Had she caught him staring at you? Was this a test? Did she assume everyone knew Pope? Did everyone know Pope?

And instead of saying anything clever or disarming, you tilted your head a bit to the side and kept smiling. “Pope?”

Janine Cody pursed her lips and nodded her sharp chin at something behind you. “Andrew.”

“Oh,” you said, like this meant nothing to you; like you were only being polite; like you were just another airhead that did not understand what was going on, but eager to please nevertheless. You kept your smile, the best and brightest one that earned you the most tips, in place. 

So, this was Pope’s mother? You had suspected it from the start, but having it confirmed made a lot of pieces fall into place. While totally opposite on the surface, you could easily see the family resemblance upon closer inspection. Hell, they even had the same kind of raspy voice, even if hers dripped with the sweetened honey of experience. Like her sons, she carried herself bigger than she was. Keeping her back so straight, it almost curved in the opposite direction, reminding you of a hissing cobra rising from the sand. Even the intensity of her stare felt the same, the only difference being that Janine Cody smiled at the same time. 

“People call me Smurf,” Janine Cody said, the very definition of friendly, and finally released your hand. The way she studied you reminded you of how Pope had scouted the hallways of the strip club, noticing details that you did not even know existed. “You have a really beautiful smile, you know that?” She sounded almost serene and definitely sincere, which made it even harder to swallow. “I bet that’s gonna get you far in life.”

“Well, it’s gotten me all the way here,” you said and kept smiling, while praying for Jenna’s return soon. 

“Mm,” Janine Cody, who you could not for the life of you think of as Smurf, made a humming sound that could have meant anything. Her keen gaze trailed over you, much like two of her sons had done already, and her voice turned harder and more business-like as she said, “Jenna and Craig are currently having sex in the shower.”

“Oh.” Fuck me. You resisted the urge to close your eyes in defeat. Fucking Jenna. Still smiling, still keeping your voice bright, you said, “Okay, uh, that’s fine, I’ll just go wait in the car.”

“Are you sure? Knowing Craig, it’s gonna be a while.”

And again, Jenna really hadn’t been kidding when saying Craig’s mother was open-minded. You blanked at the imagery and then shook your head.

“Really, I’m fine waiting—”

“I’m heading for the airport right now. You’re more than welcome to join me if you’re going that way.”

“No! No, I’ll—”

“Of course, you’re not going south on the I-5, are you?” Janine Cody let out a short laugh, as if amused by her own foolishness. “You’re headed downtown, obviously. Jenna said she was going shopping today. Tell you what, I’ll have one of my boys give you a ride.”

“Thank you, but that is so not necessary, Missss…” You faltered, not sure what title to use.

“Call me Smurf. And it’s no problem at all. I think Baz was just on his way out, anyway.” She stretched her neck toward the guys at the dining table, one of which you hadn’t seen before. “Baz?”

“I’ll take her.”

You froze at the sudden proximity of Pope’s authoritative voice. He had somehow come up right next to you without making a sound. Still sweaty and shirtless, he stared relentlessly at his mother, who met it in turn with something akin to a knowing smirk on her face. 

“Is that all right with you, sweetheart?” Janine Cody asked, barely sparing you a glance, her full lips gradually drooping to a frown. 

“Yup.” Your voice sounded tiny even to your own ears, and you resisted the urge to fidget or flat-out run. No matter what you said, it’d be wrong somehow, so you tried to roll with the punches. Even if standing in the middle of the two staringCody’s felt like being the last scrap of meat left between two circling predators. “Uh-huh, yeah, that’d be— that’d be great. Thanks.”

“Okay, then.” Janine Cody’s smile flashed back into place when she looked at you. “It was really nice to meet you. I hope I’ll see you again sometime.”

Before you could respond, she turned on her heel and waltzed out through the breezeway, giving Pope a calculating smile over her shoulder. A sense of triumph radiating from her. Her heels click-clacked and her trailing suitcase rolled on the concrete until both disappeared around the corner. 

You turned toward Pope, mouth open, about to say anything, but he beat you to it:

“Wait here.” 

“Okie-dokie.”

Without sparing you a glance, Pope marched straight past his brothers — both of them following his movements with interest — and into the house. Leaving you standing on the stupid pool deck with your stupid purse and your stupid outfit and the stupid chain looped around your stupid ankle. Feeling like a complete idiot for having ruined things. Okie-dokie? Shit. Shit!

“Hey.”

Shiiiiiit!

“Hi.” 

Mentally closing your eyes and just screaming, you nevertheless smiled at the man who approached you. Baz. The one brother Pope had mentioned by name, now sauntering over with both hands in his pockets and mouth split in a curious smile. 

From what you remembered, he was close to Pope in age, and he looked like it too, even if he dressed sort of youthfully with a loose t-shirt and tight jeans. Like the other guys, he also had a deep tan, but combined it with a five o’clock shadow and a distinct crew cut where the longer hair on top stood up in gravity-defying spikes. His generically handsome square face seamlessly continued up from his thick neck, where it split in a cleft chin and slightly crooked teeth.

“I’m Baz,” he said with a friendly nod, one you returned. And for the fourth time today, you squirmed under the scrutiny of a Cody family member. “This is gonna sound kinda weird, but have we met?” He laughed an easy, charming laugh. “I know I should probably at least pretend to remember, but I swear I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

Shit. Was this the brother Jasmine had said was a regular at the club? He did not look all that familiar, but in your line of work, every guy looked the same as the next one. For all you knew, you could have danced for him at some point.

“I’m not sure. I get that a lot,” you said, not trusting yourself to lie outright. You glanced at the tall windows of the house, hoping to see either Pope or Jenna return. “I just have one of those faces, I guess.”

“I wouldn’t say that. Hey, do you work at a bar? Waitress or something? I know it sounds dumb, but I can almost taste the beer in my mouth when I look at you.”

“I, uh, actually work at a few different places around town.”

Baz snapped his fingers. “The Flying Pig? Over at Mission Avenue? My girl works there. Catherine?”

“I’m not sure…” You shook your head, as if trying to remember. “No, no, that doesn’t ring a bell, no.”

And Baz, apparently, took that as his cue to guess a few other places around town where you might have worked and you made a show of trying to recall any of them. 

For once, your prayers were answered as Pope stalked out of the house with fast steps, now dressed in his usual ensemble of a dark blue, short-sleeved shirt and jeans. His hair clung more to his head, the remaining evidence of what you assumed had been a speedy shower. 

“Let’s go,” he told you and would have kept walking if Baz hadn’t put his arm out.

“Listen, man, can I talk to you real quick?”

The way he asked made it clear this was meant to be a private conversation. You motioned vaguely to indicate that you’d go ahead and wait by the car, following Janine Cody’s footsteps through the breezeway, and also looking at Pope over your shoulder.  He never seemed to take his eyes off of Baz and you saw his head roll on his neck when Baz said something you didn’t hear.

“…you knew!” 

You had just turned the corner of the garage when Pope’s angry growl shot your way. Some would call it eavesdropping, but you could not help yourself and slowed down, the soft soles of your sandals barely making any noise on the concrete. Baz’s part of the conversation was nothing more than quiet mumbles, but Pope occasionally raised his voice loud enough to make out.

“…no way she drugged me…signing off on it.” Pause. “…still takin’ em?” Longer pause. “…drugged up or crazy? I kinda think you…less competition.”

They had to be talking about Pope’s medication and the unorthodox way of administering of them. She drugged me. Did not take a rocket scientist to figure out who that was and you swallowed hard at the memory of Janine Cody’s friendly smile. Smurf. Out of all the nicknames in the world, you could not even begin to think where that had come from. A chill went through you and you remembered the hard punches Pope had dealt to the bag. Blowing of steam, maybe? What was up with this family?

The next thing you knew, Pope tore around the garage corner and almost crashed into you, where you were sort-of-but-not-really hiding. Only Pope’s razor-sharp reflexes kept him from walking right over you. 

“I wasn’t sure which car,” you tried to excuse yourself and waved in the general direction of the crowded driveway. Not the worst excuse considering the number of vehicles in the vicinity, but not a good one either. 

Pope did not look anywhere near convinced and stalked past you with agitated steps. “Truck.”

*****

The truck seemed unfamiliar in the daylight. Only the sun warm leather seat grabbing at your bare thighs reminded you of last night, along with the lingering scent of hand sanitizer that you had silently accepted when Pope held it out to you. Even while doing the math, it did not seem plausible that it had been mere hours since you last sat in this car with Pope. While the warm sun had seemed comforting before, now it only served to highlight all the imperfections. Exposing all the flaws with remorseless illumination, like the clinical overhead lamps at the hospital.

The AC purred along with the engine — the only noise other than your own breaths — and you barely noticed how the rapidly cooling temperature raised goosebumps on your exposed skin. The landscape rolled past in reverse from when Jenna had driven you here, the coastal desert now looking barren and hostile. Bright sunbeams swooped over the horizon and straight in through the windshield, bathing your face in an intense whitening glow that burned your retinas.

You jumped when Pope unceremoniously reached over and lowered the sun visor to shield your eyes.

Watching him sit back, you waited, like you had waited the whole car ride, for him to say something. Anything. Since you had watched him sweep the car interior with the device-thingie, you assumed it was safe to talk, but Pope had remained silent. Just like now, as he only kept driving toward the downtown area of Oceanside.

“I didn’t know,” you said quietly and stared at the sun visor instead of him. No answer. “I swear I didn’t know, Pope. Jenna never told me his last name and you’ve never mentioned him and I know maybe I should have made the connection when she said he had three brothers, but in my defence, my family is really weird. I’m the only one who doesn’t have at least three siblings. I didn’t think anything of it.”

“I’ve mentioned him.”

The relief that he was at least talking was short-lived considering how flat his voice sounded.

“You’ve never mentioned you had a brother named Craig.”

“I’ve mentioned him,” Pope repeated, his pitch rising along with his annoyance. He drove with one hand on the wheel, eyes constantly scanning the road. The other laid near the handbrake, clenched into a fist. “He’s the reason I had to beat the shit out of DJ Snowfall.”

“Okay, but you never told me his name!” you pointed out and Pope’s hands tightened around the wheel. “Was I supposed to make that connection because Jenna told me her new guy had a great hookup for cocaine and you’ve told me you had a brother who does cocaine?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m a stripper, Pope. Everyone I associate with does coke.”

“You don’t.”

“I don’t,” you agreed, even if Pope hadn’t posed it as a question. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I honestly had no idea Jenna was seeing your brother, otherwise I obviously wouldn’t have barged in like that. Or at all, really.”

Pope’s nostrils flared, and he ducked his head to get a better overview of the road before making a hairpin turn. “You shouldn’t have talked to her.”

“What was I supposed to do? Pretend to be deaf?”

He didn’t answer, but the flex of his jaw revealed that he considered that alternative better than what had happened.

You crossed your arms and scoffed. “Well, maybe she wouldn’t have talked to me if you hadn’t kept staring at me the whole time.”

“I stare at everyone,” Pope pointed out with his usual irrefutable logic. “You were staring at me.”

“No, I didn’t— that was— I mean—” You stuttered, instinctively trying to deny, but replaying it in your head, you knew he had a point. “Okay, yeah, maybe I did. But there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for my staring.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like what?” you repeated dumbly and your chest flared up with heat that had only laid partially dormant since you left the Cody house. He was joking. He had to be.

Pope took the time to look your way, momentarily breaking his concentration from the road ahead. “Yeah, like what?”

“Like…” You faltered, the warmth spreading to your face, counteracting the cool breeze spewing from the AC. “You know what.”

“I don’t,” Pope said earnestly and his lip curled in confused contempt. “Why would I ask if I did?”

He had to be joking. Right? Trying to read him proved impossible, his expression was the same kind of mixture between condescending and sincere as always. 

“I— I can’t tell if you’re making fun of me or not.”

“What?” 

Realizing that he was (probably) not feigning his confusion did not make it any easier. You gnawed at your lip for a second, trying to work up the nerve, before deciding to just go for it.

“It was because of what you were wearing,” you explained quickly, focusing on the salt-tolerant, low-growing evergreen shrubs that inhabited the landscape closer to the ocean. Your voice dwindled further as you simultaneously tried to keep quiet and said, “Or what you weren’t wearing.”

For once, Pope’s face transformed into genuine surprise with his eyebrows lifting and he swung his gaze back and forth between you and the road. “That’s why you were staring at me?”

You tried to disappear into the seat. “Oh my gosh, don’t—” 

“Because I wasn’t wearing a shirt? That’s it?”

“Why do you have to make it sound so weird? Yes! That’s why I was staring, okay? That’s it. Now shut up, please.”

Of course, Pope did not even pretend to listen. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I know and I’m sorry.”

Pope shook his head. “And you shouldn’t have lied to her, either.”

“There’s a lot of things I shouldn’t have done. I’m well aware.”

“And you shouldn’t have talked to Baz—”

“Oh my gosh, I know! Thank you! I shouldn’t have stared at you, I shouldn’t have talked to them, I shouldn’t even have been at your house. I know. But maybe you should have called her bluff and just let Baz take me?” 

Pope’s mouth had parted slightly, but snapped shut at your question and you knew he was doing that thing again. Grinding his jaw together, too angry to get any words out. Stupid. You were so stupid sometimes. 

The car lapsed into silence, the only refuge coming from the whirring AC, and you subconsciously pushed into the door frame, staring out the window. Arms still crossed over your chest, squeezing down like that would suppress the repulsive clawing of fiasco threatening to burst through your stomach. 

The treeline outside dispersed and gave room for more and more buildings, meaning you were getting closer to downtown. 

“Where am I taking you?”

“You can just drop me off wherever, it’s fine.”

“Well, where do you need to go?”

“Nowhere.”

And you saw how he looked at you and how he did that slightly confused back and forth with his eyes and you heard the completely sincere shift in his voice when he asked, “Did you want to go with Baz?”

“What? Of course not.”

“Okay.” Pope’s lip had lifted in that confused curl he sometimes had, along with his eyebrows. “You said you were running errands all day. So, where’s the first stop?”

You blew air out your mouth, just wanting out of this car. “There’s a bookstore on the main campus I need to go to.”

“Okay,” Pope repeated, and it almost felt like he was trying to lighten the mood. And he did not comment on how he had to make a U-turn because the main campus was not downtown, but up by Mira Costa. “Are you going back to class soon?”

“Yeah.”

“How are ya gonna have time for classes between all your jobs?”

“I won’t.”

Pope spared you another glance. “What does that mean?”

“Next week’s my last at the coffee shop.”

You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, but he did not say anything more, and neither did you. Soon enough, he swung the large truck into the college parking lot. For once practically empty, which was not that surprising, considering it was Saturday morning. The bookstore had just opened, if you remembered the opening hours correctly.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said without looking at him, already pushing open the door. “See you on Monday.”

“Wait—”

The heat from outside blasted against you as you jumped out onto the parking lot. The cracked concrete steamed like molten lava without nearby trees or structures to provide any kind of shade since sunrise. You didn’t know what you expected, exactly, but you heard the driver’s side door slam shut and a second later, Pope’s hand locked around your wrist. 

He caught you mid-stride, which made you do a full spin until you ended up with your back against the car door. Pope released your arm, but did not step back, trapping you between him and the glossy enamel of the car’s exterior. Staring you down, but not threatening, just searching. 

Not able to look at him, you made a half-hearted attempt to push past .

“Hey,” he said and blocked your escape with a quick side-step, weaving into your line of sight. “Hey, hold on. Just hold on a sec.”

“Pope, don’t—”

“I can’t tell if you’re upset with me,” Pope cut through in a slow voice and twisted around to establish the eye-contact you tried to avoid by looking everywhere but him, “or if you think I’m upset with you.” Apparently, your face told him everything he needed to know as he bobbed his head to find your gaze again. “I’m not. Okay? I’m not.”

With a sigh, you stopped dodging his attempts at eye-contact and leaned desolately against the car. Temporary admitting defeat, even if the way his eyebrows pulled together in concern made your stomach pull together in guilt. 

You twisted your hands around the strap of your purse. “I’m not an idiot, Pope.”

“I never said you were.”

“No, I mean that I know why you keep coming to the,” you glanced around, but the parking lot remained empty, “strip club, okay?” 

Pope pulled in a breath through his nose and squared his shoulders, like he braced himself for impact. 

“It’s the same reason that every other guy comes there,” you continued and did not really pay attention to how Pope deflated again. “To escape the real world. It’s what all the music and lights and sequins are for. To create this illusion, right? This fantasy place where anything can happen. Where the girls are always hot and happy and don’t have any problems of their own, always ready to shake some ass and lend a listening ear to whoever’s paying.”

“You know I don’t—” Pope tried to get a word in, but you weren’t done.

“And it’s not like anyone’s signing a strict client confidentiality clause or anything, but it’s kind of implied, ya know? From both sides? Because that’s the only way to maintain that illusion. You need that firm line between the real world and what’s inside the club and we don’t have that anymore, Pope. You’re not supposed to see the strippers without makeup or in real clothes or even in daylight. I’ve consistently ruined the illusion bit by bit ever since I called you out in the coffee shop and today I just put that final nail in the coffin by barging into your mother’s house first thing in the morning!”

Pope seemed to wait a beat this time to see if you were done. 

“You weren’t inside the house,” he pointed out slowly and you sucked in a harsh breath, ready to blow up again before you spotted the teasing hint of a smile. He sighed, a motion that shifted the straight row of buttons on his chest, and the hint of a smile faded. “This isn’t about you.”

As usual, his response blindsided you and you shook your head. “What do you mean this isn’t about me? How is this not about me? You told me you didn’t want me there and then I—”

“I told you last night, it’s not you, it’s them. My family’s… complicated, all right?” Pope looked torn, as if just admitting this was some form of betrayal. He was shifting around more than usual, like he did not know where to put either hands or feet. “I don’t want you to get caught up in any of their bullshit. Smurf, I mean, she can be a lot. You should see the way she treats Catherine sometimes. I don’t want that for you.”

“You call your mom Smurf?”

“Everyone does. That’s not the point.”

“Right. Okay. Am I right to assume that Smurf is the one who does the cooking in the house?”

It slipped out before you had the chance to really think it through and Pope’s lips snapped together like a bear trap. 

“Yeah,” he bit out eventually. “She does. And— and I’m handling that. You’re helping me handle that, right? Right?” He waited for your reluctant nod and then mirrored it. “Just watch yourself with her, okay? Her and Baz. I’ll take care of you, but I won’t always be around.”

It took you a few seconds to process his words, and you furrowed your brows. “Am I going to be around?”

“I don’t see why not. You’re already on their radar. And I know that one’s on me too, I could have just let you go with Baz, but…”

Your grip on the purse strap had loosened and your hands slid down to settle on the purse itself, waiting for Pope to sort through the words he wanted out of his locked mouth.

“What you said before, about illusions? I don’t care about any of that shit,” Pope said slowly, making it impossible to miss a single word. “Any of it. You know that. I only care about you.” 

One day Pope’s sincerity would be the death of you, you were sure of it, and it cost you a lot to meet his eyes; to pretend your skin didn’t feel feverish with heat.

Pope continued, “But I’ve never really had anything that was just mine before.”

His words hung heavy and vulnerable in the quite limited space between you. 

Still riled up from before, you shifted uneasily. “You know I dance for other guys at the—”

“Yeah, but that’s not you. That’s like a part you’re playing or something. And you’re not acting when you’re with me, I can tell the difference. And I don’t…” Pope trailed off, made a few different expressions without getting anywhere, and tried again. “And I don’t have to either. Not with you.”

“Pope, I—”

“I haven’t kept you a secret because of what you do. It’s not about that. It’s just that everything I’ve ever had, I’ve shared with either my sister or my brothers. Including friends.”

Friends. The word hit you like one of the punches Pope had thrown against the bag earlier. Friends. Was that all you were? Was that all he needed? Or just what he needed right now? No matter how many times you tried to formulate the question, you could not get yourself to ask it. If he had ever even had a girlfriend before, if he even considered that as an option.

“Right,” you said quietly while your mind whirred away with everything you did not know how to say the right way. Not yet. “You wanna, uh, come with me? To the bookstore?”

Pope drew in his chin. “You think I wasn’t gonna come with you to the bookstore?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, even if it proved hard to form the words around the growing smile taking over your mouth. You pushed off the car, which left you even closer to Pope who hadn’t moved. “You’re not paying for anything.”

Not looking convinced, he let out a huff of amusement and gave you a lopsided smile as you passed him. “Can I carry stuff for you?”

“Yeah, all right.” You paused after another step when you realized Pope wasn’t following. For some reason, he hung back, and you automatically reached out your hand. “Coming?”

He ducked his head and stared at your hand for a beat, but you did not miss the way his lips twitched into a smile when he accepted it. It made it hard to ignore the way your heart leaped when his calloused fingers tightened around yours, and you almost suspected him to have done that on purpose.

One day, maybe, you’d figure out the full mystery that was Pope.

“I’m not gonna pay for anything today,” Pope said conversationally as he let you lead him over the parking lot toward the campus bookstore, walking next to you with his slightly uneven bowlegged gait. You decided to ignore the slight emphasis on the word ‘today’. “But are you gonna be able to afford rent without your shifts at the coffee shop?”

“Yeah, actually. Maybe. It seems like my stash has developed its own interest rate. There was almost four hundred dollars more there today than last time I looked.”

Pope let out another amused snort. “You noticed that, did you?”

“Yeah, I did. How and when did you even find it?”

“Last night when you were in the bathroom. It was a good hiding place, not many people would think to look inside the curtain rod.”

“You found it in less than a minute!”

“That’s just ‘cause I knew you wouldn’t use any of the obvious places since you’d just been robbed. And it’s not like you had the tools to access anything better. You should really think about getting a small safe. One of the good ones, that you can bolt to the floor. And then hide that somewhere that’s not obvious.”

“Oh, so it’d take you a whole extra minute or something to get into it?” You rolled your eyes, not at all bothered by the smug smile on Pope’s face. Not at all desperate to see him smile more. “Please. And I can’t bolt anything anywhere, I’m renting. At this point, it’d be easier to just have you hold my cash until I need it.”

The campus bookstore had not been open long for the day, but already amassed a collection of onboarding students that milled about with their book lists. You eventually had to let go of Pope’s hand to scrape together everything you needed, all of which he carried diligently while varying his focus between you and the other shoppers. It was the epitome of mundane, so it surprised you how much you enjoyed it. So much so that it became embarrassing to consider how infatuated you really were with him.

Friends. Yeah, right.

At the register, you exchanged generic pleasantries with the clerk in service worker solidarity. Pope hovered in the background, not contributing or seeming to pay any attention. At least not until the clerk asked for your student ID.

“Yup, gimme a sec. Here you go.”

You smiled and slid the plastic card with a barely recognizable photo of you over the counter. To Pope’s credit, he did not actually try to sneak a peek, which was maybe what prompted you to slide it his way when the clerk finished with it.

Pope waited a few seconds, like he was giving you the chance to change your mind, before he picked it up. He studied it for far longer than you deemed necessary. “Is this your real name?” 

“Yeah.”

“You should try using it,” Pope suggested and handed you the card while the clerk bagged all your books. “It’s a pretty name.”

You shrugged noncommittally. “So is Andrew.”

The sun seemed relentless when the two of you exited the store, trudging over the shimmering parking lot toward the truck. Pope had a book bag in each hand, having completely ignored your offer to take one of them, which prevented any further hand holding. For the time being, anyway. 

It was not until Pope had started the car, along with the AC, that he said, “I wouldn’t mind that, you know.”

“Mind what?” you asked, still rubbing your hands with the hand sanitizer that seemed like a standard practice every time Pope got in the car. 

“Andrew.”

You paused, hands still folded over each other. “You said that everyone calls you Pope.”

“You’re not everyone.”

*****

It took you a few hours to clear your whole to-do list, which was still three times faster than it would have been with Jenna. She had texted a heartfelt apology after a good while (proving that Smurf obviously knew what she was talking about) and asked for a rain-check of your shopping day. It was difficult to be upset with Jenna under normal circumstances and today you did not even try as you vastly preferred your current company.

“Are you gonna keep working at the club when you go back to school?”

After it became clear that neither of you had had anything to eat the whole day, Pope (you were still getting used to thinking of him as Andrew) had taken you to a burger joint called Spiro’s, a block away from the renowned Artist Alley. You sat outside under an awning, behind a tall yellow fence that separated the seating area from the rest of the sidewalk.

“I don’t know,” you answered honestly in the midst of finishing up your fries. “Maybe, assuming it’s even gonna open up again after the shooting. Are you gonna get in trouble for that, by the way? That detective guy recognized you.”

“Nah. They can’t prove that I was there when everything went down since we dodged all the cameras.”

“Almost all the cameras. There’s one in the booth too, remember?”

“That’s been out of commission for weeks now,” Pope said offhandedly behind his burger. “Besides, they got their shooters already, I swung by to check it out after I dropped you off last night. The police are gonna want to keep this under wraps too because of all the wasted detectives carrying their service weapons after hours. Didn’t even make it onto the morning news.”

“Right,” you said, not bothering bring up how you would not mind if the club stayed closed for a little bit. Even if the shooters turned out to be a coincidence, Geri was still on your case. Not to mention The Text and everything that entailed. “Was anyone hurt? I didn’t see—”

“Roider-Roy left in an ambulance, that’s all I could tell. No body bags.” He put down the half-eaten burger and exchanged it with his drink. “You didn’t answer my question before about the rent.”

“The coffee shop doesn’t really pay that much,” you admitted and popped another fry in your mouth. “I mean, it helps when some guy comes in and tips a hundred bucks for already overpriced coffee, but…”

Andrew snorted and the butterflies in your stomach fluttered at the sight of yet another smile. “Why do you work there?”

“The fetching uniform is a big plus. No, it’s for experience, mostly. My resume’s not too hot, to say the least. I never had a contract at my dad’s store and he can’t really be a reference in his current condition, so…”

“Your tuition’s paid, right? And now your books? So it’s just rent that’s left?”

“Yeah, unfortunately, rent is like a monthly thing. Uh, there’s a few event nights coming up at the club that I was planning to use to bulk up my savings. But, to be honest, if I don’t land a roommate by this time next week, I’m gonna move back in with Jenna.”

“The girl who’s seeing Craig,” his expression told you everything you needed to know for once, “and blew you off this morning?”

“She has other redeeming qualities. And she lives closer to the school, so it’s not that bad.” You licked salt and grease off your fingers. “Besides, your mom seemed to like her.”

“Yeah,” he said, staring at your fingers in your mouth. Eventually, he handed you a napkin. “Smurf’s good at seeming.”

You made an attempt with the napkin, but the grease seemed to have seeped into your skin. “I’m gonna go wash my hands.”

“Thank you,” Andrew said with such earnestness you had to laugh. 

In another act of service worker solidarity, you put everything from your meal on the tray and brought it with you inside. The burger joint did not have any functioning AC, but a forlorn fan squeaked in a corner where a few elderly men sat drinking coffee. With no line to the restroom, you took your time to wash your hands and otherwise clean up your appearance. The anklet seemed to hold on pretty well still — you continued to worry about a weak clasp since it had escaped from its previous owner somehow.

On the way out of the restroom, you spotted a guy leaning onto the tall yellow fence, obviously talking to Pope. Even through the window, you could tell that he looked rough. An older guy, with weather-worn skin and clothes alike, wearing a frayed denim vest and some faded jeans. Gray hair slicked-back from the hairline that had receded almost to the top of his head. The conversation seemed amiable enough, but Pope’s body language looked tense. 

And you caught him glancing at you through the window, just once. As if to confirm you were still inside. Whatever it was, you definitely got the feeling he did not want you outside.

Seconds later, Pope got up from the table, tray in hand, and stalked through the door. He looked more over his shoulder than at you, obviously making sure he wasn’t followed.

“Everything okay?”

“I gotta go.” 

“You what? Now? Who is that guy?”

“No one.” He pushed something into your hands, still keeping watch over the windows. “Here’s the keys. You can bring it over later or I’ll come pick it up. I gotta go.”

“What?”

“Wait at least ten minutes before you leave, okay?”

“What? Wait, no, no, no.” You tried pushing the keys back into his hands. “I can’t drive your car, I—”

At least that made Pope pause. “You can’t drive?”

“I can drive, but like a regular-sized car on a normal backwoods road, not the world’s biggest RAM truck in the middle of a city!”

“You’ll be fine.”

“No, no! What if I scratch it or—”

Pope’s jaw flexed as he shot another glance over his shoulder. “Then I’ll fix it. I gotta go. Wait at least ten minutes before you leave.”

And with that, he stalked outside and left with the guy in the denim vest. You looked down at the unfamiliar car keys. Shit!

--------

Ohohoho we have finally reached the Cody's. Pope's not smooth and neither is Karma, so this is gonna be great.

Also, y'know, Pope's opening up, but he's not telling everything yet. And neither is Karma, so it's fine. They'll figure it out.

I don't know how this turned out so long, it's actually only supposed to be half a chapter. Ay ay ay. Oh well. Please let me know if you liked this part too! Until next time ✌️

He notes silently that your arms aren’t in the proper position. They’re tucked up against your sides, fists balled and trembling. He fights the air currents rushing past you both, forcing your arms out to as far as they can stretch. It’s optimal for a freefall of this speed, and it’s something that will help the parachute to catch the wind whenever it gets deployed. More friction meant a slower fall. A slower fall meant a safer landing. 

From this high above, the ground just looks like a vague white sheet below him. But as you both rocket down, features begin to take shape. Ridges of ice and blankets of snow sparkle back at him, the moon guiding their shimmering glow. When he squints, and ignores the dizzying noise of the wind, he can barely make out the square, dark shape of the research center below. 

Your hands are being held by his, your arms outstretched. You’re gripping his fingers like they’re the only thing keeping you conscious. His heart begins to send out some kind of feeling- warm, kind, loving- before his brain snuffs it out. Now is not the time. Now is not the place.

The ground is getting closer.

One of his hands detaches from yours, and he ignores the way your fingers try to keep ahold of his. 

“Gonna be a little turbulence!” He has to yell it for the words to be heard. Your fingers squeeze the hand that’s still holding yours. With that confirmation, the cord attached to his pack gets pulled.

The parachute deploys, unfurling behind him like angel wings. In an instant, the burning rush of cold air stops, the freefall turning moreso into a gentle float. Still falling, still going fast, but now much more manageable. The sudden change in pressure makes his ears pop, and it allows him to hear your panicked breaths. The force of the parachute catching the wind must’ve knocked the air out of you.

Have you ever done this before? Judging by the death grip you have on his hand, he’d say no.

“I take it you don’t come here often?” He jokes, reassuringly squeezes your fingers, before taking his hand away and bringing it to the other steering rope. The only response he hears is a tense chuckle, but it comes out as more of a strained noise. 

As the ground nears, he gives one of your legs a little kick, making sure he has your attention. He has a feeling he never lost it.  

“Remember to tuck and roll once we get down there. Just follow my lead.” 

He can see you nod, your hair obscured by the hood you’re wearing. A little hum comes from your throat, low and tense. 

How could I forget?

When the ground finally meets his feet, he wraps one of his arms around your torso, holding you firmly within his grip. He feels impossibly close to you, his body coming to shield you as he rolls to disperse the energy of the landing. Loyally, you go along with his movements, your own arm coming to rest over his. It’s like you trust him to keep you safe no matter what.

Probably because you do. 

You both come to a stop with his rear end on the ground, you in his lap. The weight pressed against him makes his head spin. Without thinking, his rough hand comes to your head, keeping it down as he surveys the landing area. As if anything could swoop in and hurt you while you were still orienting yourself. The world around him is cold and icy, just like how he had imagined it would be. The facility is about 2 miles West of you both. Luckily enough, the path looks fairly clear. 

The straps tying you together get undone quickly, the parachute and harnesses being thrown to the side and buried in snow. The less evidence that the two of you are here, the better. 

He lets go of you, standing to his feet. A hand comes out to yours. You take it gratefully.

“Still doing good, Rookie?” 

A nod. He watches as your face reddens in response to the cold, cheeks flushing. Leon can imagine that he probably looks the same.  Absently, his fingers come up to the pull cord of your hood, tightening it so the plush fabric rests closer to your face. Hopefully, that will allow you to retain just a little bit more warmth. He doesn’t want you catching a cold out here.

As if that’s the greatest of his concerns right now.

His hand stays near your face for just a second longer than it needs to. So close to brushing against your cheek. So close to finally closing the gap that’s been between you two for months.

But now is not the time.

He pulls his hand back as if the action sears his skin.

“Let’s get moving.”

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.

.

A feeling of dread bubbles into him as you both trudge closer to the building.

The lights are on, red and white glow cutting through the darkness like a knife. Even from far away, neither of you miss the hum of electricity and machinery coming from its walls. Sherry was right. This building isn’t just active. It’s been reborn.

By some miracle, he can’t see any human activity. There isn’t any movement visible. It’s one less thing he has to worry about, at least. 

Speaking of things to worry about, you’re beside him as always. It reminds him of years ago, in Spain. A Spanish man in a red leather jacket following next to him, guiding him through cave systems and rubble. Said man dying to a knife being lodged firmly into his spine. Leon having to leave his body there until it was almost certainly smashed to pieces by falling rubble. Never to be seen again.

A spike of cold goes through his heart. It isn’t from the climate.

He stops walking. 

You notice immediately, turning to him with an eyebrow cocked.

What is it?

The facility is about a mile away now. It isn’t too late for you to walk back. To wait for the evac helicopter until he returns from the mission.

He wants to plead with you to turn back. To find some place to hole up until you can get out of there. Fear is coursing through his veins. Not for himself. But for you. What if he loses you here just like he’s lost everyone else?

“Are you sure about this?” The cold makes his lips feel numb, “You can go back. I won’t tell anyone. No one would ever know. You could be safe.”

His eyes don’t dare soften when they meet yours. But he’s still silently begging for you to sway from your loyalty. To leave him to risk his life by himself. For you to stay back and stay safe. Even if he longs to have you next to him always, he’s not sure he could live with himself if your unwavering kindness got snuffed out on his watch.

Dread crashes over him when you shake your head.

Nope. Going with you.

Leon curses whatever god may exist that you’re so stubborn.

Your hand finds his wrist, pulling him towards you. Towards the facility. It takes everything within himself not to knock you prone and hide you somewhere near the evac coordinates. He has a feeling that it wouldn’t work anyway. You’re going to loyally follow him, even if it's to your own demise. 

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.

The front door is almost entirely frozen shut.

Leon has to force his entire body weight against it for him to pry it open. Even then it protests, before finally opening with a metallic screech. Warm air hits his face instantly, the inside of the building glowing at him with yellow tinted light. If he were in the middle of any other circumstance, the room would have felt welcome. Warm and bright and inviting against the cold darkness of the outside world. But he knows better. He knows that this place is likely more deadly than the negative degree weather ever could be.

Out of the corner of his eyes, you give him a signal. Two fingers held up, pointing twice vaguely inside.

Is it clear?

His eyes scan the room. It’s empty except for a few large, wooden boxes. There’s only one other door than the one he entered in.

He nods. 

You both step inside. 

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.

.

Further inside the facility, at the same time…

The man is grinning.

Still clad in a white lab coat, he watches the monitors in front of him. In the lower left one, he can see as the side door gets pushed open, a soldier stepping through.

Even through the blurry screen, he could recognize that face anywhere.

Leon Kennedy. 

His smile widens, edges of his lips nearly to where his ears are. It worked. The transmissions, the red herrings, everything was working just as it should. Months of work is finally coming to a head. 

Leon was finally here.

In his hands, a syringe rolls between his fingers. It’s small, filled with a thin, purple liquid. There’s only about 20 mls worth of fluid, but it’s more than enough for his purposes. The ultimate gift. The greatest thing this world has ever known.

He’s going to give it to Leon so that he can experience the truest strength anyone could ever know.

He’s tested it before. On lesser soldiers that couldn’t resist the negative effects. Lesser soldiers that had turned and collapsed before the benefits could truly show. But he knows that Leon is stronger than those nobody’s ever could be. He has no doubt that everything will go just as he planned. 

He’s about to laugh when his eye catches something on the monitor.

There’s another figure.

Next to Kennedy, another person steps in. The camera doesn’t have enough definition to make out any definite details, but he can make out the basics. Clad in a similar uniform, a feminine silhouette gestures something to Leon. He nods. They both step inside.

Oh.

This is a new development, isn’t it?

He hadn’t expected for Kennedy to bring along someone else. To be honest, he’s almost offended. He’d gone through so much work to lure the man here, and he had the gall to bring someone along? It’s offensive. It’s outright rude. How was he supposed to thank him with some random woman there?

His mind runs wild for a moment, eyes squinting in hatred as the feminine figure makes another gesture. This time, it’s toward the camera. Leon squints to see the small device, before he effortlessly lifts his handgun, shooting out the camera. 

The feed goes dead. Replaced by static.

Rage burns through his brain.

She’s going to be a pest.

He needs to take care of her soon.

When he starts to type earnestly, reading old case files, his memory cuts to how close your lips were to his when he pinned you down on that old gym mat. It brings a warmth to his cheeks.

By the time the debrief for the next case starts, he can barely concentrate. 

“...Here’s what we know: A former research facility held 82.86E’ and 135.00E’, once abandoned, is now showing suspicious signs of…”

Sherry’s voice is grainy over the video call system. She’s giving a mission debrief on their latest case, one that he will be deployed to in a matter of three days.

Leon has mixed feelings about it all.

Part of him is, as always, pissed. 

Why wouldn’t he be? He was supposed to be a cop in a medium sized city, helping to save people and handing out traffic tickets. If it wasn’t for his and Sherry’s life on the line, he would’ve told the government to fuck right off when they propositioned him. But that was almost 30 years ago now. Every mission he’s deployed on is another chance for him to be killed off once and for all. 

Another thing he’s upset about is the fact that you’ll be deployed alongside him. The only reason that he had allowed you to accompany him to Wrenwood weeks ago was because he was dying and needed the help. You had been useful, yes, and a good companion, but he still held the opinion that you were far too inexperienced to be around any form of B.O.W. It was too dangerous. Leon hated the idea of putting you in harms way. 

Speaking of you, you’re sitting in the office chair beside him. Listening quietly, you nod every now and then to acknowledge what Sherry is reciting. But by the swallowing in your throat, he can tell that you’re getting nervous too. 

He hates that he’s going out on another mission so soon after the last one. Though, he will admit that with a case on his mind, he can finally get a distraction from his recently realized feelings for you. 

“... You two will be dual parachuted in around 2200 hours. The objective is to investigate the cause for the recent activity, and destroy any bio-organic weapons.”

It’s all sounding normal to him right now. Another side quest in his endless line of pain. He can hear a hum from you. It’s inquisitive.

I have a question.

Sherry stops her speaking at the noise, “Yes, Y/N?”

The scratching of your pencil is louder without the background noise.

What strain of virus?

The blonde woman clears her throat, “At the moment, we believe it is a strain of the original T-Virus. That being said, you both need to be prepared for any other possibility.”

He doesn’t miss the way your hands tremble ever so slightly at the mention of the T-Virus.

Even though any sane person should be worried, he’s not. He’s heard it all before. Could be, would be, should be. It was always the same. It never went the way it was supposed to. He wasn't lucky enough for that. Never had been.

Another hum from beside him. The room goes back to just Sherry’s voice once more.

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.

.

“Again.”

The shooting range is more familiar to you both now. 

Since the debriefing ended, he had been more quiet; ushering you to the shooting range with just a few words and a brief gesture. Part of him found his emotions detaching as the reality set in.

You were being sent out with him.

Your skills, though improving, still weren’t enough for him to know that you’d be safe.

You weren't ready.

Good god, what if he lost you just like he lost everyone else?

“Again.”

This is the 4th magazine’s worth of shots. There’s at least 60 bullet casings on the floor beneath you, and another one falls with each prompt he gives.

The black silhouette on the other side of the room is almost nonexistent now, the majority of it having been chewed away with each shot fired. This bullet happens to lodge in its torso, right above where the heart would be. He can hear a satisfied noise from your throat at the accuracy. You’re improving. Good.

“Again.”

His voice is firm, unmoving. Like he’s set his jaw and kept it that way. Stubborn. Hurt. Almost… Worried.

Instead of reloading your magazine, you set the handgun down, looking behind you to meet his eyes. 

You okay?

No, he’s not. But he’d rather die than let you know that. You’ve already wormed your way into his heart, he doesn’t need you traveling any further into his mortal soul. 

“I’m fine. Again.”

Your eyes roll, and it makes his heart flutter. He tamps the feeling down like it’s a bad memory. He buries it like his memories of that day in Raccoon City.

“Again.”

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.

He hates how rough he’s being when he presses you into the gym mat.

This spar is more brutal than the one yesterday. He’s not holding back. He doesn’t dare loosen up. Any moment of reprieve is a moment where an enemy could hurt you. Any weakness could make him lose you forever. 

He’s being mean now so that you have a chance for later. 

“I win. Get back up. We’re going again.”

It reminds him again of Krauser, all those years ago. Throwing him down like it was his favorite hobby, savoring in the way that Leon gasped in pain. It scares him how similar his tone is right now.

Is this why Krauser was so rough? For his own safety?

His breath is heavy, his hands trembling ever so slightly. It’s like every single one of his past ghosts is coming back to haunt him.

Another match starts. He manages to strike first, a firm hand grasping your shoulder. For a moment, his vision flashes, and instead of his palm hitting your deltoid, he sees Krauser’s chest being impaled by a knife. 

His knife.

It feels so very real.

Instead of the cool air of the gym, he’s suddenly choking on the hot, humid climate of Spain. He’s younger, face not marred with age. Krauser is on the wooden flooring, bleeding out and choking on crimson.

Leon can’t feel the hurt that his heart is sending out. He doesn’t have the time. He doesn’t have the energy. 

His knife finds the knife handle again, lifting it up before stabbing back down again-

A breathy, feminine cry breaks him from the memory. 

He’s not there. It’s not Krauser.

Oh god, it’s you.

You’re on the mat beneath him, pinned down by his knee in your chest. You’re gasping, lips parting to try and take in a proper breath. His fingers are digging into your shoulder roughly. It’s surely going to bruise. Beside you, your hand is pounding against the mat like it’s your only lifeline.

Stop.

He steps back like the action burned him. 

He can feel his hands tremble, and he looks down at them in pure horror.

Where had he just gone?

What has he just done?

His eyes shakily watch as you sit up, hands coming to your chest as you gasp like it's your first breath in minutes. It takes a moment for you to recover, before you’re looking up at him.

The look on your face is confused.

Why confused?

You should be angry. You should be scared.

Sure, your lips are trembling, your jaw set. But your eyes show no fear.

Your eyebrows raise at the look of him, pupils trained on his tremoring hands.

What just happened? Are you okay?

He can’t bring himself to answer. 

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.

.

By the time the end of the day comes, he’s barely met your eyes since that match.

You had walked back into the office, absentmindedly massaging your shoulder, and started working. He hadn’t tried to talk to you. He didn’t deserve to. Not after that.

When it’s time to go, and the sun is hanging lowly in the sky, you slip a note onto his computer screen so that he has no choice but to look at it.

Can you drive me home? Car still at mechanic. Taxi’s are getting expensive. 

He nods, still not looking at you.

“Just tell me the directions.”

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.

The drive is silent.

You’re next to him, still marveling at the plushness of the seats and looking out the windows as the world zips by. Occasionally, you gesture left or right with your hands, and he follows your directions dutifully. He owes you at least this.

He’s owed you for weeks now. 

He’s owed you for the lunches. The kindness. For the pleasure of hearing your voice. 

He’s never truly going to repay it.

When he pulls into the parking lot of a modest apartment complex, he isn’t expecting when your index finger taps on his wrist.

“What is it?” He finally looks at your face.

Your other hand is gesturing to the apartments, your head nodding towards them as well. Do you… Want him to go up with you?

His mind races with possibilities. 

First, the ones that he is ashamed of thinking. Of the night ending with sweat and heated kisses as two bodies become one. But he knows that that’s about as likely as a winning lottery ticket falling out of the sky and slitting his wrists for him on the spot. 

Or maybe, you want him to come inside for payback. Maybe you have a boyfriend who is going to try and beat him stupid for hurting you. To be completely honest, he’d probably let him. He’s survived worse.

Either way, he feels like he has no choice but to comply, stepping out of the car and opening the passenger door for you, before locking it. 

The apartment complex is just as plain on the inside as it is on the outside. There’s endless carpeted hallways, accompanied by endless wooden doors. Some of the doors have personalizations; a sarcastic welcome mat or a sticker pasted to the outside. When you stop outside of one, it looks the same as all of the others. Simple. Wooden. Ordinary.

You get the key out casually, and he’s not sure what he expected when you open the door and usher him inside. 

The main room is cozy and lived in. There’s a soft blanket on the couch, emblazoned with a random pattern that he doesn’t bother paying any mind to. The carpeted floor is unvacuumed but not dirty. You likely haven’t had the time to do a deep clean lately.

Your hand gestures for him to step inside, and he copies you in the way that you leave your shoes in the entryway. A message gets typed up on your phone, showing it to him.

Get comfy. It’s spaghetti night.

His mind glitches like TV static. You brought him here… For spaghetti night?

“W-What?”

Another message, this time taking a second longer as you fix a few typos.

Dude, you’ve been an asshole today. Something's up. You need to chill out and relax a lil.

He sighs at the words, hand coming up to rub at his face, “Fuck, sorry. Hope I’ll be a better houseguest than I am a boss.”

This time, you roll your eyes. He watches as you pull out a box of spaghetti from a cupboard, a pot being filled with water in the background. Your thumbs type out some more words as you pull out some sauce from the freezer.

Normally you’re fine. Not today though. What’s up?

Leon doesn’t even know how to begin to explain it to you. Hell, could he even explain it? How was he supposed to respond? ‘Sorry, my dumbass brain keeps reminding me of the horrors’? You deserved a better explanation than that.

At his silence, you arch an eyebrow. Your phone slides along the counter towards him, showing him a message.

I’ve seen some shit too. I get it.

The admission makes his chest tighten. 

He’s known better than to assume anything about you, sure. He figured that anyone in this line of work had to have been through at least something. But the confirmation hurts him. Guess your life hadn’t been sunshine and rainbows after all. Had you experienced something like him? Something that changed him forever?

“You don’t show it.”

A shrug.

I do. You just don’t think I do. You’re too used to me.

The pot of water gets set on the stove, your hands turning the dials with practiced ease. The sauce gets added to a separate pan, and his eyes watch the way that you add some spices and seasonings. You don’t even bother measuring, just tossing it in like it comes as second nature to you. He could never. It makes him admire you even more.

“Is it just us tonight?” He’s standing next to you awkwardly. It feels wrong to just take the liberty to sit down.

You give him an odd look, your hands going to your phone again.

Who else would there be?

Leon shrugs, his head shaking absentmindedly. “Just figured your boyfriend might be coming home or something. He might want a heads up that there’s a man in your house.”

You laugh. It’s not necessarily high in volume, no, but it’s the loudest noise he’s ever heard from you. You can barely contain the noises from your lips as you frantically type out another message, your hands struggling to stay still as the laugh racks your whole body.

Boyfriend? Funniest thing I’ve heard from you yet, Kennedy.

He sputters, face turning red. 

“You don’t have a-?” He stops himself, embarrassedly looking away from you, “I just thought, since, you know-.”

Since when has he ever been this awkward? The embarrassment burns his face like lava is coursing through his cheeks. 

‘You know’ what?

Your phone gets shoved in front of his face, the message centered on the notes page you had been typing on.

An awkward noise, “Well, you’re sure as hell not ugly, Rookie. And you can cook. Isn’t that ‘desirable woman’ material 101?”

Another laugh. If he listens closely, it almost feels like he’s hearing your voice again for the first time in weeks. Since the care center. Since, well, the only other day he had ever heard it.

At least you think so. Dinner should be ready in 15 minutes btw. Go sit down. Put something on the TV.

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.

The meal is simple. Al dente pasta covered in a thick, rich meat sauce. But as you both sit on the couch, barefoot and cross-legged, it feels like the best meal he’s ever eaten. Well, besides all the other meals you’ve given him, of course. But there’s something about a fresh, homemade meal that warms his body better than the booze ever could.

The TV is playing some random medical drama that was on the first channel he saw. It’s wildly inaccurate to actual human anatomy, but he can’t bring himself to mind that when you’re sitting so close to him. You have your notepad again, writing down comments as to what you’re watching. It all feels so very domestic. He can almost imagine this being his everyday life. Coming home after work to a meal and a kiss on the cheek. 

Unlike all of his prior thoughts about you, he doesn’t feel ashamed for it this time.