Icy

price doesn't say as much, but it's hardly a secret that you're the last person he wanted to hire for this job. it's hard to say why that is- but it hardly matters. you're the only one who applied, you showed up on time for casting off, and you put in the work without complaint. so, in turn, whatever comments the captain has about you, he keeps to himself.

the bravo is just big enough that you can stay out from underfoot from one another- but just barely. it's always a tight squeeze when you have to pass by him, and he always gives you a pat to your ass or hip when you do manage to get past. it's in your best interest to keep things cordial and friendly with the captain- after all, the boat's small, it's not like you can get away from him.

it only takes a few weeks for you to find your sea legs, to not get knocked off your feet at every large wave, and you can see the respect start to grow within your captain. he talks more, gives you slightly bigger portions of the chow, claps you on the shoulder in celebration when you bring in a particularly good haul. he's still not the friendliest, per se, but you'll take your wins where you can get them.

price starts taking the boat out further and further, and you can tell it's a test of sorts. you can feel him staring, gauging your reaction the first time you go so far out to sea that land is no longer visible. he practically stares you down as he hauls up a shark, the likes of which you're fairly certain you don't have any license to fish. time with a stoic like price has taught you that he only wants one sort of response from you- calm indifference. so that's what you give him.

(it's days like those that you wish there was at least one other person on this boat- someone you could whisper to afterwards, share a look with, confirm that things out here are getting weird and uncomfortable and that you're not just imagining it.)

so for the captain's benefit, you don't react when you see a twenty foot fin cresting out of the water on the starboard side. you don't say anything when a whirlpool as big across as a football pitch opens up in the middle of the sea. you don't make a face when price hauls up a three headed eel, a squid with human teeth, or a shark with tentacles.

you do react when, after a week at sea, price finds his way to your bunk, eyes milky white and unseeing as he grabs at your blankets and clothes, his wet hair dripping ice-cold seawater in your face. he's speaking to you, but only in low whispers, unintelligible and rumbling, like a thunderstorm is trapped behind his teeth.

try as you might, no matter how hard you slap his hands away or how loudly you shout for him to wake up, snap out of it, stop, please stop- he's undeterred. he's cold and clammy all over, his hands alternating between tearing at your clothes and keeping you pinned to the bed, thick moustache twitching as he continues incessantly whispering.

the weight of the situation hits like a cannonball to the gut- you're out in open ocean, several days sailing from land, with nowhere to run or hide from price. whatever he's after, he'll get it one way or another. you cannot escape him, cannot conceal yourself, cannot even hope to fight him off. you're truly at his mercy, and looking into his vacant eyes as the truth of it really sinks in makes you despair.

the sobbing fit that follows is even more overpowering than your captain, making your previously defensive hands limp at your sides, your vocal opposition hushes in favor of sobbing wails as he completes his task of stripping the two of you down, kissing at your salty tears as they slide down the sides of your face.

you don't fight when he pulls you to your feet and leads you to the bow. there's no point, you figure as you continue to bawl your eyes out. the cold ocean wind bites at your naked body, making your body shake even more furiously as you cry. the whispering is louder now, not just price's voice, but many, located over the sides, maybe even in the water. it's hard to say as your pulse pounds in your ears.

there's so many stars out here, and through your tears they bleed and blend together, warping space above you. surely that's what's also causing that faint red glow off the port side? the one that moves like a mist, trailing closer and closer before it extends over your head-

with a single push, price puts you on your knees on the deck, clammy hand planted between your shoulder blades. his whispers continue, but they sound more orderly now. rhythmic. a repeated phrase, over and over- a chant of some sort. it's the only warning you get before he drops to his knees behind you, shoving his cock into you with no preparation or preamble- a dry, burning stretch that startles a shriek from you. one that won't be heard by any living thing, save for price.

everything hurts. price is hollowing you out, rutting into you like a wild animal as his fingernails dig into the fat of your hip, deep enough to draw blood. his pace is brutal, slowly scraping the skin from your knees, shins, and palms as he pushes you both forward across the deck. there's no thought for your pleasure, and so there is none. your chest and sinuses ache from sobbing, your head is pounding, and you're afraid that the shrieks and screams price has been pulling from you are going to make you hoarse. all you can do is hang on, ride it out, and hope it ends soon.

there's a flash of green light over the horizon- there and gone again in an instant- and it signals a change in your captain, who cums inside of you with an howl, deep and gutteral and completely wild. his hands move quickly to haul you up onto your knees, your back pressed to his clammy chest as one hand cradles under your jaw, holding your head still as he wriggles around behind you, continuing his whispers in your ear-

accipiatur donum meum mari oblatum eo animo quo offertur. venti mihi semper faveant, et aestus oceani sit propitius.

there's no time to register the flash of the knife before he carves into you- three big swooping slices on either side of your neck, a horrendous and grotesque facsimile of gills. blood pours from your body, completely coating the deck as your vision rapidly goes black around the edges. price lets you go, your body thudding heavily against the deck as you feel your life drain from the gouges he's left in your throat.

dying isn't so bad, you think as the world starts getting darker. you feel like an hourglass whose sand is running out- and with it taking all the pain and fear and anxiety you were previously hosting. soon, there will be nothing. you will be nothing. forever. but before you slip away into the endless, dreamless sleep, you register price's voice, more panicked than you've ever heard him.

"no, no- not again. not her. i gave you the austrian- we were square! my debt was paid! bloody fuckin' h-"

and then, eternal silence.

[your body is keelhauled, fed to the ancient thing that keeps price's nets full, but your clothes and personal affects stay with him, buried under the false bottom of his footlocker, brought out once a year to be held and handled and smelled as price drinks himself into a stupor and promises himself to only ever hire out to more 'disposable' crew.]

He's younger. Stubble hardly even noticeable along his jaw and lips, skin smoother with less worry lines. That scar that used to bisect his eyebrow is even gone. Smoothed out. Fully covered and wrinkling as he smiles. It's so tangible Simon can almost smell him. Sour gun powder coated in the mint gum he always chewed on deployments. A tick. Not a nervous one. Johnny was always thrumming with life, with the need for movement, a desire to do something with his hands.

Then, you look over your shoulder at him.

You slap your wallet shut, smothering the image of Johnny behind faux patterned leather before shoving it into your pocket. The glare on your face is challenging. A silent spitting at his feet as you look him up and down, drinking in the height and broadness of him like the mere size of him is a challenge. A threat.

"Can I help you?" Short. Cutting. You don't trust him, and he doesn't blame you. A stranger in a pub with his chest nearly up against your back as you try to order a drink after a long week of work.

"Maybe."

Your distaste at his lack of tactfulness screws the features on your face until your fingers are curling. Simon's not sure why, but he wouldn't mind the taste of your knuckles against his cheek, bone pushing flesh into his teeth until the blood floods his mouth to wash down the aftertaste of you.

"How do you know 'im?" Simon questions, chin tilting up as his words die down.

"The fuck are you talking about?" you bite.

"Johnny. MacTavish."

Recognition freezes over your features until your fingers are tracing over the thickness in your pocket where his old teammate (No, something more, someone more. An importance he doesn't know how to utter but something that burns through him all the same) resides like an urn upon a mantle.

"Do you know him?" You answer his question with another one. Simon refuses to speak until you're breaking, eyes falling to the floor, teeth catching between your lips. "He was my donor."

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

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

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

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

It’s more like a night class you suppose.

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

Specifically where Nina can't see you.

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

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

He must be pretty well liked around here.

What the hell is he doing talking to you?

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

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

Maybe you do need a life coach.

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

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

Are all the instructors here hot?

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

Every eye in the class turns to look at you.

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

You force a smile.

“Introduce yourself,” Kyle presses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stuck?” Kyle prompts.

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

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

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

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

“Stuck?”

“Yes!” you relent. 

“Good.” Kyle nods.

“Good?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kyle looks at you.

"What were you going to share?"

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

You cringe at how childish it is, how personal.

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

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

The attention makes tears prick at your lash line.

Everyone needs to look away from you right fucking now.

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

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

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

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

You feel raw.

-

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

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

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

You really wanted to be mad at him.

You probably should have been mad at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You unfold the pamphlet again and start at the top.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gaz not pretty enough to bring you back?"

"What? No, I-"

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

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

You flex and curl your toes in your shoes.

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

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

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

You are going to set yourself on fire.

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

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

So much for feeling better.

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

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

A trap you tumble perfectly into.

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow the jealousy that threatens to clog your throat.

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

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

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

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

Oh no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yep!" You will not live that long.

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

-

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

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

God you are such a fucking idiot.

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

Maybe there's something wrong with you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hope you got home safe!"

-

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

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

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

That feels too impersonal. You delete it.

"finally home, great class tonight!"

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

"i'm home"

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

"home safe, thanks for today!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three AM comes too easily to you.

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

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

Simon was taking a shower now, no doubt to wash off the ash and blood on his body. They had collected their things from the ritual while you had been cleaned by the others against your will. John Price had dropped you at the bed, zip tying your wrists and ankle together, telling you to get some sleep - then Johnny had appeared, a grin on his face.

The treat he had promised you during the shower, turned out to be painkillers. Strong ones, which you eagerly took together with an offered water bottle. The moment you had swallowed enough you had awkwardly crawled to the corner of the bed, pressed against the walls of the bus.

“Naw, ye’re nae gonna thank me, pet?” Johnny asked. You couldn’t help but stare at him for a moment,  because there were so many other things you wanted to do to him. Thanking him was not one of them.

In fact, you wanted to scream at them for not offering you any kind of painkillers before - the bus was moving, making your body shake and you had just survived a shower by them, not to mention, the whole fucking ritual. It wasn’t really a great time to point out their lack of care. You would very much prefer they didn’t touch you and merely kept their distance like right now. Johnny didn’t seem to take it personal however, leaving you while laughing like a hyena. 

There would, without a doubt in your mind, be spots of blood on their bed tomorrow, since some of your wounds had opened.

You weren’t sure what kind of painkillers it was, but they hit not too long after, your body suddenly not burning in the same way. If an infection was to hit and swallow you whole, you wondered what they would do about it. They couldn’t exactly bring you to a hospital.

You pressed yourself against the wall, closing your eyes. 

The memory of It flashed before your eyes, just as the “no” it had spoken, echoed inside your mind.

No.

You weren’t stupid. You had been refused as a sacrifice of a sort. They had attempted to give  you to It in one way or another and if the weird new scars on your body said anything, it was probably not supposed to be while you were alive.

The realisation was weird. 

No. 

Why not? 

Not that you were offended, no quite the opposite, you were relieved that whatever it was, had refused you. That you didn’t live up to whatever idea it had of a sacrifice - that had apparently saved you. But it had seemed to be your destiny, at least from what you could gain from the cut off-sentences from the men.

So your survival, Its refusal of you… it made no sense.

The many hands - the claw touching you, pushing you down -

No.

No.

No.

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

The world returned slowly, your eyelids incredibly heavy, lashes sticking slightly together.

For once no nightmare had haunted your sleep, in fact you had no memory of dreaming about anything.

It took you a couple of moments to realise that there was a lack of zip ties around your wrists and ankles; instead there was a warm pressure around your stomach and your back, heating up your entire body, a blanket curled around your legs.

Someone was cuddling you. They had moved you during the night, pulling you further out on the big bed. You felt the warmth of a breath rhythmically hitting your neck, making goosebumps spread around your body.

Despite feeling like there was cotton in your mind, you squirmed a bit before sliding your hands down to touch the ones around your middle, your fingers pushing at the hands.

A grumble left the man behind you.

“G’ back tae sleep, dove,” a voice tiredly said, the accent a little heavier than usual, even leaning closer to nuzzle against your neck, “et’s still too early fer us.”

You froze at the feeling of his face against your skin, a small sound leaving you as he even pulled you closer. You could feel the erection press against your ass, making you want to pull away even harder. 

“I have to pee, I —“

“Nyet,” came a voice filled with sleep further behind you, “wait.”

His voice was firm despite sounding tired. You stared at the wall of the bus, despite not really needing to piss, you asked again.

“But I need —“

“We said no.” Price’s voice was the grumpiest, clearly stopping the discussion as you curled together a bit more, trying to move your ass even more away from Johnny.

When the alarm clock finally rang you wanted to cry from relief.

Finally the arms around you let go and the moment you were free, you were clumsily crawling out, almost falling down onto the linoleum floor of the bus. A grunt left Ghost and you looked back for a moment, seeing his intense eyes on you, the mask already hiding from his eyes and down. His blond hair was messy, but you didn’t spend time looking at him. The way he stared was a warning enough - I’m keeping an eye on you, don’t try anything.

You looked after a lock after closing the bathroom door, only to realise a couple of seconds later that there wasn’t any. The fact made you close your eyes in frustration but you turned around and went to the toilet, since you actually had to pee after waiting. You did your business, painfully aware that they would most likely be able to hear you and you tried to not think about the fact that you would have to do other things than just pee eventually.

They got out of bed, moving around, while you carefully tipped the toilet seat down and sat on it, holding your arms around yourself, trying to give yourself a hug in a desperate attempt of comfort, looking down at your feet - it was then you realised something. 

Your wounds were closed. Seconds passed and you merely stared down your legs. 

As you leaned down to touch the freshly closed wound, still with a bit of scabs on, another realization hit you… your rib didn’t hurt anymore. Carefully you took a breath through your nose…

Nothing. No pain. Sure, your entire body felt a little sore, but there was no burning pain like yesterday, no feeling of knives stabbing into you. 

A knock on the door.

“Are you done soon, luv?”

You didn’t answer at first, looking at a different wound. Yesterday there were definitely stitches but not anymore. You carefully ran your fingers along the wound, as if to confirm it was real what you were looking at.

“Oh sweetheaaaaart?” Kyle was almost singing now, his voice a little rough from sleep, but still a charming one, making your toes curl, “I can just open the door, luv, you know that right?” 

“One minute,” You replied, finally getting up, moving to wash your hands.

What the fuck was happening? The thought ‘this must be a dream’ hit for a second, but then again… you’ve had that thought repeatedly these last… how long had you been with them? At least two days, you supposed. You finally looked up, expecting  to see your bruised face look back at you.

You stared in the mirror. Then you raised your hand. 

You touched your face carefully; nothing hurt. Even as you pressed against your skin, nothing was painful. Despite the lack of pain, something was wrong… in fact, everything was wrong, because several things were different.

This wasn’t your face. A bit similar, yes, but it wasn’t yours.

This wasn’t your face. 

This wasn’t your face.

This wasn’t your face.

You carefully touched more parts - your nose; this wasn’t your nose, it was different, not the same, it wouldn’t look like this, even after healing from being broken. There was no form of bruising and it didn’t seem swollen but this was not your face. Your nose was sharper than before, a little broader. Your chin shape; it wasn’t the same as the one you had gone to bed with the day before, fuck, there was a gap between your front teeth that you swore you had never seen before. Your fucking teeth seemed lighter, making you tug at your lips, pulling your mouth to the side, checking for that filling you got as a kid that had a weird color… nothing. Gone.

Your eye color was different too - and beneath your right eye, there was a small mole. You scratched at it but no… a part of you. No bump on your cheek from that nasty pimple you had scratched too much at when you were a desperate teenager, no…

It was you - but it wasn’t you.

This wasn’t your face.

This wasn’t you.

The door opened and you saw Kyle in the small doorway, watching you back. The bathroom in the bus wasn’t that big, you weren’t even sure how there had been several people in here when they ‘washed’ you. Kyle could touch you if he reached out, but he just stood there in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a raised arm - raising an eyebrow at you.

“What’s the matter, luv?” 

You looked over your shoulder, as if you didn’t trust the mirror, taking in his expression. Nope, the crazy idiot was for real. As if your face wasn’t different, as if it wasn’t off. He was in boxers and a tanktop, silk bonnet still on his head, looking like he had just stepped out of a magazine. Had the time been different, had this not been a crazy fucking situation, you would almost had wanted to take a picture.

“What did you do?”

Kyle tilted his head, as if he didn’t understand your question, the ghost of a smile on his lips. As if there wasn’t anger and frustration in your voice. He didn’t even move, so you did; ducked beneath his arm, ignoring the chuckle leaving him and the small swat on your ass.

You stood in the hallway, watching the men get ready for a moment; as if this was all completely normal, as if…

“What did you do?” you repeated yourself but this voice you were louder, the desperation clearer, because what the fuck had happened? Why was the person you saw in the mirror not you?

The men barely reacted. As if you hadn’t even said anything. You got a glance or two, a huff from Johnny, but nothing else. Price was smiling at you. 

“WHAT DID YOU DO?” 

A hand slammed around your mouth and a half second later an arm slid around your middle, pulling you close.

“Shush now, milaya - it is too early to be screaming,” Nikolai pressed his face into your neck as he spoke, ignoring your squirming and your pulling at him, as if you were nothing but an unruly puppy he didn’t find threatening, “Now, we eat breakfast and then we talk, da?”

Despite being muffled by his fingers, he clearly understood the fuck you, that managed to sneak in between. Nikolai suddenly bit you - not hard, not enough to leave a proper mark but it was so sudden that it made you jump and cry out. 

“You behave and eat and then we talk, da?” his voice was a little darker now, clearly not up for any more misbehaving, “or you’ll go without breakfast.”

You nodded.

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

Sitting around the table, eating breakfast with them was oddly… normal. Mostly. They acted like they were going through another mundane task, passing the bacon and eggs, then the bread, asking if you wanted milk in your tea. 

As if you weren’t sitting next to Simon, pressed against the wall of the bus, now allowed any utensils, instead eating with your hands, since you refused to be fed like a child. You sat quietly, just eating what they put on your plate, staring into nothing while thinking. Was whatever they had done to your face… permanent? Would anyone believe you if you told about this, about what you had experienced, what you had seen, would anyone believe you when you told about It? 

They were talking about something from the upcoming show. The sun was slowly warming up the bus a little more, painting spots yellow and orange as it rose to greet another day. Another day… You had to get out. You couldn’t stay here, not with them. Whatever would happen could happen, you would rather be committed into a psych ward than spend much more time with them.

In a way you wondered if this was what you had imagined when it came to the men you had followed for years; kindness shown through the little things, asking if there is anything you like, making sure you’re not going hungry… if one ignored everything else, of course. 

For a moment your eyes focused on the knife resting next to the plate filled with food. You wondered if you could even harm them before they stopped you. What exactly they would do if you tried it,, what–

“Don’t be stupid, pup,” Simon didn’t even look at you, picking up his knife to spread butter on some bread. You looked back at your plate. Watched the food, wondering how the fuck they did this, how the fuck they played happy family when you were sitting right there, someone they tried sacrificing yesterday.

“I’m not a pup,” you answered stubbornly, though your voice wasn’t loud. They hadn’t turned you into a puppy after all - they had merely changed your face… somehow.

“Sweetheart,” it was Price who answered instead, “Is there anything in particular you like to eat for breakfast?”

The question made you wonder if he really cared; if you could say anything you wanted and he would just agree… or if this was just a trap - or a way to tell you that they wouldn’t let you leave. It wasn’t like you hadn’t eaten any of the food served to you.

“Yoghurt,” you finally answered, though it had been ages since you had eaten that. Perhaps it was a test for you to just say that you liked whatever they served, but you didn’t really care. Besides, they would have to give you a spoon for that. You looked up at him, taking in his features. The way a couple of wrinkles appeared next to his eyes as he smiled. You weren’t sure if it was from amusement or because he was pleased with your answer.

Price just nodded along, the smile on his face while Kyle and Johnny discussed something next to him, “We’ll buy some of that. We can start with the drinking kind.”

Wonderful. It wasn’t like you could hurt them with a fucking spoon. The answer made you purse your lips for a moment but you wanted answers, not a discussion about yoghurt and spoons.

You nodded. He gave a nod on his own, clearly pleased.

You pushed around your bread, eggs and brunch sausages, not eating any of them. You probably should, your stomach was begging for you to eat some more. At the same time, there was a clump in your throat, threatening to cut off your airways if you ate anything more.

Instead you slowly drank your tea, staying quiet and trying not to catch any of their attention. They were talking about such… mundane things. Laundry, groceries, who stole the last croissant, upcoming soccer tournaments.

It was pathetic that it was this you had dreamt of in your fairytale-like daydream. A parasocial dream of someone you would clearly never have had the opportunity to know who really was. The monsters they were beneath those titles of theirs… The monster they seemed to worship.

“Do ye not want moar tae eat, bun?” It was Johnny who asked and you merely shook your head.

“Not that hungry,” you whispered. He pursed his lips for a second, then it turned into a mocking pout.

“Aaawe, ‘re ye upset, bonnie thing?” he asked in a crooning voice, keeping the mocking look at his face.

“Be nice, shchenok,” Nikolai cut it, actually chastising Johnny for once, “she didn’t sleep good.”

SURE. That was definitely the issue here, what else would make you upset?

A grunt left Simon and you didn’t say anything as the giant switched your plates, so you were left with his, all scraped clean and he got yours. It was better that he ate it than it went to waste.

You washed your hands after breakfast, washing off any grease, still quiet, purposefully not looking up at the mirror.

“Here you are,” You looked over your shoulder, Simon standing in the door to the bathroom and for a second you felt like a mouse, cornered by a giant cat.

His hand was stretched out towards you, the pink tooth brush looking absolutely tiny in his hand.

“Thank you.” You quickly took the tooth brush, turning around and grabbing their tooth paste. 

He didn’t go away. Instead he stepped closer, much closer; his body caging you in against the plastic sink, making you freeze. One hand leaned against the sink and the other moved to grab a tooth brush. He began to hum, ever so slowly, taking the paste after you were finished. You recognised the tune. It was from one of their shows, when their tricks were getting more and more extreme.

As he stood there, his warmth curling along your back, you kept staring down at the sink, wishing you could disappear into the drain, slowly brushing your teeth.

When you finished, you carefully put the toothbrush next to theirs. Simon’s hand grabbed around your middle, pulling you a bit to the side, spitting out the white foam into the sink.

You looked how it mixed with the remnants of yours, before disappearing into the drain as well.  A hand slid beneath your chin and cupped your jaw, easily forcing you to look up.

“It’s not tha’ bad,” Simon commented, as he made you look at your new face in the mirror, watching over your shoulder, “you’re just bein’ dramatic. I think we did a good job.”

“I don’t want it,” you whispered, carefully glancing up to meet his eyes.

“ya’ just need to get used to it a bit,” he was calm, as if they hadn’t done something completely insane, “that’s just the issue, innit? A few days and ya’ wont mind.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t - you wouldn’t have known what to say anyways.Simon let go of your jaw, giving your cheek a not so gentle couple of pats. 

“C’mon let's find ya some clothes, hm?” 

Dressed now, in a pair of shorts that you weren’t sure who of them owned, as well as a t-shirt with their logo on. 

The bus was moving now, shaking now and again, making you grip onto the handle of a drawer, trying to stay upright. You had a feeling that you were supposed to all be seated and wear seatbelts, but the men seemed busy with everything but that. You took in every single one of them, before you finally ended up staring directly at Price, who was staring back. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in a pair of slacks and a grey button up, with the sleeves rolled up.

“Little one,” he said, a small smile on his face, as if that was a normal way to greet anyone like this.

“I want.. I want a fucking answer - you promised me an answer,” you demanded, not taking your eyes off him, looking straight back as if it was a staring context. Price didn’t say anything, merely looking back as if you were a curious being he had never seen before.

"O'right," he finally said, standing up and a moment later he was tugging you to the seats and table where you had eaten breakfast. He opened a cupboard above it, pulling out something. Then he sat down, laying the rolled up newspaper down on the table before patting on the seat right next to him, as if you were a child, cigar at the corner of his mouth “c’mere then.”

You hesitated, since you didn’t feel like sitting down next to him, if you were being honest, but as he pulled out his phone, he merely patted the spot again, not even looking at you.

At least you would be sitting so that you could dart off. 

“Oh, are we havin’ show and tell?” Kyle asked, leaning against the wall next to the seat, looking over your shoulder, while you tried to ignore him the best you could.

“Mm-hmm,” Price confirmed, “that we are.” 

You pursed your lips, ready to start another verbal fight, when Price suddenly slid his hand around your middle and pulled you closer as if you weighed nothing, a yelp leaving you. As he didn’t let go, you squirmed a bit and he merely hummed, not letting go.

“Now, I am a bit oldschool, as you might know from my interviews,” he said in a teasing voice, “so I do have yesterday’s paper - and we’ll pick up the new one later.”

You didn’t answer because he was fucking right. You knew he was oldschool, because you had indeed watched and read a lot of interviews about him and the others.

“Of course our superfan knows that,” Kyle chirped in, way too happily, making you grumble  out a “shut up” at him. 

Price tightened his grip for a second, so tight that it hurt before loosening it again with a “behave.”

Two pages in and the picture hit you like a brick wall. Suddenly your body stopped working, making you tense up, unable to do anything but stare. The picture of your wrecked car from the back, the area around it fenced off with police tape.

“Ya gotta breathe at some point, dove,” Price muttered, his free hand holding onto his cigar, the other giving your stomach a squeeze, as he leant against you, whispering into your ear, “c’mon, give me a breath… there we go, good girl.”

You didn’t look at him, too distracted by the sight of your car like that and finally, your eyes flickered to the heading of the article.

Woman dies in car crash after Magic Show

“I’m not dead,” you whispered, skimming over the article, taking in the most important ones, once again whispering, “but I'm not dead.”

Your name wasn’t mentioned in the article. They mentioned your lack of relatives. The fact that they expected foul play but didn’t have many leads to follow right now. That you had left their magic show, which had been filled to the brim, even been called up as a volunteer.

There was even a fucking comment from them, their manager having given a message to the press, expressing their sadness over your death. How they hoped those behind it would get caught. How unfortunate it was for such a young woman to lose her life. That they would like to pay for the funeral costs.

Oh, they would like to pay you for your funeral? What fucking brilliant people they were, what fucking saints, what fucking bastards and psyc–

“We even posted somethin’ on our insta - nothing too much for our biggest fan, heh,” Price teased.

“Funny, innit?,” Kyle began, as you felt Price’s warm breath against your ear, the man still hadn't pulled back, “how nobody really seems to care - not much about you in there, eh?”

The words took a couple of seconds to sink in and you blinked a couple of times, the text becoming blurry as tears began to fill your eyes.

“What?” you didn’t move as Price nuzzled against you like a giant cat.

“We just seem more important in the article about your death,” Kyle continued, his voice sounding a tad too amused, “kinda sad that you’ve had such a pathetic life. That nobody will miss you”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Price muttered into your temple, pressing his lips against your temple, “the few people who will turn up at your funeral will forget about you in a year or two.”

“People will be missing me,” you insisted, finally pushing against his chest to get him to back off, frustration and hurt rushing through your body and together with the many other emotions you had experienced these last days, you felt like you were on a roller coaster, “I - There are people that care about me and–”

Kyle laughed out loud.

“It’s cute that you think that,” he laughed, “you don’t have any family left - maybe an acquaintance or two - what is her name, Beatrice? Yeah, she’ll be sad for a lil while, maybe.”

You began to struggle even more in Price’s grip and he laughed too, finally letting go of you and you launched yourself away, stumbling onto the floor, sliding to the side as the bus turned a bit. You didn’t know why they knew Beatrice’s name - how they had chosen you, why the police didn’t wonder where the fuck your body would be if you were actually dead.

“I’m not dead!” you screamed, pulling at your hair, “I’m not dead - there isn’t a body, there- they’ll realise I’m just missing - that you all–”

Kyle moved too fast for you to react, suddenly settling on your stomach, easily catching your hands in his, a grin on his face as you struggled beneath him.

“You really think we didn’t fix that, huh?” Kyle muttered, leaning over you, looming like a monstrous presence on top of you, his grin dangerous, “you really think we didn’t leave someone else behind in that stupid car of yours?”

He let go of you, one of his hands moving to give your cheek a couple of hard pats, just like Simon had done earlier. You felt too haunted by his words to do anything about it.

“We changed your face - we can change someone else’s too.” His hand rested on your cheek then, thumb carefully caressing your cheekbone, catching a rouge tear, gentle as you were suddenly something precious to be appreciated. 

What they didn’t appreciate was you sinking your teeth into Kyle’s finger.

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

The darkness was familiar by now - it didn’t mean you liked it.

Apparently they didn’t trust you not to attempt to run away while they ran some errands, which had resulted in you being here now. Not that you didn’t try to tell them that you would behave and stay in the bus, but you bit a guy and suddenly they didn’t believe you.

Not that you wouldn’t have tried to run away, no no, you would have used the first opportunity given and bolted.

You tried to get a bit more comfortable, moving to rest against the wall. A broom moved, hitting your shoulder, making you groan into the fabric gag. You had already tried getting off for several minutes, but given how you were bound, you didn’t have a lot of options. 

A part of you would have preferred the other… world. Dimension. Whatever. You would rather move through the water, watched by It, than be here.

Johnny had tried to calm you when you had freaked out at the sight of the rope, promising you that Simon was great at bondage - he had tons of experience. Funnily enough, it hadn’t really helped. 

Your legs were bent, rope curling around your ankles and around your thighs, connecting so you couldn’t stretch your knees. Your hands were bound behind your hands, fabric curled around them and under the rope, like makeshift mittens, so you wouldn’t “get any ideas” like Nikolai had said. The gag was a cloth in your mouth and over it was what you expected were some kind of kink mask. Covering your entire lower face, two small holes near your nose to let you breathe. No space to push the cloth out into, it was merely stuck in your mouth.

Your legs and arms burned a little, your ass sore from the awkward position - and because you were sitting on what you assumed to be a dustpan. 

They way they had all looked at you before you were put away like a literal cleaning equipment, it had been disgusting; barely trying to hide the way they looked at your body, between your legs in particular. 

It made you feel filthy. In desperate need of a bath.

The bus wasn’t moving, in fact it would have been extremely quiet - or at least you expected it would - hadn’t it been for the bloody radio that they hadn’t turned off before leaving. The broom closet was just closed off enough so that you couldn’t properly hear whatever the fuck the hosts were making.

As you sat quietly, you wondered how you were going to prove that you were you despite looking different - despite the fact that they already had a body that looked like you. There had to be some sort of difference though… a DNA test would fix it, wouldn’t it?

You closed your eyes, slowly tapping your head against the wall of the closet, wondering what your next step should be - because what the fuck where you even supposed to do?

So far they hadn’t really done anything to hurt you or mock you, barely leaving your side except when they’d knocked you out or sent your mind… there.

When the floor creaked, you blinked, having dozed away - and a moment later, the sharp artificial lights made you press your eyes together as the door to the closet had been opened.

“Where have you put the clo–” 

The woman who stared down at you looked like she was seeing a ghost for a moment. You didn’t even need an introduction, not that you were able to give one, but you knew who she was. Kate Laswell was their famous manager who took care of most things, from interviews and clips it always looked like she was the one in charge of things, making sure everything followed the plan.

You instantly did your best to speak, your muffled “please save me”s on repeat as the woman stared at you and you began to twist in the tightly bound ropes. You tried telling her to call the police as you began to struggle, well aware that the words weren’t much better than before, the cloth in your mouth soaked and restricting your ability to speak. 

For a second, a bare second, there was what seems to be pity on her face; like she would actually agree and call the police, help you out, and you dared to hope, hope that she would make sure that –

Kate Laswell rolled her eyes, before reaching up at a shelf above you, pulling a cloth down.

"Jonathan Price!” she then snapped, staying where she was, crossing her arms, “Simon Riley. Come here.”

The two men almost immediately appeared next to her and when she pointed at you, the glimmer of hope was more or less snuffed out and you felt your eyes begin to water.

“Why is there a half naked bound woman in your broom closet?”

“Well, technically she isn’t half-naked,” Simon began - only to be cut off by Kate Laswell again.

“I don’t care about that part.” 

“You see, Kate, we were told to take her at our last show and–”

“I don’t want an explanation!” she sounded like an exhausted mother who had reached her limit, “I’m saying why is she there? It’s not an optimal fuckin’ spot at all - for fucks sake, what if she pisses herself or something if you all have to stay away for a bit longer? Then you have to clean the closet.”

"Oh." You watched Price scratch his beard as he realised that she had a point - while you wanted to point out that the fucking point should be that there shouldn’t be a kidnapped woman in there.

It was hard to breathe and sob with the gag in and you managed to see Kate roll her eyes again, before your sight became obstructed and blurry from the tears.

“Put her in the shower or something, I don’t care. We need to fix the last things before you all continue.”

Simon shushed you as he carried you out of the closet and into the bathroom instead, Price reminding you that it wasn’t you that Kate was upset with, so there was no reason to cry.

You wanted to scream, but the gag prevented you.

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

You weren’t sure how many hours passed but it was more than two. Your stomach was painfully reminding you that enough time had passed that you had become hungry again, your bladder full, almost feeling like a threat. You had ended up falling asleep, leaning against the wall of the shower, waking up as the door was opened and the light turned on, followed by the rustling of the entire room as the bus turned on.

“Hey there, lass,” Kyle greeted you happily, with a smile on his face like he was actually pleased to see you again after those several hours apart, “had a good day?” 

You didn’t say anything, eyes flickering to Simon instead as he followed behind him inside the bathroom. 

“You’re gonna behave now, aren’t you?” Kyle continued to ask as if you had replied to the other part, stepping over to you, giving you a couple of pats on top of your head like you were a dog, before showing you his finger with the plaster on,“or ya’ little muzzle stays on. But you’ve learned your lesson, haven’t you?”

Doing your best to say yes with the gag still tight against you, nodding your head quickly, seemed to amuse Simon who chuckled behind him.

The moment the gag and the cloth was removed from your mouth, you were dragging in desperate breaths, opening and closing your mouth several times, your jaw sore. It was Simon who freed your legs, your legs screaming in pain as you could finally stretch them properly again, making you unable to stand for the first few seconds, legs trembling too much - so Simon merely pulled you up by the arm, forcing you to stand on them as you hissed out in pain.

“C’mon, ya’ haven’t pissed yourself so you have to now, I suspect,” Simon said as he pushed you to the toilet and despite the little place, the few steps were hard to walk, your legs barely listening to you.

“M-my hands,” you pointed out, looking over your shoulder at Simon who just shrugged.

“You’ll get ‘em back later,” Kyle happily answered, before he stepped closer. Much closer, too close in fact, squatting down in front of you, “Sit down, I’ll pull ya’ shorts down.”

A displeased sound left you. Kyle looked up at you, with slight amusement on his face but there was also a raised eyebrow.

He pulled the shorts down and you sat down before he was face to face with your cunt. Kyle still seemed rather pleased with it, while you closed your eyes.

“I can’t go when you’re here.”

“Heh.”

“Well, we’re not leaving, dove - so that’s technically your problem, innit?”

The seconds dragged on and you squirmed on the toilet seat, the vibrations of the bus going straight into your body, not making it any easier. It didn’t help that Kyle didn’t move away, still squatting down in front of you, waiting for you to piss.

Eventually you just clenched your jaw shut and kept your eyes closing, finally letting go and pissing.

“Good giiiiiirl,” Kyle crooned, “look at you, you did it.”

You didn’t answer. You kept your eyes closed as Simon patted you dry afterwards and Kyle pulled up your shorts again.

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

You sat at the same spot on the padded bench at the table as you had at breakfast - but this time it was Price who sat next to you. 

“We’ve talked,” he casually said, turning to the next page in today’s newspaper. He had shown the new article to you mere moments ago. Smaller than before. Even less about you this time, though they had taken the time to figure out where you lived and where you worked.

Your hands were still bound behind your back. Your arms were sore from them being in the same position all day, but you didn’t dare to complain about it. 

Glancing at Price, you waited for him to continue.

“We’ve decided that if you behave for a week or so, we’ll let you go, dove.”

It sounded so simple. As if it was the most obvious way to fix this entire thing. As if they had all agreed that ‘yeah the whole sacrificing thing didn’t work out’ so there was no reason to keep you around.

As if they hadn’t essentially killed you, made you someone new, someone who technically didn’t even exist. Letting you go… It would gain them nothing but problems. Then they would have done all of this, only to risk that you would run directly to the police and tell on them. Whether you would be believed was something else - maybe you should just go to the press first, but still, would they even believe you? How were you supposed to prove your identity? You didn’t have any close family members, nothing. They could lose a lot in a scandal - too much maybe. If the knives and bones were found - if you showed them the scars they had given you, if…

When it finally hit, you blinked. Slowly you licked your lips, your eyes meeting Price’s. Walking through the reeds that kept curling around you, the water seeping into your clothes made each step heavier, slowly beginning to sink. The realisation was dreadful but necessary.

The way It had easily pressed you down and you had been unable to escape, pushed further and further down.

“No you won’t,” you finally whispered. Because that was the truth; there was no reason for them to let you go now, no reason for them to play with the fire like that. There were more disadvantages to letting you go than just killing you. It was bait. Hope they wanted to flicker inside you, just so they could feed the flame now and again, having a great time snuffing it out.

The Great Johnathan Price actually smiled at you; his expression a mixture of amusement and pride, as if you had solved a riddle or managed to guess the truth behind a magic trick.

“No we won’t,” he agreed, leaning closer to you, the look in his eyes changing despite the smile staying, making him look something akin to possessed, his eyes almost glassy and breath heavy with the smell of smoke, “you’ve been blessed, dove. You’ll learn to love it.”

You felt too uncomfortable to ask what the fuck he even meant with that.

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

Dinner was worse than breakfast since they had still decided that you hadn’t earned your hands back, despite your begging. The only thing that was changed was the fact that your wrists were tied together by the front of your body now, a different position for your arms and shoulder, that had almost made you cry from relief.

Despite your hands being bound in the front of you, you weren’t allowed to actually use them. Instead it was Nikolai who was happily feeding you nicely cut pieces of the food to you, letting out a pleased humming whenever you ate something, like the freak he was.

“We need to get you a new name.”

As Price declared it, you stared at him for a few moments - completely ignoring the fork with a piece of steak on that was in front of your mouth, ignoring Nikolai’s sounds of encouragement, merely leaning back from it.

“What the fuck do you mean?”

“Well, we can’t exactly have you run around and call you by your old name - would be a bit odd, wouldn’t it?” Kyle pointed out, getting an agreeable grunt from Simon.

“I - what the –”

“Ye have a new braw face too, bonnie,” Johnny happily chirped in, “No surgical scars or anythin’ - so ye need a new name too!”

They continued to speak as if it was the most obvious and normal thing in the world, speaking over you like you weren’t even a human.

“Wha’ ‘bout Bunny? Like th’animal, ye ken?” 

“Nah, too bit on the nose, innit?” Kyle scrunched his face a little, “it’s sweet but a couple of magicians and then ‘Bunny’?”

“Heh.”

“I’m not gonna–” Nikolai honest to god forced food in your mouth and before you could spit it out, he slapped his hand over your mouth.

“Don’t do anything stupid, milaya. Just eat it, da?” He didn’t let go until you began to chew the food in your mouth, a pleased smile appeared as he pulled back, “good girl.”

They went through several names, everything from Luna to Juniper to Hare to just being called ‘magic’. You wanted to protest but Nikolai merely held another forkfull with food up.

“What about Dove?”

Silence.

“Yeah, that could work,” Kyle nodded along, “good idea, Simon.”

“Sure, ye dinnae like Bunny but ye like Dove?” Johnny threw his hands up dramatically, “this is favoritism, I tell ye!”

“I like Dove,” Nikolai agreed as well.

“I don’t,” you cut in, ignoring the stare you got from both Nikolai and Simon.

“Well, the majority of us like it - and I like it too. So that’s your name, Dove.”

You clenched your jaw.

“No, it’s not.”

“It is,” Price shrugged, looking like he was stating the most obvious thing in the world, “we can discuss a last name later.”

You moved your head away as Nikolai tried to offer you more food, fully turning away from him.

Dove.

Dove. Like you were a bird they kept hidden away, ready to pull it out in order to surprise someone with your existence.

Nope.

“It’s not my name.” you repeat yourself, turning your head again and moving your plate away, Nikolai letting out a displeased hum. Then you said your real name out loud, “that’s my name. Not anything else.”

The slap came so suddenly that you almost didn’t register the pain for a good second, a whimper leaving you. Price sat down on the seat again, as if he hadn’t just slapped you hard, folding his hands on the table, then leaning forwards a little.

“Your fucking name is Dove, you got it?” he told you, all sorts of charm gone from his voice, “you’re our playthin’ until we figure out what the fuck to do with you. So we decided your name.”

You should probably just nod but you didn’t - couldn’t make yourself do it. The others continued to eat and Johnny snickered, but you fully ignored it. 

“Are you a virgin, Dove?”

You didn’t reply to Price’s question, only stared down at your plate, wondering how the fuck you life went from working every day in a boring office to this. 

“Aw, dinnae be shy, Dove,” Johnny cooed from further down the bench.

Nikolai didn’t try to feed you, instead he slid his hand over and took a hold of your neck. Not hard, but definitely there. A reminder. A warning.

“Answer Price’s question.”

“No,” you lied, trying not to shake as you stared down at the plate still, wondering if you could just smash your head into it enough times that you would die.

Price tsk’ed a couple of times.

“We know you are, Dove,” he then said, “we’ve been told. You shouldn’t lie, you know.”

You didn’t say anything.

Your hands were still tied together by the wrists in the bed later that night. You pressed them against the wall of the bus as you laid on your side, with your back turned to the rest of them, trying to focus on the chill of the wall and ignoring them having sex next to you.

Ignoring the slapping sounds of skin colliding rhythmically, of the wet sounds as they added more lube or when one of them fucked the other’s throat. You tried to ignore their moans and groans, the whines and pleasures filled words. You tried to ignore the way it felt like the entire bus moved while you weren’t even sure who was fucking who. The way your pussy wettened to the sounds of them fucking like rabbits.

You closed your eyes hard when one of them moaned out your new name Dove - then promising you that you wouldn’t stay a virgin for long.

Simon was taking a shower now, no doubt to wash off the ash and blood on his body. They had collected their things from the ritual while you had been cleaned by the others against your will. John Price had dropped you at the bed, zip tying your wrists and ankle together, telling you to get some sleep - then Johnny had appeared, a grin on his face.

The treat he had promised you during the shower, turned out to be painkillers. Strong ones, which you eagerly took together with an offered water bottle. The moment you had swallowed enough you had awkwardly crawled to the corner of the bed, pressed against the walls of the bus.

“Naw, ye’re nae gonna thank me, pet?” Johnny asked. You couldn’t help but stare at him for a moment,  because there were so many other things you wanted to do to him. Thanking him was not one of them.

In fact, you wanted to scream at them for not offering you any kind of painkillers before - the bus was moving, making your body shake and you had just survived a shower by them, not to mention, the whole fucking ritual. It wasn’t really a great time to point out their lack of care. You would very much prefer they didn’t touch you and merely kept their distance like right now. Johnny didn’t seem to take it personal however, leaving you while laughing like a hyena. 

There would, without a doubt in your mind, be spots of blood on their bed tomorrow, since some of your wounds had opened.

You weren’t sure what kind of painkillers it was, but they hit not too long after, your body suddenly not burning in the same way. If an infection was to hit and swallow you whole, you wondered what they would do about it. They couldn’t exactly bring you to a hospital.

You pressed yourself against the wall, closing your eyes. 

The memory of It flashed before your eyes, just as the “no” it had spoken, echoed inside your mind.

No.

You weren’t stupid. You had been refused as a sacrifice of a sort. They had attempted to give  you to It in one way or another and if the weird new scars on your body said anything, it was probably not supposed to be while you were alive.

The realisation was weird. 

No. 

Why not? 

Not that you were offended, no quite the opposite, you were relieved that whatever it was, had refused you. That you didn’t live up to whatever idea it had of a sacrifice - that had apparently saved you. But it had seemed to be your destiny, at least from what you could gain from the cut off-sentences from the men.

So your survival, Its refusal of you… it made no sense.

The many hands - the claw touching you, pushing you down -

No.

No.

No.

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

The world returned slowly, your eyelids incredibly heavy, lashes sticking slightly together.

For once no nightmare had haunted your sleep, in fact you had no memory of dreaming about anything.

It took you a couple of moments to realise that there was a lack of zip ties around your wrists and ankles; instead there was a warm pressure around your stomach and your back, heating up your entire body, a blanket curled around your legs.

Someone was cuddling you. They had moved you during the night, pulling you further out on the big bed. You felt the warmth of a breath rhythmically hitting your neck, making goosebumps spread around your body.

Despite feeling like there was cotton in your mind, you squirmed a bit before sliding your hands down to touch the ones around your middle, your fingers pushing at the hands.

A grumble left the man behind you.

“G’ back tae sleep, dove,” a voice tiredly said, the accent a little heavier than usual, even leaning closer to nuzzle against your neck, “et’s still too early fer us.”

You froze at the feeling of his face against your skin, a small sound leaving you as he even pulled you closer. You could feel the erection press against your ass, making you want to pull away even harder. 

“I have to pee, I —“

“Nyet,” came a voice filled with sleep further behind you, “wait.”

His voice was firm despite sounding tired. You stared at the wall of the bus, despite not really needing to piss, you asked again.

“But I need —“

“We said no.” Price’s voice was the grumpiest, clearly stopping the discussion as you curled together a bit more, trying to move your ass even more away from Johnny.

When the alarm clock finally rang you wanted to cry from relief.

Finally the arms around you let go and the moment you were free, you were clumsily crawling out, almost falling down onto the linoleum floor of the bus. A grunt left Ghost and you looked back for a moment, seeing his intense eyes on you, the mask already hiding from his eyes and down. His blond hair was messy, but you didn’t spend time looking at him. The way he stared was a warning enough - I’m keeping an eye on you, don’t try anything.

You looked after a lock after closing the bathroom door, only to realise a couple of seconds later that there wasn’t any. The fact made you close your eyes in frustration but you turned around and went to the toilet, since you actually had to pee after waiting. You did your business, painfully aware that they would most likely be able to hear you and you tried to not think about the fact that you would have to do other things than just pee eventually.

They got out of bed, moving around, while you carefully tipped the toilet seat down and sat on it, holding your arms around yourself, trying to give yourself a hug in a desperate attempt of comfort, looking down at your feet - it was then you realised something. 

Your wounds were closed. Seconds passed and you merely stared down your legs. 

As you leaned down to touch the freshly closed wound, still with a bit of scabs on, another realization hit you… your rib didn’t hurt anymore. Carefully you took a breath through your nose…

Nothing. No pain. Sure, your entire body felt a little sore, but there was no burning pain like yesterday, no feeling of knives stabbing into you. 

A knock on the door.

“Are you done soon, luv?”

You didn’t answer at first, looking at a different wound. Yesterday there were definitely stitches but not anymore. You carefully ran your fingers along the wound, as if to confirm it was real what you were looking at.

“Oh sweetheaaaaart?” Kyle was almost singing now, his voice a little rough from sleep, but still a charming one, making your toes curl, “I can just open the door, luv, you know that right?” 

“One minute,” You replied, finally getting up, moving to wash your hands.

What the fuck was happening? The thought ‘this must be a dream’ hit for a second, but then again… you’ve had that thought repeatedly these last… how long had you been with them? At least two days, you supposed. You finally looked up, expecting  to see your bruised face look back at you.

You stared in the mirror. Then you raised your hand. 

You touched your face carefully; nothing hurt. Even as you pressed against your skin, nothing was painful. Despite the lack of pain, something was wrong… in fact, everything was wrong, because several things were different.

This wasn’t your face. A bit similar, yes, but it wasn’t yours.

This wasn’t your face. 

This wasn’t your face.

This wasn’t your face.

You carefully touched more parts - your nose; this wasn’t your nose, it was different, not the same, it wouldn’t look like this, even after healing from being broken. There was no form of bruising and it didn’t seem swollen but this was not your face. Your nose was sharper than before, a little broader. Your chin shape; it wasn’t the same as the one you had gone to bed with the day before, fuck, there was a gap between your front teeth that you swore you had never seen before. Your fucking teeth seemed lighter, making you tug at your lips, pulling your mouth to the side, checking for that filling you got as a kid that had a weird color… nothing. Gone.

Your eye color was different too - and beneath your right eye, there was a small mole. You scratched at it but no… a part of you. No bump on your cheek from that nasty pimple you had scratched too much at when you were a desperate teenager, no…

It was you - but it wasn’t you.

This wasn’t your face.

This wasn’t you.

The door opened and you saw Kyle in the small doorway, watching you back. The bathroom in the bus wasn’t that big, you weren’t even sure how there had been several people in here when they ‘washed’ you. Kyle could touch you if he reached out, but he just stood there in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a raised arm - raising an eyebrow at you.

“What’s the matter, luv?” 

You looked over your shoulder, as if you didn’t trust the mirror, taking in his expression. Nope, the crazy idiot was for real. As if your face wasn’t different, as if it wasn’t off. He was in boxers and a tanktop, silk bonnet still on his head, looking like he had just stepped out of a magazine. Had the time been different, had this not been a crazy fucking situation, you would almost had wanted to take a picture.

“What did you do?”

Kyle tilted his head, as if he didn’t understand your question, the ghost of a smile on his lips. As if there wasn’t anger and frustration in your voice. He didn’t even move, so you did; ducked beneath his arm, ignoring the chuckle leaving him and the small swat on your ass.

You stood in the hallway, watching the men get ready for a moment; as if this was all completely normal, as if…

“What did you do?” you repeated yourself but this voice you were louder, the desperation clearer, because what the fuck had happened? Why was the person you saw in the mirror not you?

The men barely reacted. As if you hadn’t even said anything. You got a glance or two, a huff from Johnny, but nothing else. Price was smiling at you. 

“WHAT DID YOU DO?” 

A hand slammed around your mouth and a half second later an arm slid around your middle, pulling you close.

“Shush now, milaya - it is too early to be screaming,” Nikolai pressed his face into your neck as he spoke, ignoring your squirming and your pulling at him, as if you were nothing but an unruly puppy he didn’t find threatening, “Now, we eat breakfast and then we talk, da?”

Despite being muffled by his fingers, he clearly understood the fuck you, that managed to sneak in between. Nikolai suddenly bit you - not hard, not enough to leave a proper mark but it was so sudden that it made you jump and cry out. 

“You behave and eat and then we talk, da?” his voice was a little darker now, clearly not up for any more misbehaving, “or you’ll go without breakfast.”

You nodded.

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

Sitting around the table, eating breakfast with them was oddly… normal. Mostly. They acted like they were going through another mundane task, passing the bacon and eggs, then the bread, asking if you wanted milk in your tea. 

As if you weren’t sitting next to Simon, pressed against the wall of the bus, now allowed any utensils, instead eating with your hands, since you refused to be fed like a child. You sat quietly, just eating what they put on your plate, staring into nothing while thinking. Was whatever they had done to your face… permanent? Would anyone believe you if you told about this, about what you had experienced, what you had seen, would anyone believe you when you told about It? 

They were talking about something from the upcoming show. The sun was slowly warming up the bus a little more, painting spots yellow and orange as it rose to greet another day. Another day… You had to get out. You couldn’t stay here, not with them. Whatever would happen could happen, you would rather be committed into a psych ward than spend much more time with them.

In a way you wondered if this was what you had imagined when it came to the men you had followed for years; kindness shown through the little things, asking if there is anything you like, making sure you’re not going hungry… if one ignored everything else, of course. 

For a moment your eyes focused on the knife resting next to the plate filled with food. You wondered if you could even harm them before they stopped you. What exactly they would do if you tried it,, what–

“Don’t be stupid, pup,” Simon didn’t even look at you, picking up his knife to spread butter on some bread. You looked back at your plate. Watched the food, wondering how the fuck they did this, how the fuck they played happy family when you were sitting right there, someone they tried sacrificing yesterday.

“I’m not a pup,” you answered stubbornly, though your voice wasn’t loud. They hadn’t turned you into a puppy after all - they had merely changed your face… somehow.

“Sweetheart,” it was Price who answered instead, “Is there anything in particular you like to eat for breakfast?”

The question made you wonder if he really cared; if you could say anything you wanted and he would just agree… or if this was just a trap - or a way to tell you that they wouldn’t let you leave. It wasn’t like you hadn’t eaten any of the food served to you.

“Yoghurt,” you finally answered, though it had been ages since you had eaten that. Perhaps it was a test for you to just say that you liked whatever they served, but you didn’t really care. Besides, they would have to give you a spoon for that. You looked up at him, taking in his features. The way a couple of wrinkles appeared next to his eyes as he smiled. You weren’t sure if it was from amusement or because he was pleased with your answer.

Price just nodded along, the smile on his face while Kyle and Johnny discussed something next to him, “We’ll buy some of that. We can start with the drinking kind.”

Wonderful. It wasn’t like you could hurt them with a fucking spoon. The answer made you purse your lips for a moment but you wanted answers, not a discussion about yoghurt and spoons.

You nodded. He gave a nod on his own, clearly pleased.

You pushed around your bread, eggs and brunch sausages, not eating any of them. You probably should, your stomach was begging for you to eat some more. At the same time, there was a clump in your throat, threatening to cut off your airways if you ate anything more.

Instead you slowly drank your tea, staying quiet and trying not to catch any of their attention. They were talking about such… mundane things. Laundry, groceries, who stole the last croissant, upcoming soccer tournaments.

It was pathetic that it was this you had dreamt of in your fairytale-like daydream. A parasocial dream of someone you would clearly never have had the opportunity to know who really was. The monsters they were beneath those titles of theirs… The monster they seemed to worship.

“Do ye not want moar tae eat, bun?” It was Johnny who asked and you merely shook your head.

“Not that hungry,” you whispered. He pursed his lips for a second, then it turned into a mocking pout.

“Aaawe, ‘re ye upset, bonnie thing?” he asked in a crooning voice, keeping the mocking look at his face.

“Be nice, shchenok,” Nikolai cut it, actually chastising Johnny for once, “she didn’t sleep good.”

SURE. That was definitely the issue here, what else would make you upset?

A grunt left Simon and you didn’t say anything as the giant switched your plates, so you were left with his, all scraped clean and he got yours. It was better that he ate it than it went to waste.

You washed your hands after breakfast, washing off any grease, still quiet, purposefully not looking up at the mirror.

“Here you are,” You looked over your shoulder, Simon standing in the door to the bathroom and for a second you felt like a mouse, cornered by a giant cat.

His hand was stretched out towards you, the pink tooth brush looking absolutely tiny in his hand.

“Thank you.” You quickly took the tooth brush, turning around and grabbing their tooth paste. 

He didn’t go away. Instead he stepped closer, much closer; his body caging you in against the plastic sink, making you freeze. One hand leaned against the sink and the other moved to grab a tooth brush. He began to hum, ever so slowly, taking the paste after you were finished. You recognised the tune. It was from one of their shows, when their tricks were getting more and more extreme.

As he stood there, his warmth curling along your back, you kept staring down at the sink, wishing you could disappear into the drain, slowly brushing your teeth.

When you finished, you carefully put the toothbrush next to theirs. Simon’s hand grabbed around your middle, pulling you a bit to the side, spitting out the white foam into the sink.

You looked how it mixed with the remnants of yours, before disappearing into the drain as well.  A hand slid beneath your chin and cupped your jaw, easily forcing you to look up.

“It’s not tha’ bad,” Simon commented, as he made you look at your new face in the mirror, watching over your shoulder, “you’re just bein’ dramatic. I think we did a good job.”

“I don’t want it,” you whispered, carefully glancing up to meet his eyes.

“ya’ just need to get used to it a bit,” he was calm, as if they hadn’t done something completely insane, “that’s just the issue, innit? A few days and ya’ wont mind.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t - you wouldn’t have known what to say anyways.Simon let go of your jaw, giving your cheek a not so gentle couple of pats. 

“C’mon let's find ya some clothes, hm?” 

Dressed now, in a pair of shorts that you weren’t sure who of them owned, as well as a t-shirt with their logo on. 

The bus was moving now, shaking now and again, making you grip onto the handle of a drawer, trying to stay upright. You had a feeling that you were supposed to all be seated and wear seatbelts, but the men seemed busy with everything but that. You took in every single one of them, before you finally ended up staring directly at Price, who was staring back. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in a pair of slacks and a grey button up, with the sleeves rolled up.

“Little one,” he said, a small smile on his face, as if that was a normal way to greet anyone like this.

“I want.. I want a fucking answer - you promised me an answer,” you demanded, not taking your eyes off him, looking straight back as if it was a staring context. Price didn’t say anything, merely looking back as if you were a curious being he had never seen before.

"O'right," he finally said, standing up and a moment later he was tugging you to the seats and table where you had eaten breakfast. He opened a cupboard above it, pulling out something. Then he sat down, laying the rolled up newspaper down on the table before patting on the seat right next to him, as if you were a child, cigar at the corner of his mouth “c’mere then.”

You hesitated, since you didn’t feel like sitting down next to him, if you were being honest, but as he pulled out his phone, he merely patted the spot again, not even looking at you.

At least you would be sitting so that you could dart off. 

“Oh, are we havin’ show and tell?” Kyle asked, leaning against the wall next to the seat, looking over your shoulder, while you tried to ignore him the best you could.

“Mm-hmm,” Price confirmed, “that we are.” 

You pursed your lips, ready to start another verbal fight, when Price suddenly slid his hand around your middle and pulled you closer as if you weighed nothing, a yelp leaving you. As he didn’t let go, you squirmed a bit and he merely hummed, not letting go.

“Now, I am a bit oldschool, as you might know from my interviews,” he said in a teasing voice, “so I do have yesterday’s paper - and we’ll pick up the new one later.”

You didn’t answer because he was fucking right. You knew he was oldschool, because you had indeed watched and read a lot of interviews about him and the others.

“Of course our superfan knows that,” Kyle chirped in, way too happily, making you grumble  out a “shut up” at him. 

Price tightened his grip for a second, so tight that it hurt before loosening it again with a “behave.”

Two pages in and the picture hit you like a brick wall. Suddenly your body stopped working, making you tense up, unable to do anything but stare. The picture of your wrecked car from the back, the area around it fenced off with police tape.

“Ya gotta breathe at some point, dove,” Price muttered, his free hand holding onto his cigar, the other giving your stomach a squeeze, as he leant against you, whispering into your ear, “c’mon, give me a breath… there we go, good girl.”

You didn’t look at him, too distracted by the sight of your car like that and finally, your eyes flickered to the heading of the article.

Woman dies in car crash after Magic Show

“I’m not dead,” you whispered, skimming over the article, taking in the most important ones, once again whispering, “but I'm not dead.”

Your name wasn’t mentioned in the article. They mentioned your lack of relatives. The fact that they expected foul play but didn’t have many leads to follow right now. That you had left their magic show, which had been filled to the brim, even been called up as a volunteer.

There was even a fucking comment from them, their manager having given a message to the press, expressing their sadness over your death. How they hoped those behind it would get caught. How unfortunate it was for such a young woman to lose her life. That they would like to pay for the funeral costs.

Oh, they would like to pay you for your funeral? What fucking brilliant people they were, what fucking saints, what fucking bastards and psyc–

“We even posted somethin’ on our insta - nothing too much for our biggest fan, heh,” Price teased.

“Funny, innit?,” Kyle began, as you felt Price’s warm breath against your ear, the man still hadn't pulled back, “how nobody really seems to care - not much about you in there, eh?”

The words took a couple of seconds to sink in and you blinked a couple of times, the text becoming blurry as tears began to fill your eyes.

“What?” you didn’t move as Price nuzzled against you like a giant cat.

“We just seem more important in the article about your death,” Kyle continued, his voice sounding a tad too amused, “kinda sad that you’ve had such a pathetic life. That nobody will miss you”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Price muttered into your temple, pressing his lips against your temple, “the few people who will turn up at your funeral will forget about you in a year or two.”

“People will be missing me,” you insisted, finally pushing against his chest to get him to back off, frustration and hurt rushing through your body and together with the many other emotions you had experienced these last days, you felt like you were on a roller coaster, “I - There are people that care about me and–”

Kyle laughed out loud.

“It’s cute that you think that,” he laughed, “you don’t have any family left - maybe an acquaintance or two - what is her name, Beatrice? Yeah, she’ll be sad for a lil while, maybe.”

You began to struggle even more in Price’s grip and he laughed too, finally letting go of you and you launched yourself away, stumbling onto the floor, sliding to the side as the bus turned a bit. You didn’t know why they knew Beatrice’s name - how they had chosen you, why the police didn’t wonder where the fuck your body would be if you were actually dead.

“I’m not dead!” you screamed, pulling at your hair, “I’m not dead - there isn’t a body, there- they’ll realise I’m just missing - that you all–”

Kyle moved too fast for you to react, suddenly settling on your stomach, easily catching your hands in his, a grin on his face as you struggled beneath him.

“You really think we didn’t fix that, huh?” Kyle muttered, leaning over you, looming like a monstrous presence on top of you, his grin dangerous, “you really think we didn’t leave someone else behind in that stupid car of yours?”

He let go of you, one of his hands moving to give your cheek a couple of hard pats, just like Simon had done earlier. You felt too haunted by his words to do anything about it.

“We changed your face - we can change someone else’s too.” His hand rested on your cheek then, thumb carefully caressing your cheekbone, catching a rouge tear, gentle as you were suddenly something precious to be appreciated. 

What they didn’t appreciate was you sinking your teeth into Kyle’s finger.

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

The darkness was familiar by now - it didn’t mean you liked it.

Apparently they didn’t trust you not to attempt to run away while they ran some errands, which had resulted in you being here now. Not that you didn’t try to tell them that you would behave and stay in the bus, but you bit a guy and suddenly they didn’t believe you.

Not that you wouldn’t have tried to run away, no no, you would have used the first opportunity given and bolted.

You tried to get a bit more comfortable, moving to rest against the wall. A broom moved, hitting your shoulder, making you groan into the fabric gag. You had already tried getting off for several minutes, but given how you were bound, you didn’t have a lot of options. 

A part of you would have preferred the other… world. Dimension. Whatever. You would rather move through the water, watched by It, than be here.

Johnny had tried to calm you when you had freaked out at the sight of the rope, promising you that Simon was great at bondage - he had tons of experience. Funnily enough, it hadn’t really helped. 

Your legs were bent, rope curling around your ankles and around your thighs, connecting so you couldn’t stretch your knees. Your hands were bound behind your hands, fabric curled around them and under the rope, like makeshift mittens, so you wouldn’t “get any ideas” like Nikolai had said. The gag was a cloth in your mouth and over it was what you expected were some kind of kink mask. Covering your entire lower face, two small holes near your nose to let you breathe. No space to push the cloth out into, it was merely stuck in your mouth.

Your legs and arms burned a little, your ass sore from the awkward position - and because you were sitting on what you assumed to be a dustpan. 

They way they had all looked at you before you were put away like a literal cleaning equipment, it had been disgusting; barely trying to hide the way they looked at your body, between your legs in particular. 

It made you feel filthy. In desperate need of a bath.

The bus wasn’t moving, in fact it would have been extremely quiet - or at least you expected it would - hadn’t it been for the bloody radio that they hadn’t turned off before leaving. The broom closet was just closed off enough so that you couldn’t properly hear whatever the fuck the hosts were making.

As you sat quietly, you wondered how you were going to prove that you were you despite looking different - despite the fact that they already had a body that looked like you. There had to be some sort of difference though… a DNA test would fix it, wouldn’t it?

You closed your eyes, slowly tapping your head against the wall of the closet, wondering what your next step should be - because what the fuck where you even supposed to do?

So far they hadn’t really done anything to hurt you or mock you, barely leaving your side except when they’d knocked you out or sent your mind… there.

When the floor creaked, you blinked, having dozed away - and a moment later, the sharp artificial lights made you press your eyes together as the door to the closet had been opened.

“Where have you put the clo–” 

The woman who stared down at you looked like she was seeing a ghost for a moment. You didn’t even need an introduction, not that you were able to give one, but you knew who she was. Kate Laswell was their famous manager who took care of most things, from interviews and clips it always looked like she was the one in charge of things, making sure everything followed the plan.

You instantly did your best to speak, your muffled “please save me”s on repeat as the woman stared at you and you began to twist in the tightly bound ropes. You tried telling her to call the police as you began to struggle, well aware that the words weren’t much better than before, the cloth in your mouth soaked and restricting your ability to speak. 

For a second, a bare second, there was what seems to be pity on her face; like she would actually agree and call the police, help you out, and you dared to hope, hope that she would make sure that –

Kate Laswell rolled her eyes, before reaching up at a shelf above you, pulling a cloth down.

"Jonathan Price!” she then snapped, staying where she was, crossing her arms, “Simon Riley. Come here.”

The two men almost immediately appeared next to her and when she pointed at you, the glimmer of hope was more or less snuffed out and you felt your eyes begin to water.

“Why is there a half naked bound woman in your broom closet?”

“Well, technically she isn’t half-naked,” Simon began - only to be cut off by Kate Laswell again.

“I don’t care about that part.” 

“You see, Kate, we were told to take her at our last show and–”

“I don’t want an explanation!” she sounded like an exhausted mother who had reached her limit, “I’m saying why is she there? It’s not an optimal fuckin’ spot at all - for fucks sake, what if she pisses herself or something if you all have to stay away for a bit longer? Then you have to clean the closet.”

"Oh." You watched Price scratch his beard as he realised that she had a point - while you wanted to point out that the fucking point should be that there shouldn’t be a kidnapped woman in there.

It was hard to breathe and sob with the gag in and you managed to see Kate roll her eyes again, before your sight became obstructed and blurry from the tears.

“Put her in the shower or something, I don’t care. We need to fix the last things before you all continue.”

Simon shushed you as he carried you out of the closet and into the bathroom instead, Price reminding you that it wasn’t you that Kate was upset with, so there was no reason to cry.

You wanted to scream, but the gag prevented you.

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

You weren’t sure how many hours passed but it was more than two. Your stomach was painfully reminding you that enough time had passed that you had become hungry again, your bladder full, almost feeling like a threat. You had ended up falling asleep, leaning against the wall of the shower, waking up as the door was opened and the light turned on, followed by the rustling of the entire room as the bus turned on.

“Hey there, lass,” Kyle greeted you happily, with a smile on his face like he was actually pleased to see you again after those several hours apart, “had a good day?” 

You didn’t say anything, eyes flickering to Simon instead as he followed behind him inside the bathroom. 

“You’re gonna behave now, aren’t you?” Kyle continued to ask as if you had replied to the other part, stepping over to you, giving you a couple of pats on top of your head like you were a dog, before showing you his finger with the plaster on,“or ya’ little muzzle stays on. But you’ve learned your lesson, haven’t you?”

Doing your best to say yes with the gag still tight against you, nodding your head quickly, seemed to amuse Simon who chuckled behind him.

The moment the gag and the cloth was removed from your mouth, you were dragging in desperate breaths, opening and closing your mouth several times, your jaw sore. It was Simon who freed your legs, your legs screaming in pain as you could finally stretch them properly again, making you unable to stand for the first few seconds, legs trembling too much - so Simon merely pulled you up by the arm, forcing you to stand on them as you hissed out in pain.

“C’mon, ya’ haven’t pissed yourself so you have to now, I suspect,” Simon said as he pushed you to the toilet and despite the little place, the few steps were hard to walk, your legs barely listening to you.

“M-my hands,” you pointed out, looking over your shoulder at Simon who just shrugged.

“You’ll get ‘em back later,” Kyle happily answered, before he stepped closer. Much closer, too close in fact, squatting down in front of you, “Sit down, I’ll pull ya’ shorts down.”

A displeased sound left you. Kyle looked up at you, with slight amusement on his face but there was also a raised eyebrow.

He pulled the shorts down and you sat down before he was face to face with your cunt. Kyle still seemed rather pleased with it, while you closed your eyes.

“I can’t go when you’re here.”

“Heh.”

“Well, we’re not leaving, dove - so that’s technically your problem, innit?”

The seconds dragged on and you squirmed on the toilet seat, the vibrations of the bus going straight into your body, not making it any easier. It didn’t help that Kyle didn’t move away, still squatting down in front of you, waiting for you to piss.

Eventually you just clenched your jaw shut and kept your eyes closing, finally letting go and pissing.

“Good giiiiiirl,” Kyle crooned, “look at you, you did it.”

You didn’t answer. You kept your eyes closed as Simon patted you dry afterwards and Kyle pulled up your shorts again.

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

You sat at the same spot on the padded bench at the table as you had at breakfast - but this time it was Price who sat next to you. 

“We’ve talked,” he casually said, turning to the next page in today’s newspaper. He had shown the new article to you mere moments ago. Smaller than before. Even less about you this time, though they had taken the time to figure out where you lived and where you worked.

Your hands were still bound behind your back. Your arms were sore from them being in the same position all day, but you didn’t dare to complain about it. 

Glancing at Price, you waited for him to continue.

“We’ve decided that if you behave for a week or so, we’ll let you go, dove.”

It sounded so simple. As if it was the most obvious way to fix this entire thing. As if they had all agreed that ‘yeah the whole sacrificing thing didn’t work out’ so there was no reason to keep you around.

As if they hadn’t essentially killed you, made you someone new, someone who technically didn’t even exist. Letting you go… It would gain them nothing but problems. Then they would have done all of this, only to risk that you would run directly to the police and tell on them. Whether you would be believed was something else - maybe you should just go to the press first, but still, would they even believe you? How were you supposed to prove your identity? You didn’t have any close family members, nothing. They could lose a lot in a scandal - too much maybe. If the knives and bones were found - if you showed them the scars they had given you, if…

When it finally hit, you blinked. Slowly you licked your lips, your eyes meeting Price’s. Walking through the reeds that kept curling around you, the water seeping into your clothes made each step heavier, slowly beginning to sink. The realisation was dreadful but necessary.

The way It had easily pressed you down and you had been unable to escape, pushed further and further down.

“No you won’t,” you finally whispered. Because that was the truth; there was no reason for them to let you go now, no reason for them to play with the fire like that. There were more disadvantages to letting you go than just killing you. It was bait. Hope they wanted to flicker inside you, just so they could feed the flame now and again, having a great time snuffing it out.

The Great Johnathan Price actually smiled at you; his expression a mixture of amusement and pride, as if you had solved a riddle or managed to guess the truth behind a magic trick.

“No we won’t,” he agreed, leaning closer to you, the look in his eyes changing despite the smile staying, making him look something akin to possessed, his eyes almost glassy and breath heavy with the smell of smoke, “you’ve been blessed, dove. You’ll learn to love it.”

You felt too uncomfortable to ask what the fuck he even meant with that.

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

Dinner was worse than breakfast since they had still decided that you hadn’t earned your hands back, despite your begging. The only thing that was changed was the fact that your wrists were tied together by the front of your body now, a different position for your arms and shoulder, that had almost made you cry from relief.

Despite your hands being bound in the front of you, you weren’t allowed to actually use them. Instead it was Nikolai who was happily feeding you nicely cut pieces of the food to you, letting out a pleased humming whenever you ate something, like the freak he was.

“We need to get you a new name.”

As Price declared it, you stared at him for a few moments - completely ignoring the fork with a piece of steak on that was in front of your mouth, ignoring Nikolai’s sounds of encouragement, merely leaning back from it.

“What the fuck do you mean?”

“Well, we can’t exactly have you run around and call you by your old name - would be a bit odd, wouldn’t it?” Kyle pointed out, getting an agreeable grunt from Simon.

“I - what the –”

“Ye have a new braw face too, bonnie,” Johnny happily chirped in, “No surgical scars or anythin’ - so ye need a new name too!”

They continued to speak as if it was the most obvious and normal thing in the world, speaking over you like you weren’t even a human.

“Wha’ ‘bout Bunny? Like th’animal, ye ken?” 

“Nah, too bit on the nose, innit?” Kyle scrunched his face a little, “it’s sweet but a couple of magicians and then ‘Bunny’?”

“Heh.”

“I’m not gonna–” Nikolai honest to god forced food in your mouth and before you could spit it out, he slapped his hand over your mouth.

“Don’t do anything stupid, milaya. Just eat it, da?” He didn’t let go until you began to chew the food in your mouth, a pleased smile appeared as he pulled back, “good girl.”

They went through several names, everything from Luna to Juniper to Hare to just being called ‘magic’. You wanted to protest but Nikolai merely held another forkfull with food up.

“What about Dove?”

Silence.

“Yeah, that could work,” Kyle nodded along, “good idea, Simon.”

“Sure, ye dinnae like Bunny but ye like Dove?” Johnny threw his hands up dramatically, “this is favoritism, I tell ye!”

“I like Dove,” Nikolai agreed as well.

“I don’t,” you cut in, ignoring the stare you got from both Nikolai and Simon.

“Well, the majority of us like it - and I like it too. So that’s your name, Dove.”

You clenched your jaw.

“No, it’s not.”

“It is,” Price shrugged, looking like he was stating the most obvious thing in the world, “we can discuss a last name later.”

You moved your head away as Nikolai tried to offer you more food, fully turning away from him.

Dove.

Dove. Like you were a bird they kept hidden away, ready to pull it out in order to surprise someone with your existence.

Nope.

“It’s not my name.” you repeat yourself, turning your head again and moving your plate away, Nikolai letting out a displeased hum. Then you said your real name out loud, “that’s my name. Not anything else.”

The slap came so suddenly that you almost didn’t register the pain for a good second, a whimper leaving you. Price sat down on the seat again, as if he hadn’t just slapped you hard, folding his hands on the table, then leaning forwards a little.

“Your fucking name is Dove, you got it?” he told you, all sorts of charm gone from his voice, “you’re our playthin’ until we figure out what the fuck to do with you. So we decided your name.”

You should probably just nod but you didn’t - couldn’t make yourself do it. The others continued to eat and Johnny snickered, but you fully ignored it. 

“Are you a virgin, Dove?”

You didn’t reply to Price’s question, only stared down at your plate, wondering how the fuck you life went from working every day in a boring office to this. 

“Aw, dinnae be shy, Dove,” Johnny cooed from further down the bench.

Nikolai didn’t try to feed you, instead he slid his hand over and took a hold of your neck. Not hard, but definitely there. A reminder. A warning.

“Answer Price’s question.”

“No,” you lied, trying not to shake as you stared down at the plate still, wondering if you could just smash your head into it enough times that you would die.

Price tsk’ed a couple of times.

“We know you are, Dove,” he then said, “we’ve been told. You shouldn’t lie, you know.”

You didn’t say anything.

Your hands were still tied together by the wrists in the bed later that night. You pressed them against the wall of the bus as you laid on your side, with your back turned to the rest of them, trying to focus on the chill of the wall and ignoring them having sex next to you.

Ignoring the slapping sounds of skin colliding rhythmically, of the wet sounds as they added more lube or when one of them fucked the other’s throat. You tried to ignore their moans and groans, the whines and pleasures filled words. You tried to ignore the way it felt like the entire bus moved while you weren’t even sure who was fucking who. The way your pussy wettened to the sounds of them fucking like rabbits.

You closed your eyes hard when one of them moaned out your new name Dove - then promising you that you wouldn’t stay a virgin for long.

The problem was that you had finally reached a point in your life where you weren't looking for anyone.

It had taken years to get there.

Years of confusing attention with affection. Years of convincing yourself that if you were patient enough, understanding enough, accommodating enough, eventually someone would become the person they kept promising they could be. Somewhere along the way, you had developed a habit of falling in love with potential instead of reality. You would meet a man, notice one or two good qualities, and then spend months filling in the blanks yourself. You'd build entire relationships around who somebody might become rather than who they actually were.

It was exhausting.

Eventually, after enough disappointment, enough nights spent staring at your ceiling, wondering why effort never seemed to be reciprocated, something shifted.

You stopped romanticizing people who gave you the bare minimum.

You stopped applauding men for doing things that should have been expected in the first place.

You stopped mistaking inconsistency for mystery and emotional unavailability for depth.

Most importantly, you learned how to walk away.

You discovered that being alone wasn't nearly as frightening as being with somebody who made you feel lonely. And once you'd learned that lesson, really learned it, your standards began to change.

Working as a social worker in the emergency department probably accelerated that transformation. Every day you sat with families experiencing the worst moments of their lives. You helped parents process devastating diagnoses. You comforted spouses after traumatic accidents. You watched people discover, over and over again, what truly mattered when everything else was stripped away.

It gave you perspective.

After spending twelve hours helping a family navigate a life-altering crisis, listening to some twenty-eight-year-old man explain that he "wasn't ready for labels" felt almost laughable.

Your dating history suddenly looked absurd when viewed through that lens.

There had been the self-proclaimed entrepreneur whose business seemed to consist entirely of talking about starting a business. The musician who forgot your birthday and then somehow managed to make you feel guilty for being upset about it. The man who spent six months deciding whether he wanted a relationship, as though you were a job offer sitting in his inbox waiting for approval.

Six months.

You could still remember sitting across from him at dinner, listening to him stumble through another vague explanation about timing and uncertainty and needing space, and feeling something inside you finally click into place.

Not heartbreak.

Clarity.

Because for the first time you realized that someone who truly wanted you would not require six months to determine whether you were worth choosing.

You left that relationship with surprisingly little sadness.

Mostly because by then you understood something you hadn't before.

Every mistake contained information. Every disappointment taught you something. Every failed relationship clarified what you actually needed.

Past mistakes weren't failures, they were data.

And the data had led you here.

To a place where your expectations were no longer negotiable.

Nothing unreasonable. Nothing impossible.

You wanted someone who communicated honestly. Someone who worked hard. Someone who respected women. Someone emotionally mature enough to express what they wanted instead of expecting you to decipher it through mixed signals and half-hearted text messages. Someone capable of making a decision without treating commitment like a hostage negotiation.

The bar, in your opinion, remained embarrassingly low.

You weren't asking for perfection or a fairytale. You were asking for competence. Consistency. Effort.

Which was why the universe's timing felt particularly cruel.

Because roughly three months after making a dramatic declaration to your friends that you were done prioritizing men, done settling, done chasing people who weren't sure about you, Jack quietly walked into your life and proceeded to embody nearly every expectation you'd spent years developing.

And somehow that felt significantly more dangerous than all the wrong men combined.

The first thing you noticed about Jack wasn't his face, or his job title, or even the fact that half the emergency department seemed to adore him.

It was that he remembered things.

Not the big things people were expected to remember. Not birthdays posted on Facebook or major life announcements that everyone in the department had heard about. It was the small things. The things most people acknowledged in conversation and then immediately forgot the moment they walked away.

You first noticed it on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon.

The department had been relatively calm for once, which in emergency medicine usually meant disaster was quietly building somewhere. You'd been walking beside Jack toward radiology after helping arrange temporary housing resources for a patient. The conversation had been casual, the kind that happened when two people spent enough time crossing paths at work. Somewhere between discussing a difficult discharge and complaining about hospital coffee, you'd mentioned that your younger brother was graduating from nursing school that weekend.

Jack had smiled.

"That's a huge accomplishment."

Then a trauma page had gone off overhead, he'd been pulled away, and you'd assumed that was the end of it.

Three weeks passed.

Three weeks filled with twelve-hour shifts, ambulance arrivals, difficult family meetings, social work consults, endless documentation, and the particular kind of exhaustion that came from working in an emergency department. You forgot the conversation entirely.

Jack apparently didn't.

You were carrying a chart toward the nurses' station when he passed you in the hallway.

He slowed slightly.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"How'd the graduation go?"

You stopped walking.

Not because of the question itself, because it took you several seconds to understand what graduation he was talking about.

"What?"

"Your brother." Jack looked mildly confused by your confusion. "The fact that he graduated from nursing school?"

For a moment you simply stared at him.

Three weeks.

It had been three weeks. Three weeks and dozens, maybe hundreds, of patients. Endless consults. New admissions. New traumas. New crises. An entire emergency department's worth of information had passed through both of your brains since then. And yet somehow he'd remembered a single passing comment you'd made while walking down a hallway.

"You remembered that?"

Jack's forehead creased slightly. "Yeah?"

The answer came so naturally that it almost made you laugh. There was no pride in it, no expectation that he should be praised for paying attention. No awareness that he'd done anything unusual at all. As if listening when people spoke was simply normal. As if remembering details about someone mattered because that person mattered.

The realization caught you more off guard than it should have. Because the truth was, your surprise said far more about your past than it did about Jack.

You thought about the men you'd dated before. The ones who needed reminders for conversations they'd had the day before. The ones who forgot important events, forgot stories you'd told them, forgot preferences, forgot plans. Men who claimed they cared about you but somehow never seemed curious enough to remember the details that made you who you were. You remembered one ex who'd forgotten your birthday. Another who repeatedly mixed up your brother and cousin despite meeting both of them. One particularly impressive candidate had even asked what your undergraduate degree was after nearly four months of dating.

At the time, you'd laughed those things off. Made excuses. Told yourself they were busy, distracted, bad with details. But standing in the middle of a hospital hallway while Jack looked at you as though remembering your brother's graduation was the most ordinary thing in the world, those excuses suddenly felt a lot less convincing.

Because maybe caring looked like this.

Maybe it wasn't grand gestures or dramatic declarations. Maybe it was paying attention. Maybe it was listening closely enough that information stayed with you, remembering things simply because someone had taken the time to tell you.

You eventually answered his question and told him the graduation had gone well. You even showed him a picture your mother had insisted on taking, one where your brother looked deeply uncomfortable in his cap and gown. Jack smiled, asked a few questions, congratulated him through you, and then got called away to evaluate a patient before the conversation could continue. The interaction lasted less than two minutes. By the end of your shift, you should have forgotten about it.

Instead, you found yourself thinking about it on the drive home. Then again while brushing your teeth. Then again a few days later when you spotted him across the department, calmly talking a nervous patient through a procedure. It wasn't a grand romantic moment. There was no music, no revelation, no sudden realization that you were falling for him. It was smaller than that. Quieter. More dangerous.

Because for the first time in a very long time, someone had shown you what genuine attention looked like. And once you'd noticed it, you couldn't stop seeing it everywhere.

The emergency department had descended into chaos the moment the alert came through. Mass casualty incident. School bus versus commercial truck. Multiple patients inbound. You still remembered the way the atmosphere shifted in seconds, as if someone had flipped a switch. One moment people were finishing notes, grabbing coffee, discussing discharge plans. The next, every available trauma bay was being prepared, stretchers lined up, supplies restocked, and teams assembled. The department moved with a kind of organized urgency that only came from experience. Physicians pulled on trauma gowns while nurses prepared medications and respiratory therapists checked ventilators. Overhead pages echoed through the halls. Ambulance arrival times were shouted across rooms. Whiteboards filled with names faster than anyone could process them. Thirty-seven patients arrived over the course of the evening. Multiple critical injuries. The kind of shift where hours disappeared without notice and everyone operated almost entirely on instinct.

You spent most of the night with one family. Their son was sixteen years old, a quiet kid with braces who had been sitting near the front of the bus when it rolled. The trauma team identified a pelvic fracture almost immediately, and later imaging revealed internal bleeding that required urgent intervention. While physicians worked in the trauma bay, your role was with the people waiting outside. The mother had started crying before the ambulance doors even closed. The father somehow seemed worse. At least the mother's fear had somewhere to go.

The father's stayed trapped inside him, building pressure behind every breath. His hands shook every time someone in scrubs walked through the doors. He stood up whenever footsteps approached and sat down again when they passed by. Over and over, he asked the same questions because panic made it impossible to hold onto answers. Was his son awake? Had he said anything? Was he going to be okay? What exactly did internal bleeding mean? You explained what you could. You tracked down updates. You translated medical terminology into language terrified parents could understand. You brought cups of water they barely touched and sat beside them through every agonizing stretch of waiting. Over the years, you had learned that waiting was often the cruelest part. Pain had something concrete to focus on. Fear could be addressed. But uncertainty lingered. It settled into people and hollowed them out from the inside.

By the time their son was stabilized and transferred to the ICU, nearly two hours had passed. The mother squeezed your hand before she left. The father looked at you like he wanted to say something important but couldn't quite find the words. Then they followed the transport team upstairs, and suddenly the adrenaline that had been carrying you all evening vanished. Your feet hurt. Your shoulders ached. The headache you'd been ignoring since noon had settled somewhere behind your eyes and started pounding. You couldn't remember the last time you'd sat down. You couldn't remember the last time you'd eaten either. Breakfast felt like it had happened days ago. At some point you'd grabbed coffee. Maybe twice. Maybe three times. The details blurred together beneath the weight of the shift.

You slipped into the staff lounge hoping for five uninterrupted minutes before the next crisis found you. The room was quiet for the first time all night. No monitors. No overhead announcements. No crying families. No trauma alerts. Jack sat alone at one of the tables finishing documentation. His trauma gown was gone, wearing only his black srubs. Reading glasses rested low on his nose as he typed. A half-empty coffee sat beside his laptop. He looked exhausted.

You had barely stepped into the room when something slid across the table toward you.

A granola bar.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Jack didn't even look up.

"You haven't eaten."

For a moment your brain struggled to catch up.

"What?"

"I saw you skip lunch."

His fingers never stopped moving across the keyboard.

"Eat."

Your eyes dropped back to the granola bar. It was completely ordinary. Yet something about it made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

"You got me food?"

That finally earned you a glance. Jack looked up just long enough to give you a mildly unimpressed expression.

"You look like you're running entirely on caffeine and wishful thinking."

A beat passed.

"Which isn't sustainable."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. A real laugh. The first one you'd managed all night. Something softened in his expression when he heard it. Not quite a smile, but close.

You sat down across from him and opened the wrapper. The sound crinkled loudly in the otherwise silent room.

"You've been observing my dietary habits now?"

"Someone has to."

"You say that like I'm a child."

"Well you’re a social worker, kid. We wouldn’t survive with you guys. So yeah, I’m observing."

You opened your mouth to argue and immediately closed it again because he was, unfortunately, correct. Jack returned to his charting, and the conversation could have ended there. Probably should have. But as you sat there eating the granola bar, something kept nagging at you.

"How did you even notice?"

He looked up again.

"Notice what?"

"That I hadn't eaten."

The question seemed to genuinely confuse him.

"You always eat lunch."

You blinked. "What?"

"You usually disappear around one, and come back around one thirty."

He shrugged as if the answer were self-explanatory.

"Today you didn't."

Something shifted quietly inside your chest, because he wasn't talking about one day.

To know that, he had been paying attention for weeks. Maybe months. Not in a deliberate way. Not in an intrusive way. Just enough to notice patterns. Enough to notice your absence from one. Enough to realize something was off. And somehow that affected you far more than it should have. You'd dated men who couldn't remember your favorite food. Men who forgot important conversations, forgot birthdays, forgot promises they had made themselves. Yet here was Jack remembering something as insignificant as the fact that you usually took lunch around one o'clock.

Not because he wanted credit.

Not because he was trying to impress you.

Not because he expected anything in return.

Simply because he cared.

As the silence settled between you again, you found yourself watching him over the edge of the granola bar wrapper. The tiredness beneath his eyes. The slight slump in his shoulders. The concentration on his face as he finished documentation after one of the hardest shifts either of you had worked in months. He was exhausted too. He had spent the evening intubating patients, coordinating trauma care, delivering updates, and making impossible decisions under impossible pressure. Yet somewhere amid all that chaos, he'd noticed that you hadn't eaten. He'd noticed. He'd remembered. And he'd acted.

No grand gesture.

Just a granola bar quietly pushed across a table.

A simple act of care.

And for reasons you couldn't fully explain, it felt more intimate than every expensive dinner, every bouquet of flowers, and every romantic gesture you'd ever received. Because those things had often been done to impress you. This had simply been done because you needed it.

"You like him."

Santos' voice appeared beside you during one of those rare moments when the emergency department wasn't actively falling apart. You were halfway through documenting a consult and attempting to drink a coffee that had long since gone cold when Santos delivered the statement so casually that it took a moment for your brain to catch up.

"Excuse me?"

She didn't even look up from her computer.

"You like him."

You stared at her.

"Who?"

That finally earned you a glance. Santos turned slowly, giving you the kind of look normally reserved for people who had just asked whether the sky was blue.

"Abbot."

You nearly inhaled your coffee.

"Come again?"

"It's so obvious it's actually starting to piss me off."

A laugh escaped her as she turned back toward her charting, while you sat there feeling personally attacked.

"I don't have a crush on him."

"Sure."

"I don't."

"Okay."

"Santos."

"What?"

"I do not have a crush on Jack."

The grin spreading across her face immediately told you this argument was already lost.

"You absolutely do. "You get weird when he walks by."

"I do not get weird."

"You do."

"I don't."

Santos raised an eyebrow.

You groaned and rubbed a hand over your face.

"Don't you have patients?"

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not changing the subject."

"You are."

You pointed at her dramatically.

"Is this what you do all day? Stare at your coworkers instead of charting?"

"Partially."

At least she was honest.

Unfortunately, before you could continue arguing, movement across the department caught your attention. Your eyes found Jack automatically, and the triumphant noise Santos made beside you was immediate.

"There."

"Oh, shut up."

"There!"

Across the emergency department, Jack stood beside Robby reviewing imaging results on a computer screen. The CT images glowed against the monitor while the two physicians discussed findings. You couldn't hear the conversation from where you stood, but you could recognize the expression on Jack's face. Focused. Attentive. Completely engaged. His arms were crossed as he listened to Robby explain something, occasionally leaning forward to point out a detail on the scan before the conversation continued. There was absolutely nothing romantic about the scene. It was two doctors discussing a patient. That's all it was.

And yet you found yourself watching.

Not because he was handsome.

Although he was.

Not because he was charming.

Although he could be.

It was something far more annoying than that.

Because every day you watched him be good at what he did.

Not perfect.

Good.

There was a difference.

You'd seen him struggle too.

Medicine was full of mistakes, uncertainty, and moments where nobody had the right answer. Every physician encountered them eventually. The difference was how Jack responded when they happened. You'd seen him ask questions without embarrassment. Consult specialists when he wasn't sure. Accept feedback from colleagues without becoming defensive. Admit when someone else's idea was better than his own.

A few weeks earlier, Javadi had suggested a diagnosis he hadn't initially considered. You still remembered standing nearby while she carefully explained her reasoning, clearly nervous about disagreeing with an attending. Jack had listened. Really listened. Then he'd thanked her when additional testing proved she was right.

Such a small moment and ordinary moment. And yet, it had stayed with you.

Because you'd spent years dating men whose egos were so fragile that being corrected felt like a personal attack. Men who treated every disagreement like a competition they had to win. Men who would rather be wrong than admit someone else might know more.

Jack never seemed threatened by not knowing everything.

In fact, the more competent he was, the more comfortable he seemed admitting what he didn't know.

And somehow that made him even more competent.

That was the problem.

Attraction built on looks was manageable. Attraction built on charm eventually faded. But attraction built on respect was dangerous because it rooted itself deeper. It wasn't about chemistry or butterflies or fantasy. It was built on observation. On evidence. On watching somebody reveal who they were over and over again until you couldn't deny what you saw.

You respected him.

You respected the way he treated people.

You respected the way he worked.

You respected the way he showed up, day after day, even when the job was difficult and exhausting and thankless. You respected the fact that he never acted like caring was beneath him. You watched him mentor residents, advocate for vulnerable patients, comfort grieving families, and choose kindness over convenience again and again. Not because anyone was watching. Not because he wanted recognition. Simply because that was who he was.

And somewhere along the way, without your permission, he had become the standard.

Not perfection. Not potential. Not promises. Effort. Consistency. Character. All the things you'd spent years searching for in men who only ever seemed to offer excuses instead.

Santos was still staring at you when you finally dragged your attention away from the other side of the department.

"You done staring?"

You immediately looked anywhere but Jack.

"I wasn't staring."

"You were."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

A comfortable silence settled between you before Santos leaned slightly closer. "For what it's worth?"

You sighed. "What?"

Her gaze flickered toward Jack before returning to you. This time, when she spoke, there was no teasing in her voice.

"I get it."

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because she was making fun of you, but because she wasn't. For once, Santos sounded completely sincere.

"He makes people feel safe."

The words settled somewhere deep inside you because they were true. You looked back across the department. Jack was still standing beside Robby, still discussing scans, still completely unaware of the conversation happening about him. Completely unaware that somewhere along the way he'd become the measuring stick against which every other man was now being compared.

And maybe that was the most frustrating part of all.

The realization happened at a bar.

Which was ironic, considering bars were exactly the sort of place you'd spent the last year insisting your future husband would never be found.

Not because you thought there was anything wrong with meeting people at bars. You'd simply reached a point in your life where you no longer believed meaningful relationships appeared because you were looking for them.

The emergency department's New Year's gathering was nothing particularly special. Just a local bar rented out for the evening, cheap decorations still hanging from Christmas, music playing slightly too loud through old speakers, and a collection of healthcare workers desperately trying to remember they were human beings outside the hospital. For one night nobody was discussing lab values, trauma activations, consults, or difficult patients. Nobody was running toward alarms. Nobody was delivering bad news.

People were simply existing.

Laughing.

Drinking.

Living.

You stood at the bar with a vodka cranberry in hand, watching your coworkers scatter across the room. Mel and Santos were butchering a karaoke song with enough confidence to make up for their complete lack of talent. Mohan and Javadi had somehow ended up in a corner gossiping about Mateo. Robby was engaged in what looked like an unnecessarily passionate debate about football with Shen. The room buzzed with the easy familiarity that developed when people spent their days surviving chaos together.

You had entered the new year single. But more importantly, you'd entered it happy. Not pretending to be happy. Not telling yourself you were happy.

Actually happy.

You weren't wondering who might text tomorrow morning. You weren't looking around the room hoping someone would notice you. You weren't mentally calculating whether this year would finally be the year you met somebody. For the first time in your adult life, your happiness wasn't being held hostage by your relationship status.

You had already chosen yourself.

And once you did that, everything else began feeling different.

"Vodka cranberry."

Jack's voice appeared beside you before you noticed him approach.

You glanced over.

"What about it?"

He nodded toward your drink.

"You always order vodka cranberries."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. "Are you keeping a file on me?"

"Maybe."

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

"I like knowing things."

"Yeah, I've noticed that."

The exchange was simple. Easy. The kind of conversation that had somehow become normal between the two of you over the past several months. You hadn't noticed when that happened. At some point the awkwardness disappeared. Conversations stopped feeling intentional and started feeling natural. You found yourself seeking him out without realizing it. Found yourself looking for him during difficult shifts. Found yourself collecting stories to tell him later.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

For a few moments neither of you spoke. Jack leaned one shoulder against the bar, his attention drifting briefly across the room before settling back on you.

"You seem happy."

The comment caught you off guard—not because of the words themselves, but because of the way he said them. Most people would have asked if you were happy. Jack stated it like an observation. Like he'd noticed.

You looked over at him. "So do you."

"No."

The small smile on his face faded slightly.

"I'm serious."

Something about his tone made you pause. You studied him for a moment. Really studied him. The soft lighting of the bar. The tiredness that still lingered beneath his eyes after another year in emergency medicine. The way he watched people when they spoke, as though they were worth listening to. And then you realized he wasn't asking a casual question. He genuinely wanted to know.

"Yeah," you admitted quietly. The answer came easier than expected. "I am."

For a moment neither of you spoke. Then something shifted in his expression. Small. Subtle. But unmistakable. Relief. Not satisfaction. Not pride. Relief, like he'd been hoping that would be your answer. Like your happiness mattered to him independent of anything he might gain from it.

"Good."

The word came quietly. Sincerely.

"You deserve that. It suits you."

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because it sounded romantic—it didn't. That was what made it so dangerous. Jack had never flirted with you the way other men had. Never treated conversations like transactions. Never acted as though kindness earned him something in return. He never made you feel like a prize to be won or a challenge to be conquered. There was no game underneath his attention. No hidden agenda. No constant pressure to define things before they naturally became something.

He simply saw you. The real you. Not the version trying to impress people. Not the version performing confidence. Not the version who always had the right answer. Just you.

And somehow that felt more intimate than all the grand romantic gestures you'd spent years convincing yourself were meaningful.

You thought about every relationship you'd had before. The men who wanted to be needed. The men who liked the idea of you. The men who loved being chosen more than they loved actually knowing you. How often you'd felt as though your worth depended on being wanted.

Jack had never made you feel that way.

Standing there in a crowded bar on New Year's Eve, surrounded by music and laughter and coworkers singing off-key in the background, the realization settled quietly into your chest. The reason you liked Jack wasn't because he made you feel chosen. It was because, somehow, he made you feel seen.

And after years of confusing those two things, you finally understood the difference.

Several weeks later, after a shift that had somehow managed to be both exhausting and uneventful, you found yourself standing on the hospital roof with Jack. The city stretched beneath you, Pittsburgh glowing against the darkness, thousands of lights scattered across the hillsides and reflected in the rivers below. The wind was stronger than usual, tugging loose strands of hair across your face and making the fabric of your jacket flutter around your arms.

Jack stood beside you, close enough that you could hear him breathing when the wind quieted, but not touching. He never seemed to force closeness. Never crowded your space. Never inserted himself where he wasn't invited. There was simply a comfortable ease between the two of you now, built slowly over months of shared shifts, late-night conversations, and stolen moments between emergencies. The silence wasn't awkward. It never was. With Jack, silence felt less like an absence of conversation and more like another form of it.

For several moments neither of you spoke. You watched headlights move across one of the bridges in the distance, tiny streams of light weaving through the city. Eventually, the thought escaped before you could stop it.

"You know," you said, your voice almost getting carried away by the wind, "I used to have terrible taste in men."

Jack laughed immediately.

"Past tense?"

You smiled. "Definitely."

"What changed?"

The question should have been simple. Instead, it made you pause. Because the answer wasn't one thing. It wasn't a single heartbreak or one defining relationship. It was years. Years of disappointment and lessons you hadn't wanted to learn. Years of convincing yourself to stay when you should have left. Years of making excuses for people who never seemed willing to make the same effort for you.

You leaned your elbows against the railing and looked out at the city. "Honestly?"

"Yeah."

You exhaled slowly. "I stopped making excuses."

Beside you, Jack stayed quiet, listening the way he always did. Not waiting for his turn to speak. Not trying to solve anything. Just listening.

"I used to fall in love with potential."

The confession felt embarrassingly honest, but somehow easier to admit with him than it would've been with anyone else.

Jack nodded. "I think a lot of people do."

"Yeah, well." A small laugh escaped you. "Turns out that's a terrible strategy."

His smile widened. "Very terrible."

"I'd meet someone and immediately start imagining who they could become. I'd see one good quality and build an entire future around it. I'd convince myself that eventually they'd communicate better. Eventually they'd grow up. Eventually they'd be ready. Eventually they'd become the person I needed them to be."

You shook your head, laughing softly at yourself. "It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud."

"It doesn't."

"It should."

Jack glanced toward you, his expression thoughtful rather than amused. "It sounds hopeful."

The answer caught you off guard. Most people would've called it naïve. Or foolish. Or desperate. You'd certainly called yourself all three at different points in your life. Hopeful felt different. Kinder. More generous. More accurate somehow. You stared back out at the city lights scattered across the darkness and found yourself being honest in a way that had become strangely easy with him.

"I overlooked a lot of things," you admitted quietly. "I ignored red flags because I wanted things to work. I convinced myself that if someone cared enough, they'd eventually become who they were supposed to be. I'd meet someone and immediately start imagining who they could become instead of paying attention to who they actually were. I thought loving somebody enough could somehow bridge the gap between reality and potential."

The wind swept across the rooftop again, lifting strands of your hair across your face.

"What do you look for now?" he asked after a moment.

The question made you smile because, for the first time in your life, you actually had an answer. Not the answer you would've given at twenty-two when chemistry felt more important than compatibility. Not the answer you'd have given when you were still measuring your worth by whether someone chose you. The real answer.

"Consistency."

Jack nodded slightly.

"Kindness."

You thought for another second.

"Emotional intelligence."

Then, completely serious, you added,

"A guy with a real job."

The laugh that burst out of him was so unexpected that you immediately started laughing too.

"A real job?"

"I'm serious."

"No, I know you are. That's what makes it funny."

You pointed at him.

"Do not underestimate how low the bar can be."

His shoulders shook with laughter.

"I stand corrected."

"I've dated men who described unemployment as a spiritual journey."

"What?"

"I'm not joking."

"C'mon, kid, that is not a real sentence."

"It is, trust me."

By then you were both laughing, the sound carried away by the wind and swallowed by the city below. The conversation should have felt ridiculous. Like gossip. Like complaining about exes. Instead it felt strangely freeing. Because for years you'd treated your standards like something embarrassing. Something that needed justification. Something that made you difficult or demanding. Somewhere along the way you'd absorbed the idea that wanting consistency, effort, communication, and emotional maturity was somehow asking for too much. Standing there now, laughing with Jack beneath the Pittsburgh skyline, it suddenly felt absurd that you'd ever believed that. Those weren't impossible standards. They weren't extraordinary. They were the natural result of finally valuing yourself enough to stop accepting less.

When the laughter eventually faded, a comfortable silence settled between you again. The city continued glowing beneath the darkness. A helicopter crossed the distant skyline. Somewhere below, another ambulance was probably pulling into the emergency bay while another shift began. You turned toward Jack and discovered he was already looking at you.

Not intensely.

Not romantically.

Just honestly.

Jack wasn't attractive because he met your expectations. Plenty of people met your expectations on paper. Plenty of people could say the right things. Plenty of people could check boxes. Jack was different because he had expectations too. For himself. For his career. For the way he treated people. For the kind of life he wanted to build.

You had never once gotten the impression that he was waiting for someone else to save him from himself. He wasn't drifting through life hoping a relationship would magically provide purpose. He wasn't looking for a woman to fill an emptiness he refused to address on his own. He already had a full life. A demanding career. Meaningful friendships. Purpose. Ambition. Values. A strong sense of who he was and who he wanted to become. And because of that, his kindness never felt needy. His attention never felt possessive. His interest never felt desperate.

It felt intentional.

Steady.

Healthy.

The realization settled quietly into your chest.

Every relationship you'd had before seemed to revolve around potential. Around waiting. Around promises of who somebody might become one day if you just loved them enough, supported them enough, stayed long enough. You'd spent years investing in future versions of people who never actually arrived.

Jack wasn't potential.

He wasn't a project.

He wasn't a possibility.

He was already there.

Already doing the work.

Already growing.

Already becoming.

And maybe that was what made room for something real.

Not two people searching for someone to complete them.

Just two people who had already built lives they were proud of and, somewhere along the way, discovered they genuinely liked standing beside each other in them.

For the first time in a long time, the future didn't feel like something you had to force into existence. It felt like something you could simply let happen.

And standing beside Jack on that rooftop, with the wind tangling your hair and the city glowing below, you realized that might be the healthiest thing you'd ever felt.

The first kiss happened months later.

Not because either of you were playing games. Not because there was confusion about what existed between you. And definitely not because one of you was waiting for the other to make the first move. If anything, the opposite was true. By that point, there was very little uncertainty left between the two of you. The feelings had settled slowly, steadily, over months of shared shifts, rooftop conversations, coffee runs, trauma activations, and stolen moments in hospital hallways. It wasn't the kind of connection that arrived all at once. It was built piece by piece, conversation by conversation, until one day you realized Jack had become the person you looked for first when you walked into a room.

You knew the sound of his laugh.

You knew how he took his coffee.

You knew which patients stayed with him long after his shifts ended.

You knew the tiny crease that appeared between his eyebrows when he was concentrating.

You knew how he listened.

And somehow, without either of you noticing exactly when it happened, friendship had become something deeper.

The shift that night had been brutal. Too many patients. Not enough beds. Multiple traumas. A pediatric code that left the entire department quieter afterward. By three in the morning, exhaustion hung over everyone like a physical weight. The parking lot outside the hospital was mostly empty, illuminated by scattered streetlights. Spring had settled heavily over Pittsburgh, the air warm even at that hour and carrying the faint sounds of distant traffic.

As usual, Jack walked you to your car. At some point it had become routine. Neither of you remembered exactly when it started—maybe after a particularly difficult shift, maybe after a late-night safety concern, or maybe because he simply wanted a few extra minutes with you. Whatever the reason, neither of you questioned it anymore.

You walked side by side through the parking lot, your conversation fading naturally as you approached your car. Neither of you seemed particularly eager to say goodnight. That had become another pattern lately. Conversations stretching longer than necessary. Lingering. Finding reasons for one more minute together.

When you finally reached your car and turned toward him, you immediately noticed something different.

Jack looked nervous. Not obviously, but enough that you recognized it.

The realization startled you because nervous wasn't a word you often associated with Jack. You'd seen him lead trauma teams through impossible situations, make life-or-death decisions under pressure, and calmly deliver devastating news to families. Yet somehow standing in a mostly empty parking lot seemed to unsettle him more than any trauma activation ever had. The thought was unexpectedly adorable.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

The corner of your mouth lifted automatically.

"You just did, big guy."

His eyes rolled immediately, a familiar gesture that somehow managed to make your chest warm every single time. You smiled. Then he smiled too.

And there it was.

That look.

The one you'd spent months trying not to think too much about. The one that always seemed to appear during quiet moments when neither of you were distracted by work or patients or responsibilities. The one that made your stomach flip despite your best efforts.

For a moment neither of you spoke. The warm night air settled around you, carrying the distant sounds of traffic through the city.

Jack looked at you like he was making a decision.

Then finally he said, "Can I kiss you?"

Just like that.

No games. No confusion. No carefully crafted ambiguity. No inching closer and hoping you'd somehow read his mind. No forcing you to analyze every interaction afterward with your friends. No making you carry the emotional burden of figuring out where you stood.

Just honesty.

Direct. Simple. Certain.

The question hung between you, and suddenly it felt like time slowed. Because it wasn't really about the kiss. Not entirely. It was about everything the question represented: respect, communication, intentionality, choice.

You looked at him and, for one brief moment, every relationship that had come before felt impossibly far away. The men who weren't sure. The men who wanted you, but never enough. The men who expected you to do all the emotional labor while they sat comfortably in uncertainty. The men who treated commitment like a threat and vulnerability like a weakness. The men who left you constantly wondering where you stood because they themselves never seemed willing to stand anywhere.

For years you'd viewed those experiences as failures. Evidence that something was wrong with you. Evidence that you were choosing poorly or expecting too much. But standing in front of Jack, you understood something you hadn't before.

None of it had been wasted.

Those relationships had taught you what inconsistency felt like so you could recognize consistency when it arrived. They had taught you what emotional unavailability looked like so you could appreciate emotional maturity. They had taught you what effort wasn't so you could recognize real effort when it finally appeared.

Because all of it had led you here. To someone who listened. Someone who paid attention. Someone who remembered things. Someone who showed up. Someone emotionally mature enough to know what he wanted and secure enough to say it out loud.

Your smile widened before you could stop it.

"Yeah."

The answer came easily. Without hesitation. Without fear. Without overthinking. Because for the first time in your life, saying yes didn't feel like taking a risk.

It felt like trusting something that had already proven itself.

Jack smiled then. A real smile. Warm. Relieved. Certain. And somehow seeing that expression affected you almost as much as the question itself. Like he wasn't taking your answer for granted. Like he understood exactly what it meant. Like he knew this wasn't just a kiss. It was months of friendship, trust, consistency, and care finally being acknowledged for what it had become.

Slowly, he stepped closer. Not enough to overwhelm you. Not enough to presume. Just enough. Still giving you room. Still giving you time to change your mind if you wanted to.

You noticed the tiredness lingering beneath his eyes from the shift. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The way his gaze flickered briefly toward your lips before returning to your eyes, as though even now he wanted to make sure you were certain.

Then his hand lifted.

Gentle. Careful.

He brushed a strand of windblown hair behind your ear.

The gesture was so small, so simple, and somehow it made your heart ache. Because that was Jack. Not grand gestures. Not performances. Not declarations made for an audience. Just small moments of thoughtfulness repeated over and over until they became something extraordinary.

When he finally kissed you, it wasn't rushed. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't the kind of kiss movies spent two hours building toward before swelling music played in the background. It was better because it felt real. Warm and patient and certain. Familiar somehow, despite being entirely new. Like coming home after a very long day. Like finally setting down something heavy you'd been carrying for too long. Like exhaling after holding your breath for months without realizing it.

When you eventually pulled apart, neither of you moved very far. Jack's forehead nearly brushed yours, both of you smiling, both of you slightly overwhelmed, neither of you in any hurry to leave.

Standing there beneath the hospital lights, with the city sleeping around you and Jack looking at you like you were something precious, you realized something. For years you'd been told that having standards would leave you lonely. That expectations were unrealistic. That wanting more meant asking for too much.

But the opposite had turned out to be true.

Having expectations hadn't prevented love.

It had protected you until the right person arrived.

Because these days, you had expectations.

And for the first time in your life, someone hadn't just met them.

He'd exceeded them.

The problem was that you had finally reached a point in your life where you weren't looking for anyone.

It had taken years to get there.

Years of confusing attention with affection. Years of convincing yourself that if you were patient enough, understanding enough, accommodating enough, eventually someone would become the person they kept promising they could be. Somewhere along the way, you had developed a habit of falling in love with potential instead of reality. You would meet a man, notice one or two good qualities, and then spend months filling in the blanks yourself. You'd build entire relationships around who somebody might become rather than who they actually were.

It was exhausting.

Eventually, after enough disappointment, enough nights spent staring at your ceiling, wondering why effort never seemed to be reciprocated, something shifted.

You stopped romanticizing people who gave you the bare minimum.

You stopped applauding men for doing things that should have been expected in the first place.

You stopped mistaking inconsistency for mystery and emotional unavailability for depth.

Most importantly, you learned how to walk away.

You discovered that being alone wasn't nearly as frightening as being with somebody who made you feel lonely. And once you'd learned that lesson, really learned it, your standards began to change.

Working as a social worker in the emergency department probably accelerated that transformation. Every day you sat with families experiencing the worst moments of their lives. You helped parents process devastating diagnoses. You comforted spouses after traumatic accidents. You watched people discover, over and over again, what truly mattered when everything else was stripped away.

It gave you perspective.

After spending twelve hours helping a family navigate a life-altering crisis, listening to some twenty-eight-year-old man explain that he "wasn't ready for labels" felt almost laughable.

Your dating history suddenly looked absurd when viewed through that lens.

There had been the self-proclaimed entrepreneur whose business seemed to consist entirely of talking about starting a business. The musician who forgot your birthday and then somehow managed to make you feel guilty for being upset about it. The man who spent six months deciding whether he wanted a relationship, as though you were a job offer sitting in his inbox waiting for approval.

Six months.

You could still remember sitting across from him at dinner, listening to him stumble through another vague explanation about timing and uncertainty and needing space, and feeling something inside you finally click into place.

Not heartbreak.

Clarity.

Because for the first time you realized that someone who truly wanted you would not require six months to determine whether you were worth choosing.

You left that relationship with surprisingly little sadness.

Mostly because by then you understood something you hadn't before.

Every mistake contained information. Every disappointment taught you something. Every failed relationship clarified what you actually needed.

Past mistakes weren't failures, they were data.

And the data had led you here.

To a place where your expectations were no longer negotiable.

Nothing unreasonable. Nothing impossible.

You wanted someone who communicated honestly. Someone who worked hard. Someone who respected women. Someone emotionally mature enough to express what they wanted instead of expecting you to decipher it through mixed signals and half-hearted text messages. Someone capable of making a decision without treating commitment like a hostage negotiation.

The bar, in your opinion, remained embarrassingly low.

You weren't asking for perfection or a fairytale. You were asking for competence. Consistency. Effort.

Which was why the universe's timing felt particularly cruel.

Because roughly three months after making a dramatic declaration to your friends that you were done prioritizing men, done settling, done chasing people who weren't sure about you, Jack quietly walked into your life and proceeded to embody nearly every expectation you'd spent years developing.

And somehow that felt significantly more dangerous than all the wrong men combined.

The first thing you noticed about Jack wasn't his face, or his job title, or even the fact that half the emergency department seemed to adore him.

It was that he remembered things.

Not the big things people were expected to remember. Not birthdays posted on Facebook or major life announcements that everyone in the department had heard about. It was the small things. The things most people acknowledged in conversation and then immediately forgot the moment they walked away.

You first noticed it on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon.

The department had been relatively calm for once, which in emergency medicine usually meant disaster was quietly building somewhere. You'd been walking beside Jack toward radiology after helping arrange temporary housing resources for a patient. The conversation had been casual, the kind that happened when two people spent enough time crossing paths at work. Somewhere between discussing a difficult discharge and complaining about hospital coffee, you'd mentioned that your younger brother was graduating from nursing school that weekend.

Jack had smiled.

"That's a huge accomplishment."

Then a trauma page had gone off overhead, he'd been pulled away, and you'd assumed that was the end of it.

Three weeks passed.

Three weeks filled with twelve-hour shifts, ambulance arrivals, difficult family meetings, social work consults, endless documentation, and the particular kind of exhaustion that came from working in an emergency department. You forgot the conversation entirely.

Jack apparently didn't.

You were carrying a chart toward the nurses' station when he passed you in the hallway.

He slowed slightly.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"How'd the graduation go?"

You stopped walking.

Not because of the question itself, because it took you several seconds to understand what graduation he was talking about.

"What?"

"Your brother." Jack looked mildly confused by your confusion. "The fact that he graduated from nursing school?"

For a moment you simply stared at him.

Three weeks.

It had been three weeks. Three weeks and dozens, maybe hundreds, of patients. Endless consults. New admissions. New traumas. New crises. An entire emergency department's worth of information had passed through both of your brains since then. And yet somehow he'd remembered a single passing comment you'd made while walking down a hallway.

"You remembered that?"

Jack's forehead creased slightly. "Yeah?"

The answer came so naturally that it almost made you laugh. There was no pride in it, no expectation that he should be praised for paying attention. No awareness that he'd done anything unusual at all. As if listening when people spoke was simply normal. As if remembering details about someone mattered because that person mattered.

The realization caught you more off guard than it should have. Because the truth was, your surprise said far more about your past than it did about Jack.

You thought about the men you'd dated before. The ones who needed reminders for conversations they'd had the day before. The ones who forgot important events, forgot stories you'd told them, forgot preferences, forgot plans. Men who claimed they cared about you but somehow never seemed curious enough to remember the details that made you who you were. You remembered one ex who'd forgotten your birthday. Another who repeatedly mixed up your brother and cousin despite meeting both of them. One particularly impressive candidate had even asked what your undergraduate degree was after nearly four months of dating.

At the time, you'd laughed those things off. Made excuses. Told yourself they were busy, distracted, bad with details. But standing in the middle of a hospital hallway while Jack looked at you as though remembering your brother's graduation was the most ordinary thing in the world, those excuses suddenly felt a lot less convincing.

Because maybe caring looked like this.

Maybe it wasn't grand gestures or dramatic declarations. Maybe it was paying attention. Maybe it was listening closely enough that information stayed with you, remembering things simply because someone had taken the time to tell you.

You eventually answered his question and told him the graduation had gone well. You even showed him a picture your mother had insisted on taking, one where your brother looked deeply uncomfortable in his cap and gown. Jack smiled, asked a few questions, congratulated him through you, and then got called away to evaluate a patient before the conversation could continue. The interaction lasted less than two minutes. By the end of your shift, you should have forgotten about it.

Instead, you found yourself thinking about it on the drive home. Then again while brushing your teeth. Then again a few days later when you spotted him across the department, calmly talking a nervous patient through a procedure. It wasn't a grand romantic moment. There was no music, no revelation, no sudden realization that you were falling for him. It was smaller than that. Quieter. More dangerous.

Because for the first time in a very long time, someone had shown you what genuine attention looked like. And once you'd noticed it, you couldn't stop seeing it everywhere.

The emergency department had descended into chaos the moment the alert came through. Mass casualty incident. School bus versus commercial truck. Multiple patients inbound. You still remembered the way the atmosphere shifted in seconds, as if someone had flipped a switch. One moment people were finishing notes, grabbing coffee, discussing discharge plans. The next, every available trauma bay was being prepared, stretchers lined up, supplies restocked, and teams assembled. The department moved with a kind of organized urgency that only came from experience. Physicians pulled on trauma gowns while nurses prepared medications and respiratory therapists checked ventilators. Overhead pages echoed through the halls. Ambulance arrival times were shouted across rooms. Whiteboards filled with names faster than anyone could process them. Thirty-seven patients arrived over the course of the evening. Multiple critical injuries. The kind of shift where hours disappeared without notice and everyone operated almost entirely on instinct.

You spent most of the night with one family. Their son was sixteen years old, a quiet kid with braces who had been sitting near the front of the bus when it rolled. The trauma team identified a pelvic fracture almost immediately, and later imaging revealed internal bleeding that required urgent intervention. While physicians worked in the trauma bay, your role was with the people waiting outside. The mother had started crying before the ambulance doors even closed. The father somehow seemed worse. At least the mother's fear had somewhere to go.

The father's stayed trapped inside him, building pressure behind every breath. His hands shook every time someone in scrubs walked through the doors. He stood up whenever footsteps approached and sat down again when they passed by. Over and over, he asked the same questions because panic made it impossible to hold onto answers. Was his son awake? Had he said anything? Was he going to be okay? What exactly did internal bleeding mean? You explained what you could. You tracked down updates. You translated medical terminology into language terrified parents could understand. You brought cups of water they barely touched and sat beside them through every agonizing stretch of waiting. Over the years, you had learned that waiting was often the cruelest part. Pain had something concrete to focus on. Fear could be addressed. But uncertainty lingered. It settled into people and hollowed them out from the inside.

By the time their son was stabilized and transferred to the ICU, nearly two hours had passed. The mother squeezed your hand before she left. The father looked at you like he wanted to say something important but couldn't quite find the words. Then they followed the transport team upstairs, and suddenly the adrenaline that had been carrying you all evening vanished. Your feet hurt. Your shoulders ached. The headache you'd been ignoring since noon had settled somewhere behind your eyes and started pounding. You couldn't remember the last time you'd sat down. You couldn't remember the last time you'd eaten either. Breakfast felt like it had happened days ago. At some point you'd grabbed coffee. Maybe twice. Maybe three times. The details blurred together beneath the weight of the shift.

You slipped into the staff lounge hoping for five uninterrupted minutes before the next crisis found you. The room was quiet for the first time all night. No monitors. No overhead announcements. No crying families. No trauma alerts. Jack sat alone at one of the tables finishing documentation. His trauma gown was gone, wearing only his black srubs. Reading glasses rested low on his nose as he typed. A half-empty coffee sat beside his laptop. He looked exhausted.

You had barely stepped into the room when something slid across the table toward you.

A granola bar.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Jack didn't even look up.

"You haven't eaten."

For a moment your brain struggled to catch up.

"What?"

"I saw you skip lunch."

His fingers never stopped moving across the keyboard.

"Eat."

Your eyes dropped back to the granola bar. It was completely ordinary. Yet something about it made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

"You got me food?"

That finally earned you a glance. Jack looked up just long enough to give you a mildly unimpressed expression.

"You look like you're running entirely on caffeine and wishful thinking."

A beat passed.

"Which isn't sustainable."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. A real laugh. The first one you'd managed all night. Something softened in his expression when he heard it. Not quite a smile, but close.

You sat down across from him and opened the wrapper. The sound crinkled loudly in the otherwise silent room.

"You've been observing my dietary habits now?"

"Someone has to."

"You say that like I'm a child."

"Well you’re a social worker, kid. We wouldn’t survive with you guys. So yeah, I’m observing."

You opened your mouth to argue and immediately closed it again because he was, unfortunately, correct. Jack returned to his charting, and the conversation could have ended there. Probably should have. But as you sat there eating the granola bar, something kept nagging at you.

"How did you even notice?"

He looked up again.

"Notice what?"

"That I hadn't eaten."

The question seemed to genuinely confuse him.

"You always eat lunch."

You blinked. "What?"

"You usually disappear around one, and come back around one thirty."

He shrugged as if the answer were self-explanatory.

"Today you didn't."

Something shifted quietly inside your chest, because he wasn't talking about one day.

To know that, he had been paying attention for weeks. Maybe months. Not in a deliberate way. Not in an intrusive way. Just enough to notice patterns. Enough to notice your absence from one. Enough to realize something was off. And somehow that affected you far more than it should have. You'd dated men who couldn't remember your favorite food. Men who forgot important conversations, forgot birthdays, forgot promises they had made themselves. Yet here was Jack remembering something as insignificant as the fact that you usually took lunch around one o'clock.

Not because he wanted credit.

Not because he was trying to impress you.

Not because he expected anything in return.

Simply because he cared.

As the silence settled between you again, you found yourself watching him over the edge of the granola bar wrapper. The tiredness beneath his eyes. The slight slump in his shoulders. The concentration on his face as he finished documentation after one of the hardest shifts either of you had worked in months. He was exhausted too. He had spent the evening intubating patients, coordinating trauma care, delivering updates, and making impossible decisions under impossible pressure. Yet somewhere amid all that chaos, he'd noticed that you hadn't eaten. He'd noticed. He'd remembered. And he'd acted.

No grand gesture.

Just a granola bar quietly pushed across a table.

A simple act of care.

And for reasons you couldn't fully explain, it felt more intimate than every expensive dinner, every bouquet of flowers, and every romantic gesture you'd ever received. Because those things had often been done to impress you. This had simply been done because you needed it.

"You like him."

Santos' voice appeared beside you during one of those rare moments when the emergency department wasn't actively falling apart. You were halfway through documenting a consult and attempting to drink a coffee that had long since gone cold when Santos delivered the statement so casually that it took a moment for your brain to catch up.

"Excuse me?"

She didn't even look up from her computer.

"You like him."

You stared at her.

"Who?"

That finally earned you a glance. Santos turned slowly, giving you the kind of look normally reserved for people who had just asked whether the sky was blue.

"Abbot."

You nearly inhaled your coffee.

"Come again?"

"It's so obvious it's actually starting to piss me off."

A laugh escaped her as she turned back toward her charting, while you sat there feeling personally attacked.

"I don't have a crush on him."

"Sure."

"I don't."

"Okay."

"Santos."

"What?"

"I do not have a crush on Jack."

The grin spreading across her face immediately told you this argument was already lost.

"You absolutely do. "You get weird when he walks by."

"I do not get weird."

"You do."

"I don't."

Santos raised an eyebrow.

You groaned and rubbed a hand over your face.

"Don't you have patients?"

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not changing the subject."

"You are."

You pointed at her dramatically.

"Is this what you do all day? Stare at your coworkers instead of charting?"

"Partially."

At least she was honest.

Unfortunately, before you could continue arguing, movement across the department caught your attention. Your eyes found Jack automatically, and the triumphant noise Santos made beside you was immediate.

"There."

"Oh, shut up."

"There!"

Across the emergency department, Jack stood beside Robby reviewing imaging results on a computer screen. The CT images glowed against the monitor while the two physicians discussed findings. You couldn't hear the conversation from where you stood, but you could recognize the expression on Jack's face. Focused. Attentive. Completely engaged. His arms were crossed as he listened to Robby explain something, occasionally leaning forward to point out a detail on the scan before the conversation continued. There was absolutely nothing romantic about the scene. It was two doctors discussing a patient. That's all it was.

And yet you found yourself watching.

Not because he was handsome.

Although he was.

Not because he was charming.

Although he could be.

It was something far more annoying than that.

Because every day you watched him be good at what he did.

Not perfect.

Good.

There was a difference.

You'd seen him struggle too.

Medicine was full of mistakes, uncertainty, and moments where nobody had the right answer. Every physician encountered them eventually. The difference was how Jack responded when they happened. You'd seen him ask questions without embarrassment. Consult specialists when he wasn't sure. Accept feedback from colleagues without becoming defensive. Admit when someone else's idea was better than his own.

A few weeks earlier, Javadi had suggested a diagnosis he hadn't initially considered. You still remembered standing nearby while she carefully explained her reasoning, clearly nervous about disagreeing with an attending. Jack had listened. Really listened. Then he'd thanked her when additional testing proved she was right.

Such a small moment and ordinary moment. And yet, it had stayed with you.

Because you'd spent years dating men whose egos were so fragile that being corrected felt like a personal attack. Men who treated every disagreement like a competition they had to win. Men who would rather be wrong than admit someone else might know more.

Jack never seemed threatened by not knowing everything.

In fact, the more competent he was, the more comfortable he seemed admitting what he didn't know.

And somehow that made him even more competent.

That was the problem.

Attraction built on looks was manageable. Attraction built on charm eventually faded. But attraction built on respect was dangerous because it rooted itself deeper. It wasn't about chemistry or butterflies or fantasy. It was built on observation. On evidence. On watching somebody reveal who they were over and over again until you couldn't deny what you saw.

You respected him.

You respected the way he treated people.

You respected the way he worked.

You respected the way he showed up, day after day, even when the job was difficult and exhausting and thankless. You respected the fact that he never acted like caring was beneath him. You watched him mentor residents, advocate for vulnerable patients, comfort grieving families, and choose kindness over convenience again and again. Not because anyone was watching. Not because he wanted recognition. Simply because that was who he was.

And somewhere along the way, without your permission, he had become the standard.

Not perfection. Not potential. Not promises. Effort. Consistency. Character. All the things you'd spent years searching for in men who only ever seemed to offer excuses instead.

Santos was still staring at you when you finally dragged your attention away from the other side of the department.

"You done staring?"

You immediately looked anywhere but Jack.

"I wasn't staring."

"You were."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

A comfortable silence settled between you before Santos leaned slightly closer. "For what it's worth?"

You sighed. "What?"

Her gaze flickered toward Jack before returning to you. This time, when she spoke, there was no teasing in her voice.

"I get it."

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because she was making fun of you, but because she wasn't. For once, Santos sounded completely sincere.

"He makes people feel safe."

The words settled somewhere deep inside you because they were true. You looked back across the department. Jack was still standing beside Robby, still discussing scans, still completely unaware of the conversation happening about him. Completely unaware that somewhere along the way he'd become the measuring stick against which every other man was now being compared.

And maybe that was the most frustrating part of all.

The realization happened at a bar.

Which was ironic, considering bars were exactly the sort of place you'd spent the last year insisting your future husband would never be found.

Not because you thought there was anything wrong with meeting people at bars. You'd simply reached a point in your life where you no longer believed meaningful relationships appeared because you were looking for them.

The emergency department's New Year's gathering was nothing particularly special. Just a local bar rented out for the evening, cheap decorations still hanging from Christmas, music playing slightly too loud through old speakers, and a collection of healthcare workers desperately trying to remember they were human beings outside the hospital. For one night nobody was discussing lab values, trauma activations, consults, or difficult patients. Nobody was running toward alarms. Nobody was delivering bad news.

People were simply existing.

Laughing.

Drinking.

Living.

You stood at the bar with a vodka cranberry in hand, watching your coworkers scatter across the room. Mel and Santos were butchering a karaoke song with enough confidence to make up for their complete lack of talent. Mohan and Javadi had somehow ended up in a corner gossiping about Mateo. Robby was engaged in what looked like an unnecessarily passionate debate about football with Shen. The room buzzed with the easy familiarity that developed when people spent their days surviving chaos together.

You had entered the new year single. But more importantly, you'd entered it happy. Not pretending to be happy. Not telling yourself you were happy.

Actually happy.

You weren't wondering who might text tomorrow morning. You weren't looking around the room hoping someone would notice you. You weren't mentally calculating whether this year would finally be the year you met somebody. For the first time in your adult life, your happiness wasn't being held hostage by your relationship status.

You had already chosen yourself.

And once you did that, everything else began feeling different.

"Vodka cranberry."

Jack's voice appeared beside you before you noticed him approach.

You glanced over.

"What about it?"

He nodded toward your drink.

"You always order vodka cranberries."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. "Are you keeping a file on me?"

"Maybe."

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

"I like knowing things."

"Yeah, I've noticed that."

The exchange was simple. Easy. The kind of conversation that had somehow become normal between the two of you over the past several months. You hadn't noticed when that happened. At some point the awkwardness disappeared. Conversations stopped feeling intentional and started feeling natural. You found yourself seeking him out without realizing it. Found yourself looking for him during difficult shifts. Found yourself collecting stories to tell him later.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

For a few moments neither of you spoke. Jack leaned one shoulder against the bar, his attention drifting briefly across the room before settling back on you.

"You seem happy."

The comment caught you off guard—not because of the words themselves, but because of the way he said them. Most people would have asked if you were happy. Jack stated it like an observation. Like he'd noticed.

You looked over at him. "So do you."

"No."

The small smile on his face faded slightly.

"I'm serious."

Something about his tone made you pause. You studied him for a moment. Really studied him. The soft lighting of the bar. The tiredness that still lingered beneath his eyes after another year in emergency medicine. The way he watched people when they spoke, as though they were worth listening to. And then you realized he wasn't asking a casual question. He genuinely wanted to know.

"Yeah," you admitted quietly. The answer came easier than expected. "I am."

For a moment neither of you spoke. Then something shifted in his expression. Small. Subtle. But unmistakable. Relief. Not satisfaction. Not pride. Relief, like he'd been hoping that would be your answer. Like your happiness mattered to him independent of anything he might gain from it.

"Good."

The word came quietly. Sincerely.

"You deserve that. It suits you."

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because it sounded romantic—it didn't. That was what made it so dangerous. Jack had never flirted with you the way other men had. Never treated conversations like transactions. Never acted as though kindness earned him something in return. He never made you feel like a prize to be won or a challenge to be conquered. There was no game underneath his attention. No hidden agenda. No constant pressure to define things before they naturally became something.

He simply saw you. The real you. Not the version trying to impress people. Not the version performing confidence. Not the version who always had the right answer. Just you.

And somehow that felt more intimate than all the grand romantic gestures you'd spent years convincing yourself were meaningful.

You thought about every relationship you'd had before. The men who wanted to be needed. The men who liked the idea of you. The men who loved being chosen more than they loved actually knowing you. How often you'd felt as though your worth depended on being wanted.

Jack had never made you feel that way.

Standing there in a crowded bar on New Year's Eve, surrounded by music and laughter and coworkers singing off-key in the background, the realization settled quietly into your chest. The reason you liked Jack wasn't because he made you feel chosen. It was because, somehow, he made you feel seen.

And after years of confusing those two things, you finally understood the difference.

Several weeks later, after a shift that had somehow managed to be both exhausting and uneventful, you found yourself standing on the hospital roof with Jack. The city stretched beneath you, Pittsburgh glowing against the darkness, thousands of lights scattered across the hillsides and reflected in the rivers below. The wind was stronger than usual, tugging loose strands of hair across your face and making the fabric of your jacket flutter around your arms.

Jack stood beside you, close enough that you could hear him breathing when the wind quieted, but not touching. He never seemed to force closeness. Never crowded your space. Never inserted himself where he wasn't invited. There was simply a comfortable ease between the two of you now, built slowly over months of shared shifts, late-night conversations, and stolen moments between emergencies. The silence wasn't awkward. It never was. With Jack, silence felt less like an absence of conversation and more like another form of it.

For several moments neither of you spoke. You watched headlights move across one of the bridges in the distance, tiny streams of light weaving through the city. Eventually, the thought escaped before you could stop it.

"You know," you said, your voice almost getting carried away by the wind, "I used to have terrible taste in men."

Jack laughed immediately.

"Past tense?"

You smiled. "Definitely."

"What changed?"

The question should have been simple. Instead, it made you pause. Because the answer wasn't one thing. It wasn't a single heartbreak or one defining relationship. It was years. Years of disappointment and lessons you hadn't wanted to learn. Years of convincing yourself to stay when you should have left. Years of making excuses for people who never seemed willing to make the same effort for you.

You leaned your elbows against the railing and looked out at the city. "Honestly?"

"Yeah."

You exhaled slowly. "I stopped making excuses."

Beside you, Jack stayed quiet, listening the way he always did. Not waiting for his turn to speak. Not trying to solve anything. Just listening.

"I used to fall in love with potential."

The confession felt embarrassingly honest, but somehow easier to admit with him than it would've been with anyone else.

Jack nodded. "I think a lot of people do."

"Yeah, well." A small laugh escaped you. "Turns out that's a terrible strategy."

His smile widened. "Very terrible."

"I'd meet someone and immediately start imagining who they could become. I'd see one good quality and build an entire future around it. I'd convince myself that eventually they'd communicate better. Eventually they'd grow up. Eventually they'd be ready. Eventually they'd become the person I needed them to be."

You shook your head, laughing softly at yourself. "It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud."

"It doesn't."

"It should."

Jack glanced toward you, his expression thoughtful rather than amused. "It sounds hopeful."

The answer caught you off guard. Most people would've called it naïve. Or foolish. Or desperate. You'd certainly called yourself all three at different points in your life. Hopeful felt different. Kinder. More generous. More accurate somehow. You stared back out at the city lights scattered across the darkness and found yourself being honest in a way that had become strangely easy with him.

"I overlooked a lot of things," you admitted quietly. "I ignored red flags because I wanted things to work. I convinced myself that if someone cared enough, they'd eventually become who they were supposed to be. I'd meet someone and immediately start imagining who they could become instead of paying attention to who they actually were. I thought loving somebody enough could somehow bridge the gap between reality and potential."

The wind swept across the rooftop again, lifting strands of your hair across your face.

"What do you look for now?" he asked after a moment.

The question made you smile because, for the first time in your life, you actually had an answer. Not the answer you would've given at twenty-two when chemistry felt more important than compatibility. Not the answer you'd have given when you were still measuring your worth by whether someone chose you. The real answer.

"Consistency."

Jack nodded slightly.

"Kindness."

You thought for another second.

"Emotional intelligence."

Then, completely serious, you added,

"A guy with a real job."

The laugh that burst out of him was so unexpected that you immediately started laughing too.

"A real job?"

"I'm serious."

"No, I know you are. That's what makes it funny."

You pointed at him.

"Do not underestimate how low the bar can be."

His shoulders shook with laughter.

"I stand corrected."

"I've dated men who described unemployment as a spiritual journey."

"What?"

"I'm not joking."

"C'mon, kid, that is not a real sentence."

"It is, trust me."

By then you were both laughing, the sound carried away by the wind and swallowed by the city below. The conversation should have felt ridiculous. Like gossip. Like complaining about exes. Instead it felt strangely freeing. Because for years you'd treated your standards like something embarrassing. Something that needed justification. Something that made you difficult or demanding. Somewhere along the way you'd absorbed the idea that wanting consistency, effort, communication, and emotional maturity was somehow asking for too much. Standing there now, laughing with Jack beneath the Pittsburgh skyline, it suddenly felt absurd that you'd ever believed that. Those weren't impossible standards. They weren't extraordinary. They were the natural result of finally valuing yourself enough to stop accepting less.

When the laughter eventually faded, a comfortable silence settled between you again. The city continued glowing beneath the darkness. A helicopter crossed the distant skyline. Somewhere below, another ambulance was probably pulling into the emergency bay while another shift began. You turned toward Jack and discovered he was already looking at you.

Not intensely.

Not romantically.

Just honestly.

Jack wasn't attractive because he met your expectations. Plenty of people met your expectations on paper. Plenty of people could say the right things. Plenty of people could check boxes. Jack was different because he had expectations too. For himself. For his career. For the way he treated people. For the kind of life he wanted to build.

You had never once gotten the impression that he was waiting for someone else to save him from himself. He wasn't drifting through life hoping a relationship would magically provide purpose. He wasn't looking for a woman to fill an emptiness he refused to address on his own. He already had a full life. A demanding career. Meaningful friendships. Purpose. Ambition. Values. A strong sense of who he was and who he wanted to become. And because of that, his kindness never felt needy. His attention never felt possessive. His interest never felt desperate.

It felt intentional.

Steady.

Healthy.

The realization settled quietly into your chest.

Every relationship you'd had before seemed to revolve around potential. Around waiting. Around promises of who somebody might become one day if you just loved them enough, supported them enough, stayed long enough. You'd spent years investing in future versions of people who never actually arrived.

Jack wasn't potential.

He wasn't a project.

He wasn't a possibility.

He was already there.

Already doing the work.

Already growing.

Already becoming.

And maybe that was what made room for something real.

Not two people searching for someone to complete them.

Just two people who had already built lives they were proud of and, somewhere along the way, discovered they genuinely liked standing beside each other in them.

For the first time in a long time, the future didn't feel like something you had to force into existence. It felt like something you could simply let happen.

And standing beside Jack on that rooftop, with the wind tangling your hair and the city glowing below, you realized that might be the healthiest thing you'd ever felt.

The first kiss happened months later.

Not because either of you were playing games. Not because there was confusion about what existed between you. And definitely not because one of you was waiting for the other to make the first move. If anything, the opposite was true. By that point, there was very little uncertainty left between the two of you. The feelings had settled slowly, steadily, over months of shared shifts, rooftop conversations, coffee runs, trauma activations, and stolen moments in hospital hallways. It wasn't the kind of connection that arrived all at once. It was built piece by piece, conversation by conversation, until one day you realized Jack had become the person you looked for first when you walked into a room.

You knew the sound of his laugh.

You knew how he took his coffee.

You knew which patients stayed with him long after his shifts ended.

You knew the tiny crease that appeared between his eyebrows when he was concentrating.

You knew how he listened.

And somehow, without either of you noticing exactly when it happened, friendship had become something deeper.

The shift that night had been brutal. Too many patients. Not enough beds. Multiple traumas. A pediatric code that left the entire department quieter afterward. By three in the morning, exhaustion hung over everyone like a physical weight. The parking lot outside the hospital was mostly empty, illuminated by scattered streetlights. Spring had settled heavily over Pittsburgh, the air warm even at that hour and carrying the faint sounds of distant traffic.

As usual, Jack walked you to your car. At some point it had become routine. Neither of you remembered exactly when it started—maybe after a particularly difficult shift, maybe after a late-night safety concern, or maybe because he simply wanted a few extra minutes with you. Whatever the reason, neither of you questioned it anymore.

You walked side by side through the parking lot, your conversation fading naturally as you approached your car. Neither of you seemed particularly eager to say goodnight. That had become another pattern lately. Conversations stretching longer than necessary. Lingering. Finding reasons for one more minute together.

When you finally reached your car and turned toward him, you immediately noticed something different.

Jack looked nervous. Not obviously, but enough that you recognized it.

The realization startled you because nervous wasn't a word you often associated with Jack. You'd seen him lead trauma teams through impossible situations, make life-or-death decisions under pressure, and calmly deliver devastating news to families. Yet somehow standing in a mostly empty parking lot seemed to unsettle him more than any trauma activation ever had. The thought was unexpectedly adorable.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

The corner of your mouth lifted automatically.

"You just did, big guy."

His eyes rolled immediately, a familiar gesture that somehow managed to make your chest warm every single time. You smiled. Then he smiled too.

And there it was.

That look.

The one you'd spent months trying not to think too much about. The one that always seemed to appear during quiet moments when neither of you were distracted by work or patients or responsibilities. The one that made your stomach flip despite your best efforts.

For a moment neither of you spoke. The warm night air settled around you, carrying the distant sounds of traffic through the city.

Jack looked at you like he was making a decision.

Then finally he said, "Can I kiss you?"

Just like that.

No games. No confusion. No carefully crafted ambiguity. No inching closer and hoping you'd somehow read his mind. No forcing you to analyze every interaction afterward with your friends. No making you carry the emotional burden of figuring out where you stood.

Just honesty.

Direct. Simple. Certain.

The question hung between you, and suddenly it felt like time slowed. Because it wasn't really about the kiss. Not entirely. It was about everything the question represented: respect, communication, intentionality, choice.

You looked at him and, for one brief moment, every relationship that had come before felt impossibly far away. The men who weren't sure. The men who wanted you, but never enough. The men who expected you to do all the emotional labor while they sat comfortably in uncertainty. The men who treated commitment like a threat and vulnerability like a weakness. The men who left you constantly wondering where you stood because they themselves never seemed willing to stand anywhere.

For years you'd viewed those experiences as failures. Evidence that something was wrong with you. Evidence that you were choosing poorly or expecting too much. But standing in front of Jack, you understood something you hadn't before.

None of it had been wasted.

Those relationships had taught you what inconsistency felt like so you could recognize consistency when it arrived. They had taught you what emotional unavailability looked like so you could appreciate emotional maturity. They had taught you what effort wasn't so you could recognize real effort when it finally appeared.

Because all of it had led you here. To someone who listened. Someone who paid attention. Someone who remembered things. Someone who showed up. Someone emotionally mature enough to know what he wanted and secure enough to say it out loud.

Your smile widened before you could stop it.

"Yeah."

The answer came easily. Without hesitation. Without fear. Without overthinking. Because for the first time in your life, saying yes didn't feel like taking a risk.

It felt like trusting something that had already proven itself.

Jack smiled then. A real smile. Warm. Relieved. Certain. And somehow seeing that expression affected you almost as much as the question itself. Like he wasn't taking your answer for granted. Like he understood exactly what it meant. Like he knew this wasn't just a kiss. It was months of friendship, trust, consistency, and care finally being acknowledged for what it had become.

Slowly, he stepped closer. Not enough to overwhelm you. Not enough to presume. Just enough. Still giving you room. Still giving you time to change your mind if you wanted to.

You noticed the tiredness lingering beneath his eyes from the shift. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The way his gaze flickered briefly toward your lips before returning to your eyes, as though even now he wanted to make sure you were certain.

Then his hand lifted.

Gentle. Careful.

He brushed a strand of windblown hair behind your ear.

The gesture was so small, so simple, and somehow it made your heart ache. Because that was Jack. Not grand gestures. Not performances. Not declarations made for an audience. Just small moments of thoughtfulness repeated over and over until they became something extraordinary.

When he finally kissed you, it wasn't rushed. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't the kind of kiss movies spent two hours building toward before swelling music played in the background. It was better because it felt real. Warm and patient and certain. Familiar somehow, despite being entirely new. Like coming home after a very long day. Like finally setting down something heavy you'd been carrying for too long. Like exhaling after holding your breath for months without realizing it.

When you eventually pulled apart, neither of you moved very far. Jack's forehead nearly brushed yours, both of you smiling, both of you slightly overwhelmed, neither of you in any hurry to leave.

Standing there beneath the hospital lights, with the city sleeping around you and Jack looking at you like you were something precious, you realized something. For years you'd been told that having standards would leave you lonely. That expectations were unrealistic. That wanting more meant asking for too much.

But the opposite had turned out to be true.

Having expectations hadn't prevented love.

It had protected you until the right person arrived.

Because these days, you had expectations.

And for the first time in your life, someone hadn't just met them.

He'd exceeded them.

You never see it, you never catch a slip of it, but you feel it. It's a crawling sensation that sits on your skin like a film of fat. Not every day, but enough over the past few weeks that you've begun taking precautions.

You stop posting on social media, change up your walking routes, and you ask a security guard to escort you to your car if it's dark out after work. You keep your curtains closed, blocking out the last dregs of the October sun.

After awhile, you confide in your cousin, and they convince you that you're being haunted. They come over, serious and stocked with supplies, and cleanse your apartment. Perform some rituals you don't quite understand, but appreciate the symbolism of nonetheless.

It doesn't help.

There's nothing concrete you can even show as proof. It's a distant, watchful shadow that leaves no trace. No messages, nothing left behind on your doormat; it is a complete absence, robbing you of any rationale beneath your dread. You recall, distantly and vaguely, the familiarity and shape of being watched.

You ask your cousin's partner to come over and install a doorbell camera. It's connected to your phone, so you can watch it when you're away.

And you do, all the time. You have the live feed open on your phone all day now, even if it's minimized as a small window while you do other things. Laid in bed, watching neighbours pass the fish-eye lens in the long tunnel hallway.

This turns into note-taking.

Apt 510?? - Tall brunette + shorter redhead, G. shep dog Apt 508 - Older lady (cool hair), lives alone, gets dinner delivered Apt 5?? - Dad (grey hair, wears suit) + daughter (12-13?), ex-wife pick-up wknds

You learn the rough shapes of their schedules, their guests and visitors, anything that you can eliminate as unusual later on. Every guest you've seen is either escorted by the resident themselves, or goes and does what you expect them to.

The routine is monotonous and suffocating and soothing. Your friends slowly stop asking you to hang out; you don't like leaving your apartment anymore. Work doesn't care if you switch to remote.

This is unsustainable and you recognize it. You can see plainly that you are now the hant in your own life.

—

Halloween.

In your apartment complex, it's hit-or-miss each year. Some years, you get a handful of kids, and other times, you've run out of candy by 8 o'clock.

This year, you set out candy in a plastic bowl by your apartment door and watch the scattered clumps of kids come running through.

A few hours later, the last of the kids have come by. You stand up to retrieve the bowl when you see, in the fish eye lens, something dark at the far periphery.

The black toes of boots just peeking into frame from down the hallway. Boots facing your apartment. Unmoving.

You freeze behind the safety of your front door, unable to move.

The boots retreat, off-camera and out of sight.

You bring the bowl back in once morning comes, too terrified to move.

The boots return that night, still on the periphery of the camera's reach, stockstill as if it's a snapshot and not a live video.

You hover in place and realize that you're crying: there's a sliver of proof, finally. They're just dark boots but they're there, outside in your hallway, and they're for you. You're not crazy and you're not hallucinating.

For the first time in weeks, you sleep through the night.

When you wake in the morning, disoriented by the long uninterrupted sleep and drool dried around your lips, you check the camera feed: black. You double-tap the feed, jig around with the app, but it's still black.

"Goddammit," you mutter. "Piece of shit."

You open the door slowly. Peek your head out, check both ends: empty.

You never see it, you never catch a slip of it, but you feel it. It's a crawling sensation that sits on your skin like a film of fat. Not every day, but enough over the past few weeks that you've begun taking precautions.

You stop posting on social media, change up your walking routes, and you ask a security guard to escort you to your car if it's dark out after work. You keep your curtains closed, blocking out the last dregs of the October sun.

After awhile, you confide in your cousin, and they convince you that you're being haunted. They come over, serious and stocked with supplies, and cleanse your apartment. Perform some rituals you don't quite understand, but appreciate the symbolism of nonetheless.

It doesn't help.

There's nothing concrete you can even show as proof. It's a distant, watchful shadow that leaves no trace. No messages, nothing left behind on your doormat; it is a complete absence, robbing you of any rationale beneath your dread. You recall, distantly and vaguely, the familiarity and shape of being watched.

You ask your cousin's partner to come over and install a doorbell camera. It's connected to your phone, so you can watch it when you're away.

And you do, all the time. You have the live feed open on your phone all day now, even if it's minimized as a small window while you do other things. Laid in bed, watching neighbours pass the fish-eye lens in the long tunnel hallway.

This turns into note-taking.

Apt 510?? - Tall brunette + shorter redhead, G. shep dog Apt 508 - Older lady (cool hair), lives alone, gets dinner delivered Apt 5?? - Dad (grey hair, wears suit) + daughter (12-13?), ex-wife pick-up wknds

You learn the rough shapes of their schedules, their guests and visitors, anything that you can eliminate as unusual later on. Every guest you've seen is either escorted by the resident themselves, or goes and does what you expect them to.

The routine is monotonous and suffocating and soothing. Your friends slowly stop asking you to hang out; you don't like leaving your apartment anymore. Work doesn't care if you switch to remote.

This is unsustainable and you recognize it. You can see plainly that you are now the hant in your own life.

—

Halloween.

In your apartment complex, it's hit-or-miss each year. Some years, you get a handful of kids, and other times, you've run out of candy by 8 o'clock.

This year, you set out candy in a plastic bowl by your apartment door and watch the scattered clumps of kids come running through.

A few hours later, the last of the kids have come by. You stand up to retrieve the bowl when you see, in the fish eye lens, something dark at the far periphery.

The black toes of boots just peeking into frame from down the hallway. Boots facing your apartment. Unmoving.

You freeze behind the safety of your front door, unable to move.

The boots retreat, off-camera and out of sight.

You bring the bowl back in once morning comes, too terrified to move.

The boots return that night, still on the periphery of the camera's reach, stockstill as if it's a snapshot and not a live video.

You hover in place and realize that you're crying: there's a sliver of proof, finally. They're just dark boots but they're there, outside in your hallway, and they're for you. You're not crazy and you're not hallucinating.

For the first time in weeks, you sleep through the night.

When you wake in the morning, disoriented by the long uninterrupted sleep and drool dried around your lips, you check the camera feed: black. You double-tap the feed, jig around with the app, but it's still black.

"Goddammit," you mutter. "Piece of shit."

You open the door slowly. Peek your head out, check both ends: empty.

In the last week, you’ve managed to carve out some sort of existence in the house. There are bookshelves in what you assume is an office, and you’ve found titles there that help occupy your time. Sometimes you even sit on the couch in the living room, eager to escape the same four familiar walls of the bedroom. You come out for meals too, since no one has brought food to your door again, breathing through your mouth as you try to block out their scents.

It doesn’t work.

They’re everywhere.

Their scents, their bodies, even their clothes. You find shirts shoved in couch cushions, jumpers hanging over the back of kitchen chairs or the stair railings. They’re in the living room in the evenings, in the kitchen in the morning, at the table for dinner. One of them is always at breakfast, talking to you even if you don’t respond, keeping you apprised of the day.

“Johnny’s out until the afternoon, chasin’ down a lead. I’ll be here if you need something.”

“Gonna go out for groceries. D’ye need anything?”

“Simon’s on a perimeter walk. Dinnae want to scare ye, but we thought we heard something in the woods last night.”

It does scare you though. The looming threat, the fact that someone wants to kill you, is always in the back of your minding, haunting you like a bad dream. You’re afraid to step foot outside the front door, and whenever you hear them talking in low voices that abruptly stop once you enter the room, you fear the worst. They swear, again and again, that you’re safe, but the worry never goes away, it just lurks in the back of your mind, reminding you why you’re here, why you’re trapped in this house with your mates, a logical, sensible thing turned insane as you balance rational thought with instinct. Your safety is an ever changing thing, crossing lines in your head, trying to do backflips to figure out who you need protecting from.

The outside threat, or them.

Your pills aren’t working.

It’s the fourth morning in a row where you’ve swallowed your usual dosage, one suppressant, one blocker, one painkiller… and felt nothing.

No relief. No numbness.

Nothing, except for the pounding behind your eyes, the nausea crawling up the back of your throat, the never ending muscle cramps.

It’s taking a toll.

“Dove?” Johnny’s voice cuts through the static between your ears, the impossible tug of war you’re playing with yourself. They should be working. Is it because you’re too close to your alphas? Are they being overpowered? Is your body working against them, making you sicker?

Simon says your name, but you ignore him.

Is it even possible? Could their proximity override the effects of your medication? Did the doctor ever say anything about that?

A hand touches your face. It snaps you back to reality and you jerk away, shocked.

Your reaction doesn’t deter Johnny though, whose fingers are brushing across your brow.

“Ye’re warm, sweetheart. Ye feelin’ alright?” You nod, but don’t say anything, tongue heavy like wet cement in your mouth. Johnny looks down at your breakfast plate and frowns. “Ye barely ate.”

“Not hungry.” You croak. You lean away from him. He’s too close, and the urge to crawl into his arms and press your nose to his neck is overwhelming. You think it could help you, he could help you, be a balm, soothe your pain, take it away and-

Stop.

You shoot to your feet. The movement is too swift, too sudden and you sway, your lack of balance automatically moving Johnny forward, his hands on your arms, holding you steady. “Whoa, easy. Ye alright? Do ye need to lay down?”

“I don’t know.” You look away, trying to hide from their gazes, Johnny’s bright and concerned, Simon’s dark and focused. Two walls closing in on you, squeezing you from both sides.

“Maybe ye should go back to bed, try to get some sleep. Or do ye want to lay on the couch?” You shake your head.

“No, no… I’ll go back to bed. I’m probably just tired.” An obvious lie, but you can’t admit to them how badly you’re hurting. Your pride won’t allow it.

“Alright…” Johnny says as his hand slowly moves from just above your elbow to your back. “Let’s go get ye comfortable.” You stiffen, try to pull away but his touch stays firm, grounded at the base of your spine like an anchor, steering you towards the stairs.

You look over your shoulder before taking the first one. You’re not sure why, something pulls you, some sort of gravity, your eyes finding Johnny’s, and then Simon’s behind him. A foul yearning ricochets through your soul, your body, a desire unlike anything you’ve ever felt spreading through your blood.

An infection.

They made you sick.

They’re making you sick, still. Somehow.

Buried deep, the want burns, begs you to lean in, to give up, to give yourself over. To fall into their mercy and their attempts to soothe you, to let them have you. It takes considerable effort to fight it. To gnash your teeth together and refuse to let it out.

You hold your breath all the way up the stairs, letting the fire grow in your lungs until you reach your bedroom, head swimming as you collapse into the mattress. You should tell him to leave, but you can’t. The effort would be too much.

“Jus’ rest.” Johnny murmurs, back of his hand pressing to your forehead again as he brings your blankets up to your chin. “I’ll check on ye in a bit.” You scowl.

“I’m fine. Just tired.” You bite out before rolling onto your side, staring straight ahead at the wall. He sighs as he stands, shakes his head.

“If ye say so.”

You’re full of restless energy when you wake up.

It’s after sunset, the only light in your room coming from the small lamp that’s on your bedside table, hazy yellow light spilling out from behind the shade.

You feel a bit better, more clear headed, but there’s this… unsteadiness under your skin, something volatile and turbulent trying to get out. Your chest feels too tight, your hands are trembling.

Anxiety, you think. Has to be. You’re not immune to it, have plenty of experience with stomach twisting worry, though it’s never felt like this. It’s a new manifestation, a new way of your body worrying, fixating.

The blankets you’re hidden under are too heavy now, constricting, and you sit up, glancing around, looking for something that may have triggered your discomfort.

There’s nothing, except for the empty bedroom.

The bedroom that’s too large, too open.

It’s problem needing to be fixed, and you know what to do.

You pull the mountain of pillows apart, stacking them in misshapen rows around the edge of the bed, effectively creating a wall between you and the door. All the blankets come next, the extra ones, the weighted one, folded and then unfolded, arranged so each hem is ready to be pulled up over your face at any time to hide you from the world. You reorganize too many times, unable to stop yourself from pulling them around the center of the bed, bundling them up into cozy little groups, ready to be laid in, or on, however you want. You rifle through your duffel, looking for more clothes, comfy pants and shirts, their cotton lengths or fleece insides bringing you a tiny bit of peace as you shove them between edges. The bed is smaller now, and you’re enclosed like a castle sitting inside formidable walls. Tucked away. Safe.

But it still doesn’t feel right.

That feeling in your body, the one stretching and straining in your bones, twisting you from the inside out, hasn’t gone away.

You eye the lamp.

It’s too high, you decide. Too tall. It needs to be on the ground, and you place on the carpet at the corner of your bed, just next to the table so the warm yellow glow is somewhat muted.

Better, but still not right.

Maybe it’s the scent. Everything smells like clean laundry, all the blankets and pillows bearing the same lavender, freshly washed smell, the one that you get from the expensive detergent.

Nothing smells like you except for your clothes.

You grab at a blanket and work the edge of it over your wrists, your neck, your face, doing the same over and over with the others. You rub your face on all the pillows, breathing them in as deep as you can, trying to figure out if the contact is making a difference, or if it’s a fruitless endeavor.

It should work.

It should.

You look around. Up. Down. Eyes dragging from each corner to the next, looking for an offender. A reason.

The closet catches your eye.

Maybe it’s too big, you wonder. Maybe the room is too large, too much. Overwhelming.

You crawl off the mattress on hands and knees, shaking hands reaching for the closet door.

It’s dark in here. Nearly empty, but you can fix that. Easily.

You drag everything you’ve assembled on the bed to the floor, pulling it inside the closet piece by piece, lining the walls with pillows, arranging the blankets so they’re perfect for burrowing, snuggling.

Still not completely right, but better. Something is still off, but this is safer, darker. Everything you need.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been buried in the mountain of your own creation when the bedroom door opens.

Could be hours. Could be minutes. Time is a little blurry.

Everything is a little blurry, if you’re honest.

The pounding in your head has returned, a small headache that grew between your temples until it was beating like a drum, forcing your eyes closed, pushing you deeper into your pile of softness. It soothes you somehow, makes things feel not as terrible.

You stay there, curled up, when the door creaks. When there’s a silent pause, and then footsteps, and you don’t move when the closet is opened, the small amount of light at the back of the alpha causing you to wince.

Simon.

Sea salt and leather floods the space, and you realize with dread it’s a part of what you’ve been missing, that itchy, anxious feeling under your skin partially calming as steps closer.

His knees crack as he crouches, lowers himself in front of you, without a word. The silence settles like a tightrope, too dangerous for you to walk, to speak. You watch him inspect you, the closet, the blankets and pillows, watch the calculation unfold in real time.

“This is nice,” he murmurs, running a hand over some of the blankets, “bit small for your nest though.” The horror is immediate. Is that what this is? Is that what you’ve done? It has all the markings of nesting, all the telltale signs, but for some reason, you can't see it. You've nested before, but it's never felt like this. 

No. You’re not nesting. You just needed to get comfortable. The room was too big, too open to them.

“It’s not a nest.” You growl, instinctively pulling a blanket up to your neck. “I was just… I needed to get out of bed.” He cocks his head.

“It’s not? Sure looks like one to me.” Dismay burns in your blood, and your scent turns sour. Distressed. “It’s okay,” he soothes immediately, “you did good, dove. It’s a good nest.” He’s speaking to your biology, your hindbrain, and your omega preens, the instinct inside of you lighting up at the praise. It’s like a knife in your heart, this betrayal of your sense, and the horror only grows as you start to purr, the light vibration coming from beneath your ribs earning you a small smile from your alpha.

Stop.

Stopstopstopstop please stop-

The purring gets louder. Your stomach tosses, bile burning in the back of your throat, but you can’t stop it. You’re paralyzed, immobile, two factions fighting for control, and you can’t do anything but lay there as his hand comes to rest on your ankle, thumb pressing in, down, working against you in a slow circle. “Such a good omega.”

That snaps you out of it.

The praising of your designation is always something that has disgusted you. It’s dehumanizing, reduces you to a role, a biological factor and nothing more. An omega is the same as any omega, when it comes down to it. All driven by need, by instinct, preening and purring and desperate for knots and bites. Animals down to their bones. 

You won't let that become who you are. You can't. 

You kick his hand away and scoot back, deeper into the corner. The purring and pride has vanished, and in its place is a black rooted, snarled mess of fear and anger and pain. There’s a moment where you think he’s going to tighten his grip and hold on, but it doesn’t last. He stands instead, looks down as he towers over you.

“Dinner’s ready.” You shake your head.

“I’m not hungry.” It’s not true. You woke up with an appetite, and even with this situation, this confusion, the anxiety, the pain, everything, it’s still there.

“You need to eat.” You’re about to refuse again, but his eyes narrow. “Do you need me to bring you downstairs myself?” He will, you know it. You don’t doubt he will drag you out of this closet and down the stairs.

“N-no.” You hate the stammer, the proof in it. How it exposes you, shows how scared you are, how unsure. How this entire situation has changed you, took your life and dumped it upside down.

“C’mon then.” He extends his hand, and the part of you that’s growing out of control tries to take it. Your arm twitches, moves like it’s being played by a puppeteer. It’s only once your fingertips almost brush his that you yank back with a scowl. He chuckles. “Suit yourself.” He’s not leaving, not until you’re out of the closet, and you know that. He could force you, bark at you, drag you out. He’s got you pinned to the ropes, no choice but to do as he says, so you reluctantly crawl forward on your hands and knees, unsteady as you start to stand from being curled up all day.

You give the closet one last look before you close the bedroom door, its dark mouth beckoning you, waiting patiently.

in some ways, it all feels like a bad dream. the memories of what you've done play on a loop in your mind, a private screening of a horror movie starring you as the crazed killer, blurring a little more with each replay. you're no idiot, you've seen macbeth before, it almost feels like an inevitability that your own thoughts will drive you slowly insane.

if the man- simon- was still here, you could distract yourself. make your mind too busy to think about how it felt when the gun kicked in your hand, the sounds of bodies hitting the floor, the ringing in your ears as the shot rang out in your hallway. but instead you're alone, with only your own mind to keep you company.

true to his word, simon cleaned up the place. there's no blood to be found, no dislodged photos, and the bullet holes have been located and patched with plaster sometime in the middle of the night. there's no note waiting for you, but you know already where he's gone- off to finish the 'job' he keeps talking about. he'll be back, it's a sureity- but there's no telling when.

logically, you know you have to keep busy. it's the only thing you've found aside from drinking yourself into oblivion that helps stave off the bad thoughts and sad memories- and you can't afford to drink right now. that fat wad of cash was put straight to the mortgage, although most of it was probably put towards interest. shit, you hope simon comes home from this job with some money, all you have left in your pantry is a paltry amount of bisquick and various ingredients that you don't have the energy or willpower to combine into a real meal.

cleaning is the only thing to do around the house when you're alone and broke, so that's exactly what you do. it only takes you a day to do your regular cleaning routine throughout the entire house, but when simon doesn't come back that night- or even the following morning- you decide to do an even deeper cleaning to keep yourself sane.

your plan, however well-intentioned, is a total failure. snippets of the past play like an unwelcome movie reel in your mind, undeterred by the way you're cleaning the tile in the bathroom with an old toothbrush. every memory feels like a frozen icepick being jammed up through your belly, stabbing your heart and lungs along with it- and the pain of it is enough to leave you sick and breathless as you listlessly wander through the house, rag in hand.

"sweetpea?" you can practically hear your dad's voice echoing in your mind as you scrub, his confusion and fear apparent in his voice. in your mind's eye you hurry down the stairs and into his room, where he'd stared at you from his bed, eyes wide and disbelieving.

"have you seen my daughter?" he'd asked, and even on your knees in the bathroom, you have to bite your life to stop it from shaking.

"i'm sorry, she just stepped out. can i do anything for you?" you'd asked, voice wobbling with the tears you'd so valiantly held back. dad just shook his head silently, rolling over in bed, his back towards you, clearly uninterested in you.

it was the first time he'd forgotten who you were. it wouldn't be the last, or even the most painful- but you remember it as if it were yesterday, the way you'd hovered in the doorway, watching his silhouette blur as your eyes filled with tears that you wouldn't allow to fall until you'd closed the bedroom door behind you.

you tell yourself that your sniffling has to do with the ajax you're scrubbing into the grout, that your watery eyes are just from the chemicals and poor ventilation- but you know you're just lying to yourself. still, as the floors slowly get cleaned and the sting in your knees and eyes gets stronger and stronger, it helps you to focus on the pain so your mind doesn't wander off to dark corners again.

you think you're safe from your own thoughts until you start washing the walls, taking the photos down so you can run a rag over the aged wallpaper. the eyes of the long dead, very recently dead, and few months passed cling to your face uncomfortably like cling wrap over your mouth and nose, suffocating and disorienting. when you finish, you don't hang the photos back up, opting instead to leave them in a pile on the side table, all face-down as you fail to fight off further memories.

stepping out of your bedroom in the middle of the night for a glass of water, only to find dad, sitting at the kitchen table back in the old house, head in his hands, openly weeping. the thick carpet hid your footsteps, but as soon as your feet hit linoleum, the sound of bare feet on plastic startled him into looking up.

"dad?"

"sweetpea, i-" there were tears on his face, streaking his cheeks and catching in the stubble along his jaw. his mouth opened and closed, like the words just wouldn't come out, lower lip quivering as he sniffled, breaths shaking and rattling in and out. his eyes were wide- horrified, the most afraid and distraught you've ever seen him in your life.

it was scary, seeing your normally put-together, confident, brave father shaking and crying like that. you knew something was horribly, irreparably wrong, that nobody could fix it- not if he was sniffling and weeping like this.

he held his arms out for you to hold him, and to this day you hate yourself for hesitating, for being afraid of what it meant. you stood there, staring at him and that desperate, despondent, grief-stricken look on his face, watching him slowly curl in on himself as you stood there, stuck in place.

here he was- your rock, your pillar, the man who kept you safe from everything bad and terrible- having a complete breakdown. even in the moment, you knew things would never be the same after seeing him like that. no longer was he the seemingly perfect, unflappable, solid rock, the perfect patriarch with no weaknesses- practically a god in your childish mind.

from that point on, your dad was just a man, trying his best.

"please." he'd barely whispered. "please, sweetpea."

he sounded ruined. looked it, too, enough that it compelled your little feet forward, allowing him to swallow you up in the biggest, tightest hug he could without crushing you. you were so little then, and he was so big, still clinging to you like a drowning man might try to hold on to a buoy as a last-ditch attempt to keep from going under permanently.

"your mama's gone." he whispered against your hair, voice watery and weak. "she's gone, honey. i can't fix it. i don't know what to do."

the memory knocks you back to your knees, and you sob on the floor, next to a bare wall covered in bright little squares and ovals, the wallpaper having been sun bleached around where the framed photographs had been.

~

it takes an hour to stop crying and start reorganizing the pantry.

it's like all the grief you'd dammed up, tucked away and tried to forget has wriggled its way to the forefront of your mind, drowning you from the inside out, making you sluggish and weak. it's hard to concentrate on moving the older cans of beans to the front of the cabinets, or dusting the shelf liners, or checking expiration dates when you keep getting hit over and over again by waves of sadness that threaten to pull you under the tide.

"look, do whatever you want. doesn't matter to me if you put him in a home or hire a nurse or throw him in a fucking ditch- i've got enough goddamn problems of my own. i'm not handling this one." cam's voice said through the phone as you stared a hole through the worn-down kitchen floor in your old apartment. "figure it out or don't, i don't give a shit."

the memories continue to wash over you like a bitterly cold tide as you scrub out the sink. it's a pit you're in, one that's slowly caving in on all sides, threatening to crush you from every direction. you can't see a way out, can't seem to fight against the thoughts and images that bubble up unbidden, pulling your concentration away from cream of mushroom soup that expired a year ago and forcing you to confront a pain you'd thought you'd buried.

the sound of coughing through the closed bedroom door. it had been persistent at that point- but the doctor said he wasn't sick sick. it was just a side affect of his acid reflux, apparently. still- it sounded horrible, even muffled through the door.

"you good?" you called out from where you were in the kitchen, somewhat absent-mindedly. you already knew he wouldn't respond- it was before eight a.m., he wasn't typically very verbal until after he had breakfast at nine. if at all.

ten minutes later he stopped coughing. fifteen minutes after that, when you went to wake him for breakfast, you found him dead.

that one feels like a knife to the brain, sending you sinking to your knees. fuck the cleaning- you can't keep running anymore, can't keep distracting yourself with the dangerous man who moved into your guest room, can't drink the pain away- can't use any of your usual techniques to stave off the flood of agony that you've kept dammed up for so long.

the sobs roll through you like thunder, wringing tears from the core of you, making your ribs ache and lungs burn as you struggle to breathe through it. grief truly feels like drowning, that awful inescapable inability to take a ragged lungful of air without the fear of choking to death on it. all you can do is crawl across the kitchen on your hands and knees, slowly traversing to your bedroom as you brace for another wave.

"cam!" a stranger's voice called out on the ground floor, startling you damn near to death. it was bad enough having someone else barge into your home without permission, but you'd been in ghost's room,having mustered up the courage to go snooping around and looking for a pair of panties you would have sworn he'd swiped right from the hamper. for a half second you'd thought he'd come home, essentially busting you for prying where you knew in the marrow of your bones you shouldn't have been.

"get the fuck out here cam, i'm done playing games with you, you little shit!" a new voice barked, and your mind immediately decides you're in some serious fucking danger.

they're not going to believe you don't know where cam is, they're going to hurt you to try to find out, they're going to hate the truth when they force it out of you, a voice in your head whispered. there's a handgun just laying on one of your grandmother's doilies, and you grab it with shaking hands.

slowly, you opened the door, only to see a large man with a shotgun reaching the top of the stairs. you can remember almost in slow motion the moment that you knew he saw you. his eyes went wide with surprise, mouth dropping open, presumably to call for his companion.

panic is how you explain what happened next. it was panic that made you forget you had a gun, made you decide instead to rush him, shoving the barrel of his gun away as you used your weight to shove him over the railing, sending him crashing to the ground. panic is what made you stare at his unmoving body until his partner screamed at you and pulled you out of your stupor. panic is what made you swing the gun up and start firing at the partner until he stopped moving.

but when you slowly went down the stairs, gun still drawn- albeit shaking in your hands- and looking over the bodies you'd made? when you'd grabbed them by the ankles and drug them out back? when you'd put an extra bullet in each of their heads just to be safe?

that deliberate.

that was you.

you did that. and there's no taking back the calculated way you'd shut down your emotions for a bit so you could clean up after yourself, doing your best to cover up what you'd done. you can scrub and scrub and scrub, lady macbeth, but you know your sins.

so you count them, all of them, begging god or whoever else is listening for mercy and forgiveness as you crawl into bed and pull your covers over your head. starting at all the times you were late getting dad breakfast and working your way to allowing the man who killed your brother to finger you on the front porch. the demons in your head come out to play, jabbing you with their pitchforks and pen knives as all of your shame and guilt continues to flow freely through you. you've been making so many mistakes lately, allowing your grief and loneliness to transform you into someone completely different than who you are.

a voice in your head begins to whisper-

maybe you don't really love simon. maybe it's all just in your head. maybe you're just lonely broken, and he's taking advantage.

it plays on a loop, over and over, a slight distraction from your other memories as you focus on every interaction with simon, every look, every touch, every conversation. it's hard to say if he's actually good for you, or if he's pushing you into a delusion that allows him to easily take what he wants from you.

he'd showed you how easy it is to kill, and now you're a killer. that has to be his influence, right?

you analyze what you know about simon to the point of exhaustion, wearing yourself down mentally to tire you enough for sleep.

it's hard to say how long you rot in bed, only getting up to use the bathroom before flopping back down in your nest of pillows and blankets. the buzzing in your head is so overwhelming that you don't hear the front door open, let alone the slow, heavy footsteps down the hallway.

it's not even until you feel the mattress dip behind you that you even know someone's there.

"oh, mama. i left too soon, didn't i?" simon's crooning voice cuts through the fog like the lantern of a lighthouse. "had too much time to think and made yourself sick, eh?"

"you're home." you croak, throat dry. when was the last time you had water? or food? it's hard to remember. his presence feels like a light in the dark, helping you realize the state in. you're hungry, sweaty, and your throat is dry to the point of pain. how did you not notice it getting so bad?

"i am." he says simply. "job's done."

"oh." you know what that means- and what expectations he has.

"was gonna fuck you nasty oll over the bloody house t'celebrate, but i think that's not wot either of us needs right now, hm?" that's when you notice it- a bandage wrapped around his middle, a dark red stain seeping through it- and it snaps you out of your malaise like having cold water dumped on you.

"you're hurt!" you sit up quick, and simon just waves his hand in front of his nose.

"and you stink, love. get your arse in the shower while i change the sheets and my bandages." much as it pains you to admit, he's right. you catch a waft of yourself and realize not only are you going to need to shower, but to change the sheets as well.

"but-"

"don't argue. off you pop." he instructs, throwing your blanket off of you. it wafts the ripe, spicy smell of body odor over both of you, and he coughs. melodramatic, you think to yourself.

"you're sure i can't help?" you ask, eyeing his bandage warily.

"shower." he orders, not unkindly. "then make us somethin' t'eat."

every sideways thought you'd had about your relationship and attraction to simon evaporates completely in the light of his return. you have a job to do again, tasks to distract you from your internal conflict. with him right in front of you, your brain stops spinning in circles, focused on accomplishing the tasks set before you. it seems that, like a shark, if you stop moving, you'll die-

so you move.

first to the shower- where you thoroughly wash yourself until the hot water is nearly all gone, scrubbing the soapy washcloth with a ferocity that would remove rust from an old truck bumper- then to the kitchen to make some instant mashed potatoes and meatballs. easy and quick enough to make, while still immensely filling.

simon joins you just as you begin plating, wearing fresh clothes with no visible blood or mud on them.

"smells good, mama. m'starvin'." he says, pressing himself against your back and nuzzling a bit at your neck, inhaling audibly and exhaling on a sigh. "shampoo smells nice. missed that."

the way his voice rumbles, low and deep and right in your ear, gives you a little shiver down your spine. if he felt it, he says nothing- and lets you go with a pat to your hip, dropping down in his seat and loudly digging into his plate. something about the sight of this comically large man eating up your cooking like a starving dog settles something inside of you, quelling the storm that's been raging in your head for god-knows-how-long. he was right, you did overthink yourself to illness, and it seems like simon's presence is the only cure.

your eyes drop to his side, fresh bandages hidden under a clean shirt.

"are you okay?" you ask as you pick up your fork, gesturing towards where his wound is.

"s'just grazed is oll. need a few days t'take it easy and not rip out my stitches, but it won't kill me. no need t'fuss." he says around a mouthful of food. he stops to swallow. "and you?"

ah, yeah, suppose there's no hiding how bad you've been lately, what with the pitiful state he found you in, nestled in your cocoon of blankets and stink.

"i don't know." you say honestly, and he hums in response. "i think i- i've changed-"

"course you have. it's what people do when shit goes bad. be mental if you hadn't." he points his fork at your still-full plate. "eat. you can't fix none of it, no use starvin' over it."

he just makes it sound so simple, like this is the sort of thing that should be easy to move on from. the fork feels heavy in your hand as you eat, small bites over a longer period than normal. simon's helped himself to seconds and polished them off long before you ever finish, but you see him watching you carefully even as he wolfs down his meal and polishes off any hope of leftovers.

his foot hooks behind yours as he sits back to watch you peck at the rest of your dinner.

"used t'be that death was everywhere. not just the old- young people, children, babies. came from oll sorts o'things, war, disease, famine, or just an ill-timed kick from a mule. just a part o'life, innit? brigands would sooner kill you outright than deal with witnesses to their doin's. sometimes food that was just a bit off would take out a while family- or maybe a winter that was a bit colder than usual. i once saw a man die fallin' off his cart and onto a rock. people died oll the time, for no reason at oll. or stupid ones.

this world is still a hard place, sure, but it's grown softer over the years. cleaner deaths. longer lives. healthier babies. osha. o'course a soft thing like you, born into this world, isn't used to death like i am- but it's still the same now as it was then. oll just a part of nature, innit? you did what needed done and paid the price for your freedom. thassoll. no need t'wring your hands about it.

men like that- if it weren't you puttin' 'em down, someone else would've. might've been your brother's wife, or someone she'd hired. or another person they tracked. or their boss. or the police. or even the bloody state. it's just the way of it. don't get your knickers in a twist over a couple dead bellends- police bloody wouldn't."

he doesn't seem to even assume you killed them out of some form of self defense- and what's more, he doesn't seem to care. it feels stupid to be shocked by that, if you're honest. this is the man who killed cam and then helped you dispose of two bodies without hesitation. of course he doesn't care.

"i- i just-" you swallow and put your fork down, trying to find the right words. "i'm not used to being- like that. how i had to be. i hated it- hate myself for being that way."

"what way?" he says, as if he isn't currently the living, breathing incarnation of the very sensation you're trying to describe.

"cold." you settle on. "it was just- handling business. i- i even- i mean, when i took them out back. what i did. in the head."

you can't make yourself say it, and his responding grin sends a chill down your spine. a flashbang of a memory hits you; figures laid out against the snow in the dim evening light, muzzle flashes briefly illuminating their faces a milisecond before the bodies jerk and dark liquid pools behind their skulls, night-black against the blueish snow.

"i saw. i was proud." his foot rubs up and down the back of your ankle affectionately. "still am. my soft girl, takin' care o'business f'me while i'm away. didn't expect that from you- but i like it oll the same."

it soothes your frayed nerves, but only a little. your appetite is still shot, and you can feel the worry creeping back into the corners of your mind.

"what if more people come?" you ask nervously. simon shrugs, unbothered.

"we'll handle it." he says simply, as if talking about shoveling the snow from the driveway and not taking human lives.

"it's really that easy?" you ask, bewildered, and his grin softens.

"freedom is leased, not owned, mama. gotta keep payin' for it, over and over- and i will. f'both of us." he smirks, looking deeply pleased. "coz it's me n'you forever, innit?"

something about the way he's looking at you like a prize he's won paired with his declaration of forever opens something in you, like popping the cork from a barrel and letting the wine drain free.

it doesn't even matter to you if he's taking advantage of you somehow, or if he's turning you into someone else. simon's presence- his guidance- makes you feel whole again. when he's around, you're a person, not a mass of feelings all writhing against one another like a pit of eels. when he's home, you're someone who's capable, smart, and can handle tough jobs- like being lookout when bodies are being disposed of.

"yeah." you breathe, feeling lighter. it really feels like it's going to be okay somehow. simon was right, there is no fixing what's already happened, you just have to keep going and try to do better- and what's more, the burden of consequence won't land on you alone. simon will help you through whatever's next. forever.

"finish that up. you'll need your strength f'when my stitches oll heal up." he teases with a glint in his eye, chuckling to himself as he stands to take his place at the sink.

heh, heh, heh.

you watch simon wash the dishes as you slowly peck at your dinner. broad shoulders work under a tight black t-shirt, stretching the fabric taut as he moves. he's really quite the specimen- not just tall but big, with arms so large you can see the little cuts he had to make on the inside of his sleeves just to get them over his biceps.

you're barely cleared your plate before simon sweeps it away, setting it in the sink and silently urging you to your feet, big hands pulling at your arms until you're standing and in his arms, his broad chest pressed against your back.

"let's go to bed, yeah? need t'just hold my girl for a bit. been away too long." he murmurs against your temple, and you nod silently, ecstatic to feel his body heat leech through your shirt as he holds you close. he doesn't let you go so you can walk to the bedroom- instead opting to keep your back pressed to his chest tightly as he marches you forward, practically bullying you into bed, positioning you exactly how he wants before he crawls onto the mattress behind you.

a thick thigh shoves its way between your legs and a strong forearm hooks around your waist, broad body plastered up against yours with a deep and contented sigh- the kind an old dog makes while laying in a sunbeam after a good long walk.

"tomorrow mornin' you're gonna make me pancakes. naked, with my cum leakin' from your cunt." he whispers in your ear, rocking his hips forward ever so slightly. "s'oll i've been dreamin' of, love. you n'me, left alone at last t'do as we please."

"do you think we'll really get that?" you whisper back. "does 'happily ever after' really exist?"

he aspirates a laugh against your neck.

"fuck no." he chuckles in the dark. "but it don't mean we can't have somethin' nice between the shitshows, eh?"

it's a blend of realistic and hopeful that you've never experienced before. if what little he's told you about himself is anywhere near true, simon's lived a entirely un-sheltered life. if anyone knows the ways of the world and navigating it, it's probably him.

"true." you murmur, shifting slightly to burrow a little deeper into your pillow. you're not tired, per se, but there's something about the way simon's presence makes you relax that makes sleep seem inevitable. it's as if his proximity is the permission your body needs to release the tension that's been plaguing you this entire time. and that loosening of tension feels incredible.

the two of you lay there together, legs entwined, bodies warming fresh sheets, your ass pressed to his hips, your breathing growing slower as sleep creeps up on you, pulling your mind into unconsciousness right as simon murmurs something so lowly against your shoulder that you almost miss it.

You’ve unpacked the entire duffel, taken stock of everything that Johnny grabbed from your apartment, turned the bag inside out, and you still can’t find it.

You swore, you swore, you had it with you when you left. You thought maybe you shoved it in one of the pockets when you got on the plane, but you honestly can’t remember.

You’ve been traveling for days, and everything is a bit fuzzy.

But you know you had it.

Which means…

You eye the bedroom door. You haven’t surfaced from this room, the one Johnny says is yours, all day. You’re somewhere between hiding and avoiding, unsure which one you’re leaning more towards.

It’s not like it’s a hardship. This is a nice place. The room you’re in is huge, and it has its own bathroom. Cream colored walls and gauzy floor to ceiling curtains, it’s stocked with linens, towels, toiletries, anything you would need. The king sized bed is lined with the softest pillows imaginable, and there’s every kind of blanket, from weighted to wool. It feels… homey.

The entire house does. It’s not rundown with peeling wallpaper and puke green bathroom tile like the first place. It’s not small, or decrepit, or heavily shuttered. It’s modern, bright, and warm. It feels less like a safe house, and more like a home.

“Do ye like it?” Johnny asked as he finished giving you the tour, and you had stared at him in confusion.

“I thought safe houses were supposed to be… sketchy.”

“Aye, they are. But this one is special. Better for a long term stay.”

He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t push, eager to create some distance, get away, try to clear the war zone that is now your mind. Two sides pushing and pulling, rationality and biology, instinct and anger, clashing again and again, trying to drown the other out. The omega inside of you is screaming, crying, desperate to claw her way out and drag you out the door and down the hall, put you right into their laps.

These men are dangerous, your relation to them might get you killed, yet your instinct only knows them as something holy, something safe. Protectors. Alphas. Mates.

It’s torture, being here.

And worse… you think it’s making you sicker.

Your suppressants and blockers are working overtime, overloading your system, trying to compensate for the distance between you and your mates, the one that has been so drastically shortened. There’s a new hollow feeling in your chest, one that aches, it’s emptiness like a wound that won’t heal. A scrape that won’t scab.

A craving that can never be satisfied.

It’s a complication you were hoping to google, with your phone.

That you can’t find.

You take a deep breath. You know you have to face them, see them, you know you can’t hide up here forever. You have to live, or at least try to, during this entire… situation.

And in order to do that-

you need your phone.

Simon is in the living room when you come down the stairs. He’s alone on the couch, looking down at his phone, and you try not to react to the way he’s sitting, thighs spread wide, sweatpants and sweatshirt clinging to his bulk. He looks relaxed, so at odds with the intensity you’re used to, the laser focus that never lets up.

It scrambles your brain for a moment. Basal need wins out and the room turns a little hazy, a little blurred on the edges, too colorful and loud, and you swallow against a rising tide of conflict, trying to keep your head above water, trying to maintain some sense.

You hear your name. He’s standing a pace away from you. So close his scent invades your senses, and you unconsciously breathe it in, trying to soak up the sea salt and leather just like a greedy omega would. “What is it?”

Stop.

What are you doing?

“Um, I…” You start breathing with your mouth to block him out. “I’m looking for my phone?” It’s not supposed to be a question. It’s supposed to be a demand, but it slips weakly from your tongue. You focus on a piece of lint in the middle of his chest, purposefully avoiding his eyes.

“I have it…” he says slowly, stepping back. He motions to the couch. “Sit.”

“No, I’m fine. I’m just…”

“Sit.” It’s not a bark, not quite. Just teetering on the edge, just enough for you to clench your jaw as you do what he says.

You practically sink into the couch. It’s oversized, overstuffed, too soft. It’s the kind of couch you could spend all day in when it’s rainy, reading or watching a movie. The entire living room is the same. There’s a large tv over the fireplace, and a smaller couch perpendicular to the one you’re on the now. It’s a big room, but somehow still cozy. It has that same homey, lived in feeling as the rest of the house.

“I have your phone.” He says, sitting a few cushions away from you, turned entirely in your direction. You feel warm under his attention, like you’re basking in the sun. It’s unbearable.

“Okay.” You wait, expecting more. Expecting him to say, I’ll go get it, or be right back.

He says none of those things.

“You’ll get it back once this is over and dealt with.” Your mouth drops open.

“What? No. I need my phone.” This feels very nonnegotiable to you. Very. But he only shakes his head.

“Your phone is not secure. It doesn’t take much for someone else to have complete access to it, see through the camera, know where you are. It’s a danger to you, to us, right now.” Your pulse pounds between your ears. “You can have it back as soon as we’ve sorted this mess and eliminated the threat.”

“B-but… my… I have to call work. And my friends, I have to tell my friends-”

“I already called the diner, and you can text, call, whatever you need to do from our phones.” You think of Sarah and Alex, the only two people you really have. You went no contact with your family years ago, and outside of a few casual friends from the diner, Sarah and Alex made up your entire social circle. Were they wondering where you were? Were they worried?

“No. No, you can’t just… you can’t just take my phone.” His jaw flexes, and some of that softness you noticed ebbs away.

“I can. I am. It’s for your safety.”

You hate him.

He abandoned you. He rejected you. He humiliated you.

You shoot to your feet. His scent spikes, worn leather turning sun kissed, soothing. You grit your teeth.

“I want it back.” You hiss, a wildfire of anger flooding you like molten lava.

“No.” He stands to face you. Relaxed. Open palmed. At ease while you’re practically vibrating with rage, the feeling so overwhelming that you can feel it in the tips of your fingers.

“Yes.”

“‘m not doin’ this with you.” You expect him to bark. To give you an order, but instead, he does something entirely different.

He moves.

It happens so fast, too fast for your brain to understand, too fast for the rational side of you to step out of the way.

Instead, his palm lands on the nape of your neck and it’s big, warm, secure.

Safe. Your instincts scream. Mate.

You lock up. Once you’re finally caught up, processed, you get caught between trying to take a step back and turning stiff as a board, frozen in his grip.

“Easy,” he rumbles, the tone of his voice turning into something a shade close to gentle, something you didn’t know existed. And just like that, just one simple word, blunts the sharp edge of your anger.

But it doesn’t stop there.

He makes a sound low in his chest, a warm, coaxing thrum that your omega knows before you do.

Subharmonics.

It almost brings you to your knees.

“Enough now,” he murmurs, guiding you in closer, “We’re not your enemy, dove.”

Alpha.

You’re slipping away, losing the fight to your hindbrain, to who you are underneath it all.

He moves backwards, taking you with him, one step at a time, guiding you, urging you to move with him without forcing it.

You put your hands up, hold them out like you mean to push him away.

No, that is what you mean.

You mean to push him away, tell him not to touch you, not to talk to you, not to… alpha you… but his body is warm under your palms and his subharmonic rumble is like a siren’s song, sinking into your bones and turning you to mush.

“Don’t.” You whisper. It’s more for yourself than it is for him.

Don’t do this, don’t be weak, don’t give in.

Your protest doesn’t stop him, doesn’t prevent him from pulling you inward, closer, close enough you’re overwhelmed by him, the blockers and suppressants doing nothing to drown him out, sea salt and tobacco, sun warmed leather invading your senses. Even holding your breath, he’s there,

“No.” You croak, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t acknowledge your protest. His arms are rebar as they come around you, force you into his chest.

“Settle,” the pressure increases, around your body, in your head, the careful construction of your resistance, your anger, starting to disintegrate right before your very eyes.

It’s not fair.

“You don’t need to fight us,” he continues, “we’re jus’ trying to protect you.”

“I don’t want this.” You choke out. “I don’t want to be here, I want to go home.” Home, home, home. You’re stuck on it, stuck on trying to get back to a shit hole apartment in a shit hole town.

“That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is keeping you safe.” Nothing about this is safe. Being trapped in a house with mates who rejected you isn’t safe, it’s hell.

Simon’s stopped trying to soothe you now, pheromones and subharmonics dialed down to a low hum, something still present, but not as strong.

The floorboards creak at your back and you stiffen in response, turning to find Johnny watching you and Simon from the edge of the room.

He doesn’t look upset, or jealous, or anything you’d expect. Only mildly concerned, brows barely creased in the middle.

“Everythin’ alright?” You shake your head, but Simon nods.

“She was gettin’ a bit worked up.” You stare at him, incredulous. Worked up? Like you’re some hysterical omega who can’t control herself.

“Ah. We cannae have that.” Simon’s grip slackens, and you take the opportunity to step away, trying to separate yourself.

“I wanted, I want my phone.” Johnny nods. It’s sympathetic, and understanding, and you hate it. Like you hate him. Like you hate them both.

“Sorry dove. It’s not s-”

“Safe.” You finish for him bitterly. “Yeah I heard.” You pull all your resolve together and turn away, aimed at the stairs, seeking your escape.

Neither of them stop you. There are no protests, not as you climb back up to the second floor and run down the hallway, and not as you slam your door like a petulant child.

It’s only once you’re curled up under a heap of blankets that you finally let go, and bury your face in a pillow with a sob.

It’s late when the knock comes.

“Dove?” It’s Johnny, his voice soft and smooth on the other side of your door, patiently waiting. It wakes you up, something inside you alerting to his presence, even in your sleep.

You don’t answer. He sighs.

“Ye didnae come down for dinner, an’ we dinnae want ye to be hungry.” You drag the covers up over your head, sitting in silence until he breaks it. “I brought ye some food, I’ll just leave it outside yer door. Try to eat somethin’, please.” There’s a pinch in your heart, a chord struck. Alphas are hardwired to care for their omegas. Ensuring you’re eating is not out of the ordinary, and you wonder if they hadn’t rejected you, hadn’t left you, it would be different, you would enjoy Johnny bringing you food.

But you can’t. Even though your hindbrain screams and tries to drag you towards the door to him, you dig in your heels and resist with all you have.

He knocks again.

You meet it with silence.