♡

Home.

Your boots click with every step. They're a real find, hand-stitched genuine leather in a muted red. Someone else owned these a long time ago. Stiff from disuse when you found them, but worn in enough to tug on comfortably, to walk into town for some dancing. To run in, if you had to.

But tonight you don't have to.

Joel didn't come with you. He does, sometimes, but dancing isn't really his thing. His knee bothers him more days than not, and he's hell-bent on avoiding being too likable so he doesn't go and get himself voted onto the town council. God forbid he be appreciated for everything he does around Jackson.

But you don't mind. He'll dance with you in the living room if you ask.

He'll crawl on his hands and knees through fire if you ask.

Devotion is rooted deep in him. It wraps thick vines around his battered heart and guides his steady hands, always looking for the next way to take care of you. Of the people he loves. The dying world is a hard place for a man like him -- he can't fix everything. Some days you know he feels like he can't damn near fix anything.

But he does more than enough for you. And you try your hardest to take care of him in return.

Joel is a dream you've had your whole life. A home to return to at the end of every night, someone you love on the other side of the threshold. Safety, comfort, belonging. Things you thought were long gone for so many years, ripped away just like everything else at the end of the world.

You and your boots stroll the rest of the way through town, around the corner and down your street. The summer breeze makes the familiar wind chimes on your porch sing, their sweet song reaching you and quickening your step until the house comes into view.

Home, home, home.

The outside light is on, but the chair out front is empty. On a night like this you'd expect to find Joel with his guitar, often with Ellie at his side. Sometimes he just sits, takes it all in. Rest remains shiny and new, a daunting and unfamiliar state of living.

But he's not on the porch tonight.

His absence doesn't worry you.

And what a thing that is -- not worrying. It's a muscle you forgot you could relax. Maybe not totally, never again totally, but this life you've found yourself in is good.

Joel is good.

You thud up the stairs and through the door he's left unlocked for you. There's hardly reason to lock doors in a place like Jackson, but some habits are hard to break, so you latch it behind you.

The lights are off, but you hear humming upstairs. He's working on something, probably, maybe folding laundry. You were at ease before, but now everything in you really relaxes, slots back into place. You just stand in front of the door for a moment, overcome with gratitude.

There's nothing special about today. But after so many years of waiting for death, of sometimes wanting it, having a life you want to fight for and hold onto with both hands is nothing short of a miracle.

"That you?" Joel calls from upstairs. His drawl sets you alight, a tether that brings you back to reality. The gratitude remains, but it simmers.

"Sure is," you reply. "I need your help with my boots."

"I'm comin'. Just gotta --" There's a thud above you. "Shit. Gimme a second, sweetheart."

You can wait. Joel is worth every second.

The kitchen still smells like the herbs you used for dinner hours ago before you went dancing. Joel seems to have done the dishes and put everything away. You pour yourself a glass of water from the faucet -- another novelty of this life you'll never get used to. Fresh water from pipes! You just about fainted when Tommy told you Jackson had running water when you arrived.

That's one of the positives about living past the end of the world, you suppose. The smallest things are marvels. Flicking on a light switch and knowing it'll work, storing the elk Ellie shot over the winter in a freezer, sleeping in a bed with clean sheets. Waking up every day with a little less fear than before, a warm, breathing, beloved person next to you.

You hop up on the counter and wait for said beloved. You're careful not to scuff the cabinets with your heels.

Joel's footsteps can be heard above you, the gentle creaks of the house as he moves around and eventually makes his way down the stairs.

"Alright," he sighs, finally coming into view. "Hey, there."

He's got his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and he's wiping his hands on a rag. It's only been a few hours since you saw him last, but even so, it's the last piece of the puzzle. Now you're home.

"Did you get bested by the laundry?' you ask him. "Sounded like you were fightin' a battle up there."

He scowls. "Was oilin' laces on your boots," he says. "Knocked over the tallow pan. Cleaned it up, though."

You tilt your head slightly, and he presses a kiss to your cheek as he rounds the kitchen island, his beard lightly rubbing against your skin. He smells like fresh wood and the soap you make for your bathroom.

"I was going to do that tomorrow," you remind him. You told him so just this morning. This is his way -- he's always clearing the path for you. Making sure you have everything you need.

Joel shrugs. "I had time." He stands in front of you and you spread your knees to make room for him. He taps the outside of one knee and you extend your leg. "Y'always need help with these damn things," he says. "Ain't they hurtin' you?"

You shake your head, cheek pressing into your shoulder as you lean back on your hands and admire him. If they were, you're sure he'd find a way to stop it. Joel is in the business of keeping you safe, even if it's from something as small as shoes rubbing the wrong way.

"Nah," you say. "They're comfortable. The angle is just weird. But they're cute, right?"

Joel chuckles as you wiggle your still-booted leg, heel tipping forward and back like you're line dancing in midair.

"Mighty cute," Joel echoes.

He slides his hands up under your jeans until he finds the edge of your boot. His fingers curl around the top of your calf, warm and gentle, and his other hand tugs the heel.

These boots are easy to get on, but hell to get off by yourself. Maybe it's by design. A deep nudge by someone long-dead to find hands gentle enough to help you. Loving enough to welcome you home, to pull off your shoes with care and keep you safe. Maybe you found them for this moment right here.

"Did you have fun?" he asks.

"I did," you tell him. "The band played way too much Dave Matthews, though."

Together you tug in opposite directions and the boot comes off smoothly. Joel sets it gently on the floor and scoffs.

"Dave Matthews?" he says. "Who the hell requested that?"

"Some kids," you say. "Think they found a tape, or somethin.' Must be going through a phase."

"Hell of a phase," he mutters. "Christ."

You tell him more about it as Joel tugs off your other boot. The line dancing, the warmth of the whiskey, the gossip you heard along the edges of the hall. He listens with warm eyes and a small smile, like he's exactly where he wants to be.

"They're probably still at it," you say. "Felt like folks had a lot left in 'em."

Joel drags his palms up and down your thighs.

You would touch him all the time, if it was practical. There's nothing in the world that grounds you more, that makes you feel safer, than Joel's hands on you.

"Not you?" he asks.

You smile at him, fondness radiating out of you.

"Wanted to come home," you tell him.

He ducks his chin and clicks his tongue. He's not a shy man, but sometimes you know he's just as surprised as you are that you've found yourselves here. Safe, happy, together. That you love him so much. It's your mission to make sure he never doubts it.

"We goin' upstairs?" Joel asks.

You hook your legs around his thighs and pull. He goes easily, willingly, hands pressing into the counter on either side of you.

"In a minute," you whisper, so close to him that your noses brush. Joel readjusts his hands, sliding one wide palm over the curve of your waist and down your thigh. He hitches your leg higher on his hip. The other hand goes to your face, thumb tracing a line down your cheek to the corner of your lips.

"A minute," he huffs. "Wonder what can happen in a minute."

He clears your path, but he's also always by your side, ready to go where you want to take him.

You tuck your fingers in the waistband of his jeans and he leans forward. Your lips slot together.

There are countless romantic ways to describe kissing someone you love. They're all true, and they're all not enough.

Joel knows you. All of his touches are certain, practiced. He holds you just right, your pulse thrumming against his palm. His kiss is unhurried. He knows very well he's got more than a minute. He's got all the time in the world.

But your want has only grown over the years. Being close to him both relaxes you and sets your body alight. Safety and desire wound together in their own embrace. So when Joel pulls back for a breath you chase him and are rewarded with a low laugh.

"Got somewhere to be?" he teases.

"I like kissing you," you tell him. "Sue me."

He huffs, eyes crinkling the corners from his pleased smirk.

If anyone asked, you'd say he gets more handsome every day. He's lighter, too. The weight he carries around all the time is still there, but you know he breathes easier in this town, this house, you arms. Everyone he loves is here. His kid, his brother, you.

Life looks good on Joel Miller.

You could stare at him forever, admire the warmth in his eyes and the strong line of his jaw. You know he'd let you drink your fill.

Even now, he waits for you to make the next move, to take whatever it is you want from him. He'll always give it freely.

"Are you flirtin' with me?" he asks.

You scoot closer to the edge of the counter so he's not leaning over quite so much.

"Is it working?"

Joel hums as you drag your hands up his chest and drape your arms over his shoulders.

"Might be," he drawls.

You've had enough. You kiss him again, this time tracing the seam of his lips with your tongue. He makes an amused noise but opens for you, palms finding your hips as you lick into his mouth.

Your fingers sink into the hair at the nape of his neck and tug a little. Joel presses his fingers harder into your flesh in response. It makes you gasp and he takes control of the kiss, taking his turn to explore you like it's the first time all over again.

Joel kisses you like you're an answer. Like this is the end of a long road.

And the thing is, this is hard won. From the world, but also from the man in your arms. You'd swear on your life that he's easy to love, but refused for a long time to see it. To see that he's more than a protector, than a father, than a partner. That he's a man, a man who can be held and helped and loved. A man who deserves to have someone make his coffee on slow mornings so he can sleep later, a man whose long-healed wounds are allowed a tender touch, a man who does not have to look over his shoulder and see no one at his back.

You're here, now. And will be here by his side as long as you can.

You kiss and kiss and kiss. You could probably do this forever, the familiar scratch of Joel's beard on your skin, the noises you can pull from him with a tug of his hair, the firm weight of his hands on your hips, your back, your jaw.

But the counter is cold and firm, and there's a soft bed upstairs.

Joel drags his lips down your cheek and laves at your pulse point. You let him leave what will certainly be a bruise come morning before leaning back from him and pressing one hand over his heart. He ceases his attentions immedietly.

"You okay?" he murmurs, a mouth full of gravel.

His pupils are blown and his lips are swollen and spit-slick. You must look much the same.

"Now we can go upstairs," you say. He huffs and squeezes your hip before stepping back.

You hop down from the counter. Joel makes to pick up your boots, but before he can you catch him in the circle of your arms. He makes a low noise of surprise but lets you hug him and wraps his arms around you.

"Thank you," you say into his shirt. You can feel his heart beating.

You're thanking him for helping you with your boots, but also everything else. Oiling your laces. Cleaning up the dishes. Making this house a home for you both.

He'll rarely allow it, your gratitude. Not for the way he watches your back, trusts you with his. Not for the things he does for you, the books he brings back from patrol and the nights he holds you when you can't face what's behind your eyelids. Not for the way he loves you, the way he lets you love him.

But tonight he just presses his lips to your hair and breathes with you.

Home.

Your boots click with every step. They're a real find, hand-stitched genuine leather in a muted red. Someone else owned these a long time ago. Stiff from disuse when you found them, but worn in enough to tug on comfortably, to walk into town for some dancing. To run in, if you had to.

But tonight you don't have to.

Joel didn't come with you. He does, sometimes, but dancing isn't really his thing. His knee bothers him more days than not, and he's hell-bent on avoiding being too likable so he doesn't go and get himself voted onto the town council. God forbid he be appreciated for everything he does around Jackson.

But you don't mind. He'll dance with you in the living room if you ask.

He'll crawl on his hands and knees through fire if you ask.

Devotion is rooted deep in him. It wraps thick vines around his battered heart and guides his steady hands, always looking for the next way to take care of you. Of the people he loves. The dying world is a hard place for a man like him -- he can't fix everything. Some days you know he feels like he can't damn near fix anything.

But he does more than enough for you. And you try your hardest to take care of him in return.

Joel is a dream you've had your whole life. A home to return to at the end of every night, someone you love on the other side of the threshold. Safety, comfort, belonging. Things you thought were long gone for so many years, ripped away just like everything else at the end of the world.

You and your boots stroll the rest of the way through town, around the corner and down your street. The summer breeze makes the familiar wind chimes on your porch sing, their sweet song reaching you and quickening your step until the house comes into view.

Home, home, home.

The outside light is on, but the chair out front is empty. On a night like this you'd expect to find Joel with his guitar, often with Ellie at his side. Sometimes he just sits, takes it all in. Rest remains shiny and new, a daunting and unfamiliar state of living.

But he's not on the porch tonight.

His absence doesn't worry you.

And what a thing that is -- not worrying. It's a muscle you forgot you could relax. Maybe not totally, never again totally, but this life you've found yourself in is good.

Joel is good.

You thud up the stairs and through the door he's left unlocked for you. There's hardly reason to lock doors in a place like Jackson, but some habits are hard to break, so you latch it behind you.

The lights are off, but you hear humming upstairs. He's working on something, probably, maybe folding laundry. You were at ease before, but now everything in you really relaxes, slots back into place. You just stand in front of the door for a moment, overcome with gratitude.

There's nothing special about today. But after so many years of waiting for death, of sometimes wanting it, having a life you want to fight for and hold onto with both hands is nothing short of a miracle.

"That you?" Joel calls from upstairs. His drawl sets you alight, a tether that brings you back to reality. The gratitude remains, but it simmers.

"Sure is," you reply. "I need your help with my boots."

"I'm comin'. Just gotta --" There's a thud above you. "Shit. Gimme a second, sweetheart."

You can wait. Joel is worth every second.

The kitchen still smells like the herbs you used for dinner hours ago before you went dancing. Joel seems to have done the dishes and put everything away. You pour yourself a glass of water from the faucet -- another novelty of this life you'll never get used to. Fresh water from pipes! You just about fainted when Tommy told you Jackson had running water when you arrived.

That's one of the positives about living past the end of the world, you suppose. The smallest things are marvels. Flicking on a light switch and knowing it'll work, storing the elk Ellie shot over the winter in a freezer, sleeping in a bed with clean sheets. Waking up every day with a little less fear than before, a warm, breathing, beloved person next to you.

You hop up on the counter and wait for said beloved. You're careful not to scuff the cabinets with your heels.

Joel's footsteps can be heard above you, the gentle creaks of the house as he moves around and eventually makes his way down the stairs.

"Alright," he sighs, finally coming into view. "Hey, there."

He's got his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and he's wiping his hands on a rag. It's only been a few hours since you saw him last, but even so, it's the last piece of the puzzle. Now you're home.

"Did you get bested by the laundry?' you ask him. "Sounded like you were fightin' a battle up there."

He scowls. "Was oilin' laces on your boots," he says. "Knocked over the tallow pan. Cleaned it up, though."

You tilt your head slightly, and he presses a kiss to your cheek as he rounds the kitchen island, his beard lightly rubbing against your skin. He smells like fresh wood and the soap you make for your bathroom.

"I was going to do that tomorrow," you remind him. You told him so just this morning. This is his way -- he's always clearing the path for you. Making sure you have everything you need.

Joel shrugs. "I had time." He stands in front of you and you spread your knees to make room for him. He taps the outside of one knee and you extend your leg. "Y'always need help with these damn things," he says. "Ain't they hurtin' you?"

You shake your head, cheek pressing into your shoulder as you lean back on your hands and admire him. If they were, you're sure he'd find a way to stop it. Joel is in the business of keeping you safe, even if it's from something as small as shoes rubbing the wrong way.

"Nah," you say. "They're comfortable. The angle is just weird. But they're cute, right?"

Joel chuckles as you wiggle your still-booted leg, heel tipping forward and back like you're line dancing in midair.

"Mighty cute," Joel echoes.

He slides his hands up under your jeans until he finds the edge of your boot. His fingers curl around the top of your calf, warm and gentle, and his other hand tugs the heel.

These boots are easy to get on, but hell to get off by yourself. Maybe it's by design. A deep nudge by someone long-dead to find hands gentle enough to help you. Loving enough to welcome you home, to pull off your shoes with care and keep you safe. Maybe you found them for this moment right here.

"Did you have fun?" he asks.

"I did," you tell him. "The band played way too much Dave Matthews, though."

Together you tug in opposite directions and the boot comes off smoothly. Joel sets it gently on the floor and scoffs.

"Dave Matthews?" he says. "Who the hell requested that?"

"Some kids," you say. "Think they found a tape, or somethin.' Must be going through a phase."

"Hell of a phase," he mutters. "Christ."

You tell him more about it as Joel tugs off your other boot. The line dancing, the warmth of the whiskey, the gossip you heard along the edges of the hall. He listens with warm eyes and a small smile, like he's exactly where he wants to be.

"They're probably still at it," you say. "Felt like folks had a lot left in 'em."

Joel drags his palms up and down your thighs.

You would touch him all the time, if it was practical. There's nothing in the world that grounds you more, that makes you feel safer, than Joel's hands on you.

"Not you?" he asks.

You smile at him, fondness radiating out of you.

"Wanted to come home," you tell him.

He ducks his chin and clicks his tongue. He's not a shy man, but sometimes you know he's just as surprised as you are that you've found yourselves here. Safe, happy, together. That you love him so much. It's your mission to make sure he never doubts it.

"We goin' upstairs?" Joel asks.

You hook your legs around his thighs and pull. He goes easily, willingly, hands pressing into the counter on either side of you.

"In a minute," you whisper, so close to him that your noses brush. Joel readjusts his hands, sliding one wide palm over the curve of your waist and down your thigh. He hitches your leg higher on his hip. The other hand goes to your face, thumb tracing a line down your cheek to the corner of your lips.

"A minute," he huffs. "Wonder what can happen in a minute."

He clears your path, but he's also always by your side, ready to go where you want to take him.

You tuck your fingers in the waistband of his jeans and he leans forward. Your lips slot together.

There are countless romantic ways to describe kissing someone you love. They're all true, and they're all not enough.

Joel knows you. All of his touches are certain, practiced. He holds you just right, your pulse thrumming against his palm. His kiss is unhurried. He knows very well he's got more than a minute. He's got all the time in the world.

But your want has only grown over the years. Being close to him both relaxes you and sets your body alight. Safety and desire wound together in their own embrace. So when Joel pulls back for a breath you chase him and are rewarded with a low laugh.

"Got somewhere to be?" he teases.

"I like kissing you," you tell him. "Sue me."

He huffs, eyes crinkling the corners from his pleased smirk.

If anyone asked, you'd say he gets more handsome every day. He's lighter, too. The weight he carries around all the time is still there, but you know he breathes easier in this town, this house, you arms. Everyone he loves is here. His kid, his brother, you.

Life looks good on Joel Miller.

You could stare at him forever, admire the warmth in his eyes and the strong line of his jaw. You know he'd let you drink your fill.

Even now, he waits for you to make the next move, to take whatever it is you want from him. He'll always give it freely.

"Are you flirtin' with me?" he asks.

You scoot closer to the edge of the counter so he's not leaning over quite so much.

"Is it working?"

Joel hums as you drag your hands up his chest and drape your arms over his shoulders.

"Might be," he drawls.

You've had enough. You kiss him again, this time tracing the seam of his lips with your tongue. He makes an amused noise but opens for you, palms finding your hips as you lick into his mouth.

Your fingers sink into the hair at the nape of his neck and tug a little. Joel presses his fingers harder into your flesh in response. It makes you gasp and he takes control of the kiss, taking his turn to explore you like it's the first time all over again.

Joel kisses you like you're an answer. Like this is the end of a long road.

And the thing is, this is hard won. From the world, but also from the man in your arms. You'd swear on your life that he's easy to love, but refused for a long time to see it. To see that he's more than a protector, than a father, than a partner. That he's a man, a man who can be held and helped and loved. A man who deserves to have someone make his coffee on slow mornings so he can sleep later, a man whose long-healed wounds are allowed a tender touch, a man who does not have to look over his shoulder and see no one at his back.

You're here, now. And will be here by his side as long as you can.

You kiss and kiss and kiss. You could probably do this forever, the familiar scratch of Joel's beard on your skin, the noises you can pull from him with a tug of his hair, the firm weight of his hands on your hips, your back, your jaw.

But the counter is cold and firm, and there's a soft bed upstairs.

Joel drags his lips down your cheek and laves at your pulse point. You let him leave what will certainly be a bruise come morning before leaning back from him and pressing one hand over his heart. He ceases his attentions immedietly.

"You okay?" he murmurs, a mouth full of gravel.

His pupils are blown and his lips are swollen and spit-slick. You must look much the same.

"Now we can go upstairs," you say. He huffs and squeezes your hip before stepping back.

You hop down from the counter. Joel makes to pick up your boots, but before he can you catch him in the circle of your arms. He makes a low noise of surprise but lets you hug him and wraps his arms around you.

"Thank you," you say into his shirt. You can feel his heart beating.

You're thanking him for helping you with your boots, but also everything else. Oiling your laces. Cleaning up the dishes. Making this house a home for you both.

He'll rarely allow it, your gratitude. Not for the way he watches your back, trusts you with his. Not for the things he does for you, the books he brings back from patrol and the nights he holds you when you can't face what's behind your eyelids. Not for the way he loves you, the way he lets you love him.

But tonight he just presses his lips to your hair and breathes with you.

The big ones, the important ones, sure. He remembered them all too well, even through the haze of pain and fatigue that often hung thickly around their reception. 

But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. He’d long since given up on keeping track of them. Little lines on the sides of his fingers, stretchmarks on the backs of his biceps, winged fans of a burn on the side of his thigh, a pale line along the point of his elbow that he might as well have been born with.

There were ones from further back, too. Scars that time and pain had eroded the precision of the memory, but not the feeling. Cigarette burns on his forearms, a necklace of animal teeth on his side, a craggy line across his hip, accompanied by the shadowy memory of hand reaching for him, and not being quick enough to duck out of the way. 

They all meshed together into the hard patchwork of scar and muscle his body had wrought itself into.

Almost none of them could be helped, out of his control, out of his hands.

They were a catalogue of his life, a story traced on his skin.

Stamped, more like. Branded. 

Survived. 

And soulmates shared scars. 

Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasn’t quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didn’t belong to him originally.  

He didn’t like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way. 

It’s ironic, then, that he should be able to find his soulmate more easily than the average unmarred person, and wanted to do nothing of the sort. Simon dismissed the whole thing as drivel a long time ago, anyway. If they did exist, if they weren’t just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadn’t been afforded one. 

There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe he’d been left out of the whole thing. 

Better he was alone. 

The likelihood of finding that person was slim. It almost never happened. Eight or so billion people swanning around the planet would do that. A one in eight billion chance. 

A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldn’t be altered—to know that person probably existed somewhere and yet know that they would probably never run across them.

A trend of self harm cropped up online every few years, healed over self inflected wounds posted in forums of people seeking their other, fated, half. The presumption being that they were being desperately searched for in turn.  

Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.

And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate. 

Violently frantic for the thing Ghost had been unwillingly given. A way to find them, or, at least, easily identify them. And he never would. 

But, sometimes, he wondered. 

He tried to picture the imprint of a person somewhere out in the world wearing his wounds, suffering his losses. The thought would circle his brainstem in an unrelenting loop, a bright fish whispering around the perimeter of its bowl before it dissipated in lieu of something more pressing. 

It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again. 

He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical.  

It was a cruelty he couldn’t imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him. 

Simon didn’t want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either. 

If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already. 

He didn’t particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didn’t relish the thought of something he couldn’t control, someone holding the other end of his corded, deformed soul, like a leash they could tighten and use to yank him to his knees. Compromised, vulnerable. 

It wouldn’t happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent. 

He blamed Soap, then, for tempting fate.

Ghost listened to Johnny yammer on, the sound of his voice louder than usual in the rattling dark belly of the transport plane home. The glow of green light, the roar of engines, the jangle of gear. 

It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnny’s that he couldn’t stop talking in the post-op cortisol and adrenaline drop, his words a smeared haze of jumbled thoughts spoken aloud for hours afterward.

The notion of a soulmate was at the front of Soap’s mind, not for the first time. He’d always seemed to enjoy the idea of it, and find some comfort in it, particularly after a close call. There was someone waiting for him, somewhere, after all, it couldn’t all come to nothing yet.   

Simon glanced out the window, watched the sea below morph into land. 

A yellow network of light winked below, a sea of reverse stars swimming in the black.

“Lucky that way, Lt,” Johnny declared with finality, finally winding down, sounding exhausted. “Findin’ ‘em will be easier.” 

Ghost glanced over, the first time in nearly an hour that he’d acknowledged the conversation beyond a hum and a nod. “What do you mean?” 

Soap gestured to his scarred chin, then his temple. “Know ‘em straight away, wouldn’t I?”  

Simon’s own thoughts spoken out loud; his hopes to never see his own scars reflected back at him turned on its head. 

Johnny made it sound like a good thing, instead of the nightmare it was. 

No, he thought for the nth time in his life, not that, not for him. 

But he’d always had an extraordinary knack for beating the odds. 

.

.

.

The base was a constant flurry of activity, a relentlessly buzzing hive of people. There were very few places that skirted away from the general chaos of life on a military base, but Simon had catalogued them all—the field behind the barracks when drills were not being run, the concrete service walkways beneath the base, crowded with spiderwebs and dust, the cool, sterile medical wing, and, the orderly administration offices. 

Each place had caveats. 

The service walkways were the most reliably quiet, but Simon hated being underground, hated the claustrophobia of it, like some part of him would always be clawing at black earth, and so usually avoided it. 

Soap had found him smoking behind the barracks once and now regularly joined Simon there. 

The medical wing could be crowded and frenzied, depending on the day. 

The administration offices were practically serene in comparison. Neat file folders, tidy desks, windows that let in the watery, gray English sun. Square offices with their doors propped open, conference rooms bathed in the light of glowing intel reports, data convergences, and map overlays, uniform gray walls and floors. 

The admin wing only occasionally spasmed into restless activity if an emergency op was underway or about to be, and if that happened, Ghost was usually already swept up in it himself, probably already long gone. 

A spare office stuffed away at the end of the hall with the name plate removed technically belonged to him. A mostly unused space he sometimes finished reports in but, more often than not, sat empty. 

He preferred to haunt the corridors, observe the more peaceful, inner workings of the military, breathing in the quiet air for five minutes at a time. It gave his perpetually over taxed nervous system, his forever-in-fight-or-flight-mode body, to relax, if even it was only an increment or two. The lightning was softer, the constant bark of orders and drills, the snap of gunfire, the general loudness of the rest of the place, was muted and far away.

Simon knew of all of the staff and their precuilarities—names, ages, birthdates, minor feuds among each other, immediate family members, previous posts, favorite foods, habits, complaints about the building’s irregular temperatures and the pervasive scent of diesel. It wasn’t information he necessarily collected on purpose. Gleaned over years of half heard conversations, glimpses of photos on desks. They, like the medical staff, didn’t often change, not like the revolving door of soldiers and operators. 

It was a regular, routine, quiet place. 

So it would be difficult for even the most oblivious person not to notice when the familiar order of the place was interrupted. 

Soft, dandelion light flooded the hall from a doorway that had always before been shut tight.

The scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered in the hall in a feathery streak, oakmoss and lavender. It settled hard in his lungs, made his footsteps slow slightly, caution prickling at the back of his neck. 

The click of ceramic being sat on wood, the soft shuffle of files, tapping of computer keys emanated from within the now open office. The faintest notes of bubblegum pop floated by, at odds with the chill, still air. 

Inside, you were hidden behind two massive computer monitors, the very top of a pair of lilac headphones just visible over the rim. Plants in colorful painted terracotta pots lined the window to your left absorbing what they could of pale winter light, a thick blanket was thrown over the back of a chair in the corner, a jumble of bright, hand crocheted squares. A brass floor lamp with a circular shade sat behind your desk and drooped forward like the antenna of a giant radio, or a bug, casting a delicate halo of light around you like a protective ward. 

There was something. . .lambent that emanated around the room, that had nothing to do with the ridiculous lamp. 

Simon hovered in the doorway, in the shadow of the dim hall, just to get a glimpse of your face. Start a mental file on you, begin his careful catalog. Something to match the color and light to. 

It was a surprise to you both, then, when you glanced up and caught him at it. 

You stood hastily, headphones sliding down your neck when the cord jerked taut, the tinny sound of pop echoing loudly from them until you slammed your fingers down onto the keyboard and silence descended abruptly. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there. Can I help you with something?” 

Simon could only stare at you, a curl of dread snaking its way between his ribs. 

Johnny was right, then, he would know his own scars anywhere. 

He would know his own face anywhere. 

He would, apparently, know you anywhere. 

Your face was a faded mapping of his own, the same scarring traced with a lighter hand. The same crack over your lips, a line drawn across your cheek, a faded check through your brow, the bridge of your nose bisected, the outline of webbed burn scars crosshatched at the edge of your jaw and shoulder. A jagged, thick line crossed your throat. 

Despite his legacy marring your face, you were pretty. Beautiful, even, with curious, cautious eyes, one side of your mouth pulled up into a half grin that tugged at the line across your cheek and somehow didn’t ruin the brightness of it. 

You were watching him watch you with a tentative gaze, brows drawing slowly together the longer he stood there staring at you, breathing around the newly minted cavern under his lungs. 

His eyes met yours again, and as soon as the realization settled in, something clicked violently into place inside his chest, like a missing rib bone had suddenly slotted into the cage around his heart. 

Pain bloomed hot and tight across his chest, so acute he covered his side, expecting to find a knife inexplicably lodged there. He grunted mutely. The discomfort receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a vast hollow just beneath his breast bone. Cavernous, lurching, undone. 

The hollow hardened into a solid brick of pain. 

Nausea swept into the back of his throat. 

“Are you okay?” 

He was frozen in the direct line of fire. Your eyes swept over him, fingers curling around a folder on the edge of your desk which you thumbed nervously. You began to lift your other hand, an aborted half movement toward your face that you dropped at the last second. But you didn’t avert your gaze. You looked past the mask, past him, and into his eyes. 

You saw him. 

Simon was not to be seen.

Ghost didn’t get caught, didn’t freeze. 

Didn’t feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pinned and weak and panicked. 

Not anymore. 

He was a ghost, a shadow, a silent—

The silence unspooled, thin and fragile as unraveling lace. 

Your smile widened, a slow, confident thing that stretched across your face crookedly, pulled at your scarred skin as you tilted your head. It was, maybe, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

“Sir?”

Amusement threaded your voice; a laugh curled like a sleeping animal in your throat. 

Instead of answering, he faded back into the hall.

As he retreated an uncertain realization prodded at the back of his mind. One wonderful contingency. 

You had not felt the shift, the world turning horribly on its axis, the pain that radiated hot as a wildfire. 

You hadn’t recognized what he was. 

And he was going to keep it that way. 

.

.

.

It felt like there was a hook in his chest, slipped right between his ribs, a constant painful tearing that landed him again and again outside your office door. Like he was a fish on a line, and you held the reel in your fist, totally oblivious to it. 

He didn’t love you, that’s not how the soulmate bond worked. You were tied together, for some reason, though that reason remained to be seen. Resentment was all he felt, a burning desire to chew his leg out of this trap, to grip the line that bound you and run a knife through it. 

Better yet, through you. 

Sever the tie as cleanly as a blade through an artery. 

One sure way to free himself was your death. 

It was unusual, but it happened—headlines of a soulmate killing their pair because they couldn’t tolerate the connection. It was taboo, considering how rare the bond was. The link suffocated them, instead of comforting them. 

Simon understood the urge.

He thought of your office, the way your back was angled half toward the door, how easily he could slip in and slice your throat open. He had seen and done worse, but the thought of you lying in a pool of blood, let alone at his hands, was so abhorrent and wrong that he doubled over as an acute, sharp pain pinched between his ribs, like someone wriggling their fingers between the bars to claw at his insides. 

Which irritated him. Things like that didn’t bother him, not anymore. At the very least, he was better at handling discomfort than this. 

It did start him thinking about someone else doing it, though. Slipping quietly into your office and nudging a knife between your ribs, pressing a silenced pistol against your temple, Ghost left to find your cold corpse. 

It was wrong. 

He could feel your life wrapped around his fingers, tangled in little ribbons around his wrists. A pulsing, glowing, bright thing.  

The resentment doubled because he should not care. He didn’t know you, trust you; your death should mean nothing. You should mean nothing.  

Still, he found himself walking the administration wing again the following day, even though the sun was out and it’d be nice to sit behind the barracks and smoke and listen to Johnny rattle on about something or the other when he inevitably showed up. 

Your door was open again, gold light spilling into the corridor, the low flutter of too loud music in your headphones accompanying it. 

Simon would never admit it to himself, but he also needed to know that he could remain hidden from you. The shock of your eyes finding his still hadn’t left him. It had never happened before—not on an op, not about the base, not out among civilians. He blended in, he remained invisible, but you saw him, sensed him, and he needed to know if that was something he had to adjust to. Planning was survival, and you were an unknown factor he needed a method for handling.  

Simon stepped close to your door, out of the beam of light. 

Your office was bathed in soft, cream light but not from your antenna bug lamp. 

Your back was fully turned toward the door, face tilted into the scarce winter sun streaming in the window as you leaned back in your chair. Your eyes were closed, headphones over your ears as he suspected they were. 

Fuuucking hell. 

Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, back toward the entry point of the room. 

Your life hung there, trusting, fragile as spun crystal. 

He waited, but you didn’t turn, didn’t seem to know he was there. Something in his shoulders uncoiled, tension slowly replaced with an odd sense of calm. The pain in his chest eased for the first time in twenty-four hours, fading to a tender ache. 

Your lunch, half eaten, laid abandoned on your desk. The blanket that had been on the chair in the corner was swaddled around your shoulders. 

You yawned, eyes still closed. 

He waited for you to sense him, glance up, but you seemed unaware of him. He wouldn’t admit it then, but he half hoped you would. 

Ghost backed away, left you to your peace. 

The weight in his chest intensified again.

He hated you for it. 

He went back the next day. 

And the day after that.

.

.

.

Anchor might be a better descriptor. 

Hook was too violent.

Simon knew what it felt like to have a hook between his ribs, and this feeling was not that. 

He was satisfied, after weeks of observation as late winter turned to a wet spring, that you did not have a preternatural sense of his presence. In the process, he learned other things. 

You hated the cold, and your office always seemed to be chillier than you would prefer, blanket perpetually tucked around your shoulders. He watched you fiddle with the radiator one morning, bottom lip caught between your teeth, sigh, and resign yourself to it. He waited for you to complain to your coworkers like everyone else did, to call maintenance to fix it, but you didn’t. 

You liked to sit in the sun, however you could, squinting against the glare of it against your computer screens just to have it on your skin. 

You hunched over your desk, and clearly had pain in your neck and back because of it. 

You often stayed later on base than many of the staff and walked out of the building alone late at night. 

You didn’t drink tea, but politely accepted the tea several different coworkers made for you with the very good intention of showing you a proper cup. You drank every drop as you chatted with them, even though you clearly detested it. It didn’t show, but Simon could tell. He didn’t like that he could, that it was instinctual and nothing else. 

They were also plying you with shit tea, of course you weren’t going to like it. He watched as one bloke let it steep for a full fifteen minutes and then presented you with what must have been the bitterest lukewarm tea to ever pass through the base. An older secretary took the opposite approach and handed you a cup of barely brewed tea with approximately four tablespoons of sugar in. 

Absolutely bloody foul. 

Horrific crimes committed in your name, and you swallowed them with a smile. 

And you smiled a lot. From the tiniest twitch of your lips when you were alone, to a grin so big he could see all your teeth, that your eyes squinched closed. 

You nearly always had headphones on—wired earbuds dangling from the collar of your shirt as you walked down the hall, or over ear headphones looped around your neck at your desk, usually pop, occasionally 70s rock or alternative spitting from the speakers. 

You talked a lot, and your voice carried. One of those truisms about Americans, you could be heard long before you were seen even if you weren’t being particularly loud. He didn’t need to be close to hear you, and he found himself thinking one afternoon good. It would be easier to keep track of you. 

He liked your voice, anyway, liked your laugh, liked to hear you say English phrases in that accent of yours that made them sound ridiculous. 

You could likely give Soap a run for a world record of useless chatter. Anyone who walked into your office was subject to your stream of consciousness if they lingered long enough. 

Lonely, he might have called it. But you were new, to the base, and to the country. Your only connections were those you were attempting to craft with stuffy intelligence officers who sometimes seemed to regard you as below them. 

He found his thoughts drifting to the sound of your voice once he’d left you for the day, replaying things he’d heard you say in the period of observation he allowed himself, like the tune of a lullaby. It calmed him. 

The resentment in his chest festered like a badly healed wound. You were nothing but a distraction, a thorn stabbed into his side, stealing his focus from nearly everything that was more important. 

That used to be more important. 

Now his every thought was asterisked by you. 

Distracted. 

He didn’t do well with it. 

He didn’t like that he could feel the newly rended hole in his chest corroding and throbbing when he wasn’t near you, suffocating him. He’d felt worse in his life, so he could mostly ignore it. 

Simon decided that the nature of the bond was at least neutral. You were not a threat.  

He was tired, anyway, of constantly thinking about your back to the door, your headphones playing too loudly. 

After you left one evening in mid spring, he moved your desk. 

Simon sat in your dark office for longer than he should have, letting the pain ease out of his chest. 

It was enough to be where you had once been. 

That was as close as he cared to be. 

He fixed the radiator before he closed the door again. 

.

.

. 

He went by Ghost, you learned eventually. 

His was a redacted, blacked out name in the files on your computer, so Ghost seemed less a name than a description. You briefly scanned the ops he had been on. It was a horrifyingly long list, most of them totally classified or excised beyond comprehensibility. And those were only the missions you could see, likely his involvement in many ops had been scrubbed entirely. 

It was clear that he was good at his job, though it left you to wonder what he had been doing in the administration wing of the base, let alone peering into your office like a silent wraith. 

It should have been terrifying to find him looming in your doorway. His massive frame had blotted out the corridor behind him. Mostly in black, a skull mask covering his face. You hadn’t been able to see his eyes in the low lighting. But you had only felt curiosity, apprehension, a delicate wrenching in your gut. 

Something that a different person might liken to butterflies. Absolutely absurd, but nonetheless true. 

Fear, afterward, of course, that you’d missed some kind of order or request. 

It had also been a while since someone stared so openly at you, since you’d felt the urge to duck your head, obscure the scars littered across your skin. You never had before, and you wouldn’t have started then. You wore them proudly. Most bore their soulmate’s scars better than their own, and you were no exception. 

It had become a rarity, really, in recent years that anyone spared you more than a glance. Being surrounded by military personnel who had seen worse, might have had worse on their own skin, meant you didn’t stand out.

When you mentioned the incident to Laswell, worried that some kind of disciplinary report, during your first month at this post no less, was headed your way, she had only shook her head. “That’s just Ghost. He probably didn’t say anything. You get used to it.” 

The base, especially among the operators, was filled with odd personalities with even odder quirks, so you decided not to question it. You had only nodded, and said, “Okay.” 

Laswell had smiled. “You’ll do well here.” 

You suspected you were being watched in the weeks following the incident, though you couldn’t say why at first. The suspicion was confirmed when you arrived one blissfully sunny spring morning to find your office warm and your desk moved. Your other furniture was rearranged neatly around it. You rounded it, dropping your bag as you went, half expecting to find a note. 

There was nothing, and you started to rotate it back, a bit irritated, when you paused and sat. The new angle gave you a clear view of the door and window. The sun hit your face without causing a glare on your screens. The monitors had been lowered ever so slightly so you could easily see over them.

You left your desk in its new position. It was better that way. 

Ghost appeared in your office that afternoon as suddenly as he had left it. 

You sensed that he’d been there for a long time when you finally noticed him in the doorway, that you were only seeing him because he wanted you to.

You smiled and turned away from a report. A welcome reprieve for your strained eyes and hunched back. 

“Hi. Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?” 

This time, he stepped into your office, grasped your offer with both hands. 

The room seemed to shrink and adjust to his size. He was more massive than you remembered, in height and breadth. His eyes didn’t leave yours, a deep blackened honey brown half hidden by skull. Neither of you looked away.

“Have I passed?” 

His head tilted ever so slightly. When he spoke his voice was like an iron rod shoved down your spine. Deep and jagged and rough, it settled between your ribs, in the pit of your stomach. “Passed?” 

“Your test?” 

“Think I’m testin’ you?” 

“You moved my desk.” 

He didn’t answer for a long moment, still not dropping your gaze. The silence lasted so long you began to think he wouldn’t answer at all. “Practically had your back to the door,” he said eventually, as though that explained it. 

It conjured the image of Ghost creeping around the base in the dead of night to adjust offices into more tactical configurations and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the giggle in your throat from bubbling out.   

You nodded and then shrugged instead. “I guess I don’t think about things like that.” 

“Should.”

“Maybe.” 

“Especially in the field.” 

“I don’t do field work.” 

He nodded slowly and finally took his eyes off yours, glancing around the room again. When his lashes caught the light, you saw that they were a light blond. 

“Welcome to sit,” you offered, taking up a pen and a pad of yellow paper. “Ghost.”  

He didn’t sit, but he didn't leave either. When he remained mute and motionless, you looked back at your report and continued working, resigned to the new addition to your office. 

Minutes passed in silence, with only the scratch of your pencil over paper, the tapping of computer keys, for company. 

All at once, the room sighed, and when you looked up, he was gone. 

Ghost was strange, slightly off putting. 

You liked him.

Maybe, you thought, he’d come back. 

.

.

.

Ghost visited regularly after that. 

Sometimes he simply stood at the door and watched you work. 

His boots were so silent that you often didn’t know he was there until he was leaving again. It felt as though he often melted into nothing but shadow, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling. 

You didn’t feel watched, so much as observed, minded.

But the lengthy silences began to wear thin, so you started talking to him.  

Talked at him, more like, about anything that came to mind. 

The shit weather and how cold you always were. Recounted phone calls with your sister and noted things you’d seen on your commute. You told him of your slightly creepy neighbor who would follow you occasionally down high street when you did your weekly shopping trip, but that was probably harmless.

You were sure he wasn’t actually listening, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he stood statuesque in the middle of your office.  

The visits were occasionally broken up by operations that could last days or weeks, once up to a month. Time passed either way, but you found it passed more easily when you could reliably count on a visit from Ghost. Hearing his voice in staticky communications wasn’t the same. A blinking green dot on a map that you tracked just a little more closely than the others. 

Ghost sat down for the first time toward the middle of a particularly miserable and cold spring afternoon. He sighed as he did, the only sign of any feeling. Almost a resignation in the soft cut of it. 

You didn’t comment on it, just chatted as you usually did, buoyed in a way that you could not explain. 

He started to bring you coffee, done up to your preference, always when you were hitting the midday lag. 

In exchange, you left offerings at the edge of your desk. Baked goods, protein bars, chips, sweets— which disappeared when you looked away from him. You noted what went first so you could invest in it. Chocolate went more frequently. 

But Ghost, whether he was listening or not, made you feel less alone. The ache of loneliness in your heart eased, and maybe that said more about you than him. 

If he was around, he usually slipped in while you ate lunch. He didn’t eat with you, the mask never moved, but you began cooking extra in the evenings, leaving tupperware containers at the edge of your desk in addition to brownies wrapped in waxpaper, chocolate chip cookies sprinkled with sea salt. “Don’t have to,” he always said. 

“Want to,” you answered, and then received the empty, clean container from the day before as though it were an offering.

Your office always smelled like tobacco and tea for hours after he left, a comforting combination that you began to wish you could bottle. 

He didn’t appear one day at his usual allotted, precise time. You figured something came up or he finally got tired of you, but he turned up instead late in the afternoon.  

“Sorry,” he said as he sat, without explanation, a paper cup of coffee steaming at the edge of your desk like it appeared there by his will alone.  

“Oh,” you answered. “You didn’t have to—“

“Did,” he said simply. “‘ave you eaten?”

“Yep. Got something for you, too.” 

He settled back. “Neighbor still botherin’ you?” 

You blinked in surprise, the slightly creepy neighbor had not spoken to you in a few days. “Oh. . .I—You were listening.”

He tilted his head. “‘Course I was, bird.” He leveled you with a look. “So?”

“Not recently. Not in a couple days.”

“Good. Let us know if he does, yeah?”

Then he sat back and waited, shoulders relaxed as though attending a sermon, but content with silence anyway. 

When you glanced up from a report a while later, for clarification on a mission detail that he happened to be on, his eyes were closed. 

It felt akin to having a wolf willingly curl up in your lap, blood wet maw dripping peacefully onto the floor.

.

.

.

When you turned from watering your plants one innocuous spring day, you found Ghost entering your office with a different mask on. A soft black balaclava. You could see his eyes and brows, the bridge of his nose and the thin, bruised skin beneath his eyes.

You froze and then smiled at him, tried hard not to stare. His eyes were always pretty but now you felt you could actually see him. Blond brows and lashes, his irises were lighter, amber honey in the yellow light of your bug lamp, as Ghost had called it one afternoon without a shred of humor. 

It was raining, and the dim light made the small space cozier than usual. The patchwork blanket was around your shoulders, a ward against the chill bleeding beneath the window. 

In his usual chair, you’d laid a gift. 

He pointed to the blanket you had carefully folded there earlier. 

“It’s for you. I knitted it.” 

He froze, hand half extended toward it. You swept past him around your desk again, inundated with the scent of black tea and cigarettes as you went. His was alternating black and dark blue squares to your brightly colored purple and teal. “Just in case you were cold. You’re always so buttoned up after all,” you joked. “And you fixed my radiator this winter. So it’s a thank you, too.”

Ghost only moved it to the back of the chair. You hadn’t expected him to take it, really, but his gloved fingers lingered on it for a moment, rubbing the fabric gently. “How d’you know it was me that fixed it?” 

“Who else would have?” 

He grunted. “You knit?” 

“When I can’t sleep,” you answered. “Keeps my hands and brain busy.”

His brows furrowed, and seeing even that small movement felt like seeing him naked, like seeing something he didn’t want you to. You averted your eyes, heat crawling up your neck. 

“Can’t sleep?” His fingers slid off the blanket and he sat.

You shrugged. “Must seem silly to you. You see it with your own eyes. But some of the reports. . . stick with me.” 

Ghost considered this for a long moment. “It’s not.” 

“What?” 

“Silly.” 

The way he grunted the word made you laugh. 

“Could I ask you something, Ghost?”

“Reckon you just did.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Am I allotted only one question?” 

“Just two.” 

It was. . . funny. You giggled and shrugged. “Guess I’m shit out of luck.” 

“And out of questions.”

You laughed again. 

He surprised you by laughing too. If a low, graveled grunt counted as a laugh. You certainly counted it, a cache of swollen pride bubbling in your stomach. “Go on, then.” 

“Where are you from?” 

The levity vanished. His brows lowered. “Why?” 

You shrugged. “Just curious. I’m not good with all the accents yet. Just can’t place you.” 

He relaxed back into the chair again, but didn't answer. 

The pinch of his brows, the tense line of his jaw, remained, his expression considering as he tilted his head back. 

“Why do you come here?” You asked instead. 

This question he answered readily. “It’s quiet.” 

“That’s one way to tell me to shut up.” 

He blinked and lowered his chin to meet your eyes. “Not the kind of noise I mean.” 

You decided not to take offense at being called noise. 

You snorted and reached beneath your desk, taking some pride in the fact that Ghost did not tense anymore than usual when you did, withdrawing your lunch. 

“Hungry?” You asked.  

“Tryin’ to see my face?” 

You smiled. “Never,” you answered, “Not sure I want to see what you’re hiding under there.” 

The rain tapped against the window as you popped the thermal lid off.  

“Why are you here?” He asked as you folded your legs beneath you on the chair and tucked the blanket around them. Ghost rose without asking and twisted the knob of the radiator beneath the window a bit higher.

You waved your fork, indicating the office. “Fairly positive I work here. But perhaps base security is more lax than I thought.” 

He sighed, a long suffering sound. “England, smartarse.” 

You smile and dig your fork into last night’s spaghetti bolognese. The steam caressed your face in a warm puff as you lifted a bite. “I’m on loan to Laswell.” 

“On loan?” He asked as he settled back into the chair, broad shoulders pressed to the wall behind him, against the blanket. It slid over his elbow a little, curled over his forearm. He didn’t move it. 

When you lifted your gaze to his, his stare was piercing, brows lowered, furrowed. You imagined he must be frowning.  

“Temporary replacement for whoever used to be in this office,” you explained. “She needed someone quickly, who she could trust.” 

Ghost folded his arms across his chest, something more tense than usual in the movement. “How long are you on loan for, then?” 

You shrugged, twisted your fork into the noodles. “It’s unclear. So, for now, indefinitely.” You smiled, “Hopefully not through another winter, though, I don’t think I’m cut out for the rain and cold.”

His shoulders eased, but only marginally. If it weren’t for all the hours he’d passed in your office, you weren’t sure you would have caught it at all. 

“From somewhere warm?”

“Warmer than here. Especially in the winter.” 

“Must be nice, that.” 

“Has its perks. But the summer is its own kind of hell.” 

“One you enjoy.” 

“But of course. I like feeling like I’m baking alive.” 

He snorted again.

You ate in silence for a bit. The quiet had become comfortable between you somewhere along the way, silken and gentle. 

When you were scraping the last bit of sauce from the bottom of the container, Ghost said, “Manchester.” 

“Hm?”

“Where I’m from.”

His voice was low; he wasn’t looking at you, eyes trained on the door instead. 

“Manchester,” you repeated, trying to place it on the map of the UK in your mind. “And do you all sound sort of like—“

You were about to say like you have gravel in your mouth but he makes an affected noise, that stiff grunt again. “Are you laughing at me?”

“It’s your fucking accent.”

“My accent?” You asked incredulously. “Have you heard yourself?” 

“Got a thick one, bird.” He imitated your voice. “Manchester.” The sharp rhotic r sound was like a gunshot in his mouth, each letter enunciated to the point of being butchered. 

You scoffed, not bothering to fight your smile. “Takes one to know one, I guess.” 

“Suppose it does.” 

“Fucking Brits,” you said, without any venom. “I can’t do anything right according to you all.” 

He tilted his head, something predatory in it. It made your heart flutter a little. “Who’s tellin’ you you can’t do something?” 

You sighed, long suffering. “My coworkers. Can’t make tea, apparently. I don’t care for it and everyone keeps insisting I just make it wrong.”

“They make it wrong too.” 

You groaned. “Not you too.” 

Ghost rose to take his leave as you snapped the lid back onto the now empty container. 

“I’ll show you how to make a proper cup sometime.” 

You paused, a warm surprise sweeping into your chest, and decided not to linger on this solitary acknowledgement that Ghost would return to your office. “Big fan?” 

“I love tea.” 

It made you laugh. “Of course, English afterall.” 

He nodded, just once, and started toward the door. “Ghost?” You called. 

Ghost turned and you slid another tupperware container across your desk. “For you.” 

He stared at it, for a moment too long, as he always did, like he was telling himself to leave it. “Didn’t have to.” 

“I know.” You nodded at it again and then then ducked behind your computer screens. “I always want to.” 

Ghost moved so silently that you didn’t hear or see him take it, but when you looked up again he and the container at the edge of your desk were gone. 

.

.

.

It should be a good thing. 

You would be gone soon enough, none the wiser of who Ghost was. Of what you were to each other. 

But it didn’t sit well. It was a new thing to nag at the back of his mind, finding your office empty, you becoming a ghost in your own right. He hated the ache in his chest, the thought of you so far away. He could only assume you’d be stationed back in the US.

The thought festered, burrowed. 

“Laswell.”

She jumped, hand going beneath her desk before she spotted Ghost in the corner of  her office. She sighed and closed her eyes, fingertips rubbing her eyes instead. 

“Ghost,” she sighed, “Don’t do that.” 

Simon said your name, and Laswell lowered her hands to look at him. “How long has she got?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Said she’s on loan. I want to know how long.”

Laswell considered him; Ghost waited. He wouldn’t explain himself, and Laswell knew that. 

“Maybe as long as a year.” She tilted back in her chair and asked anyway. “Why?” 

Ghost didn’t answer, slipping back out of her office and down the hall. 

You were still in your office, hunched over the desk, lavender headphones pulled down around your neck. He watched you for a long moment, eyes tracing over scars that belonged to him. It was jarring each time to see pain he experienced threaded over your skin. It made him feel exposed by proxy.

As he watched, you lifted a hand and rubbed your neck with a wince, fingers lingering on the long scar slashed at the base of your throat. The grimace faded from your face and your expression receded into the impassive, blank, focused slate it always settled into as you continued working. 

When he sat down in your office, you just shot him a tired smile and continued working. 

He walked you to your car around midnight. 

“Tell us if you’re here this late again,” he said, not looking at you. 

“Ghost,” you said. “It’s almost enough to make me think you like me.” 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he answered. 

You just laughed. 

.

.

.

“Tea?” 

You jumped, just as Laswell had, only your hand didn’t go beneath the desk. Nothing there to reach for, he knew, your vulnerability like a beacon, or a stain. 

It would need remedied. 

But first, this. 

It was the sixth time in two weeks that you were at your desk well past when everyone else had gone home.  

“Jesus Christ.” 

“Unfortunately not.” 

You laughed; his shoulders eased. “Ghost,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” You tilted your head. “I’m starting to think you’re spying on me.” 

“What’re you still doing ‘ere?” 

“What are you doing wandering around our wing after hours?” 

Not a line of questioning he was keen on following. That just being near a place you had been earlier in the day was enough to loosen that fucking tether in his chest. That he was worried incessantly about you being alone at night.

“Offerin’ to make you a tea,” he answered. “Obviously.”  

“Obviously,” you echoed. “Of course.” 

“You’re supposed to tell me when you’re stayin’ late.” 

“Ghost,” you said seriously, lifting your brows, “I’m here late again today.” 

“Hilarious, you are.” 

You giggled again. “Are you really offering to make me tea?” 

He nodded. “C’mon then.”

You smiled and shrugged the blanket off your shoulders. He waited while you locked your computer and stood.

Simon allowed you to lead toward the breakroom where he’d observed the many cups of tea you’d politely swallowed from well meaning coworkers, who left it to steep for too long or too short, added too much sugar and milk, or left it totally plain. 

The overhead lights were too bright, a blue-white glare that made you frown and squint. Your nose scrunched up in distaste. There were circles beneath your eyes, exhausted loops that matched his own.  

“So,” you prompted, leaning against the counter, “How does one make a proper cuppa?”

“Not bad,” he said of your accent, lifting the electric kettle from the hook to fill with water. “Little posh.” 

“I’ve been practicing.”

He grunted, and put the kettle on, before rooting through the cabinet above the sink for tea bags. A grim selection awaited him, but he’d make due with what was available.

“Ah, so you boil the water. I was under the impression you could just stick it all in the microwave.” 

He involuntarily made a pained sound. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, “That your usual method?” 

You bit the inside of your cheek, poorly concealing a laugh. “I scandalized a data analyst with that joke.” You cup your chin in your hand, peer up at him from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. “I do know how to boil water, I’ll have you know.”

“Got a head start then.” 

You laughed again, shoulders shaking. Simon watched the corner of your mouth curl, and it eased something in his chest. You were painfully close, the woodsy, floral scent of your perfume curled in the air. Your elbow brushed his. He didn’t know how you could be unaware of the bond at that moment, when being that close to you felt like being lit on fire. He wanted to reach for you so badly that he had to clench his fist closed to avoid it. 

If someone were to ask him to move away from you right then, it would end badly. Bloody. 

The thin, needle sharp connection ached, begged. 

Simon ignored it.  

When you glanced up, he looked away. He could feel your eyes on his face, and didn’t mind the scrutiny in it. He didn’t mind you watching him, and wondered what you saw. 

“I like being able to see your eyes,” you said, just as the kettle clicked off. 

He met your gaze, disarmed by the declaration. Your features had softened, melted into a dangerous fondness. “Why?” 

“You have pretty eyes,” you shrugged. “And it’s hard to see you with the other mask.” You shifted, watching him lift the kettle, pour the hot water into a mug and over the teabag he’d dropped into it. 

“You can tell me to fuck off, if you want,” you began carefully, fingertips drumming nervously against the counter. “Why do you wear it?” 

Simon watched the teabag bob on the surface of the water, thin amber trails unfurling, coloring the water slowly brown. “Five minutes,” he nodded at the tea. “Don’t touch it. None of that dunking shite.” 

“Yes, sir,” you agreed. “Five minutes, no touching.” 

He huffed, and your smile widened. You bumped your shoulder against his. The contact only lasted a second or two, but the relief it provided was so intense that he nearly choked on it. 

The pain, softened by your proximity, returned immediately, crept down into the soft ligaments between his bones. He felt the loss in the roots of his teeth, the middle of his chest; it was like losing his breath in a different way, being suckerpunched in the solar plexus, knocked on his ass.

“To hide my face.” 

“Your identity, you mean.” 

“My identity,” he agreed.

“Why?” 

He released a long, slow breath, and thought about telling you to piss off, maybe even just to see how you’d take it. Were you as good as your word? Would you let the subject drop? 

Instead, he said, “There are a lot of bad people in the world, bird.” 

You pursed your lips, fingers toying with the teabag string, flicking the tab at the end with your nail. There was another question swimming in your eyes, but you let it go unasked, dropping your eyes from his instead. 

“You’ve seen more of them than most,” you said. “I would guess.” 

“Part of the job.” 

Your mouth curled a little, lashes fluttering against your cheek. “Hm. But y’know something? I think I’d know you anywhere,” you said, without a hint of shame or irony. “It’s all in your eyes.” 

Before Simon could respond, you hid a yawn in your sleeve and rubbed your hand over your face, exhaustion layered in thick rings beneath your eyes. “Even if this is gross,” you indicate the tea, “At least it will keep me awake.” 

“I take offense to that.” 

You laughed again. “Hm. Sorry, Lieutenant.” You leaned in, “It smells so nice, so why does it taste like shit?” 

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll make you a coffee if it’s shit.” 

“You’re kind.” This time when you leaned your shoulder against his, you left it there. The empty soreness like a bruise inside his ribs loosened again. For the first time in a while, he was left with the absence of pain.  

When the tea was done steeping, he did yours with a bit of honey. There was no way you’d take it plain and like it, but he drew the line at milk. Especially the blasphemy that was the military issued powdered milk in a canister that sat on the counter. Abso-fucking-lutely not. 

“There you are,” he said, “Cup of tea.” 

“A proper cuppa,” you tried again. It was a little less posh this time. 

He huffed. “Better all the time.” 

“And I have you to thank.” 

Your face creased as you took the cup between your palms, an unreadable expression flitting across your features. Then your mouth twisted to the side, a sure sign you were attempting to keep some emotion or thought in check. 

Your shoulder was still pressed heavily against his. 

“Thanks, Ghost.” 

“”S just tea.” 

You shook your head and lifted the cup, blowing gently on the surface before you took a tiny sip. He watched your face, watched your throat move as you swallowed, the flickering web of your lashes. A step up, at least, from all the shit tea from your coworkers that make your brows tense in an effort to conceal a grimace. “One good thing has come of this,” you said after a moment of contemplation. 

“What’s tha’?” 

“I know how to make tea for you now.” 

“Like it?” 

“I love it.” 

You briefly tilted your head onto his shoulder, then pulled away entirely. The flood of discomfort was worse than before. His muscles spasmed around it in a violent convulsion. “I mean that really.” 

He breathed out, through it. “I don’t take honey.” 

You studied the contents of the cup, tilting it one way and then the other, like something important laid at the bottom of the porcelain well. 

“Noted.” 

Sure enough, the next day, a hot cup was waiting for him, which he drank as you chatted from behind your computer, decidedly, pointedly, giving him the privacy to do so. 

.

.

.

Things settled into a pleasant rhythm. 

A regimented, regular existence that you had long ago learned to embrace. The base became home more than the tiny apartment you rented and spent only enough time to sleep, bathe, and cook in. 

You timed your days to the ebb and flow of the base, to visits to your office, debriefings and conference rooms, the restless energy of so many people in one place moving. You breathed around absences, the pockets of emptiness that sometimes cropped up. The loneliness that felt like an unfillable pit in your stomach. 

People often saw your scars and thought not to bother. Why would fate have marked you so heavily if you weren’t meant to find your pair? The scars meant nothing, really. They were no more significant than anyone else’s. Your chances of running into your soulmate was no higher than someone who had accrued no scars from their bond. 

You were a stopping off point, a bit of fun, but not someone to invest time and effort into, not when the reminder that someone else might come along and render it all moot was so visible, so literally in their face. To look at you was to be reminded of that bond waiting in the wings, for them and for you, and that you could only ever be temporary. 

It made friendships hard too. Some were jealous, others thought there couldn’t be room for anyone else in your life. You were important to no one.

It had been proven to you time and again, and you weren’t sure what kept you hopeful that someone would one day see past it. So when Sergeant Davies stuck his head in your office one Friday afternoon long after Ghost had departed your office for the day, and asked you out, you found yourself saying yes. 

“Would you like to go out sometime?” He asked, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Just round the pub for drinks?” 

“Oh,” you said. “I—” 

It had been a long time since anyone took interest in you. You’d only talked to him a few times before, but Davies was handsome in a boyish way and sweet and you liked him well enough, you found yourself hesitating for half a second. To your horror, your mind flashed to Ghost, stomach lurching painfully, a knot of tension fisting itself in your chest. 

You looked at his usual chair, empty now, seeing his large frame sprawled there anyway, thighs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, eyes steady and focused, locked onto you with an intensity and constancy you still weren’t used to.

Heat bloomed in your lungs, crept up your neck. You glanced away, back at Davies waiting at the door. 

“Yeah,” you answered firmly. “Sure.” 

“Brilliant,” he grinned. “How about tonight?” 

Your belly gave another sour squirm that you ignored; it had just been a long time, that was all. “I’m free.” 

“Brilliant,” he said again. “I’ll text you.” 

“Okay.” 

His grin was crooked and self satisfied as he exited your office. 

So you found yourself walking off the base with Davies later that evening. You found yourself laughing and hopeful in a local pub that you hadn’t gotten the chance to explore yet, busy as you were, the base a tide that tugged you back again and again. Like a magnet, you wanted to be there. 

And all of it came to nothing, the moment Davies saw the extent of the scarring when you took him home. It wasn’t just your face, it was your hands and arms and chest and belly. Your whole body was marked, dogeared for someone else. He looked down at you in your bed, his head framed by your ceiling fan and you saw the moment it clicked. The moment it wouldn’t work. 

“Someone out there is really looking for you,” he said. “You’re lucky.” 

“No more than anyone else,” you countered. “You know that’s not how it works.” 

“I know,” he said, pulling on his shirt. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” you said before he kissed your cheek and retreated. 

Still, you didn’t sleep, just laid on your side, half undressed, staring out at a sky that slowly lightened, stars fading, wondering if perhaps your truest fate was to be lonely for your whole life. 

You didn’t hate your scars, or your soulmate. But sometimes you thought it would be easier if you didn’t have one at all. 

.

.

.

Monday. 

There was a knife in Simon’s pocket. 

Not unusual in and of itself, he carried several at all times, slipped into his sleeves and belt and boot. 

The one in his pocket, though, was for you.

A gift, a contingency, and an offer all wrapped in one. 

The knowledge that it was yours was an uncomfortable weight in his chest. It meant admitting he cared enough to procure it, test it, hand it over. 

It wasn’t quite your typical lunch hour, but Ghost was headed to your office anyway. It was sunny, for once, and he expected to find you taking an early break anyway, leaning back in your chair with your headphones on, absorbing the rare rays. 

And, he wanted to be done with it, to stop tapping his pocket repeatedly, checking the blade was still there, like it might have run away. 

Soap had noticed his fidgeting as they all sat through a briefing on intelligence reports with Laswell that morning. Ghost had forced his hand still, exuded a forced calm, but Johnny’s eyes hadn’t turned away. 

When he arrived at your office, deliberately rustling against the doorjamb so as not to startle you, you glanced up and smiled tightly and his plan vanished. 

Something was wrong. The blinds were closed, your office an unusual sea of gray air. Your shoulders were caved inward protectively, your expression wan and closed. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes, your voice was rough when you said, “Hey, Ghost.”  

Simon took his usual seat, watching you type something, decidedly not looking at him. He watched you, the set of your mouth and eyes. He waited for your chatter to begin but it didn't. 

“All right?” 

“Hm?”

“You’re quiet.” 

“Oh, only one of us is allowed to be quiet?” You joked, but it came out a bit brittle, and worn.

There were, he noticed as he looked at you, circles beneath your eyes. “What ‘appened?” 

You looked up again, and shook your head. “I’m just tired.” 

“Try again.” 

Frustration crept into your features. “Who said I want to tell you?” With that, you ducked behind your monitors.

Simon waited, but you did not reemerge. 

He stood, and rounded your desk. You glanced up then, leaning back when you found him so close. “Jesus, Ghost—” 

“Nice weather.” 

“I can see that.” 

“And you aren’t out there sunnin’ yourself? Something horrible must have happened.” 

Your mouth twisted to the side and you glanced away. “I. . .I’m just being dramatic.”

“C’mon, then.” 

You blinked up at him. “Where are we going?” 

He didn’t answer, but you rose anyway when he tilted his head toward the door. Simon snagged the blanket you’d knitted for him months ago from its place along the back of his chair, finally with a proper purpose, and carried it over his arm. 

“Lunch.” 

You grabbed it and followed him down the hall. Simon shouldered open an external door and held it open for you, the scent of your skin, the warm brush of your body so close to his as you ducked under his arm like a beacon, a light he wanted to follow. 

Carefully, you nudged your shoulder against his as you walked. The familiar sharp, sweet pang whenever you brushed too close together settled in his chest. He wondered if you felt it too, if you felt that sickly flutter in your chest, or if his suspicion that he was holding one end of an untethered bond in his hand was right. 

Just his luck. 

Didn’t matter though. 

He ticked his elbow out a little, and after a moment, you pushed your hand against the inside of his arm. His shoulders loosened; his jaw unclenched. The pain in his chest settled. 

The absence of the ache was intense; he was so used to being in near constant pain. 

“So, what are we doing?” 

“Walking.” 

“I can see that.” 

“Why’re you askin’, then, bird?” 

You huffed but didn’t ask anymore questions as he led you down one concrete pathway. 

The sky was a flawless robin’s egg blue, only a wispy, thin line of cloud on the very distant horizon. The distant shouts of drill instructors snapped in the warm summer air. Your shoulders drooped as you walked, eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds at a time as you tilted your face to the sun, inhaling deeply. 

He led you around the last building in a long line of barracks and brought you to a halt. The only thing beyond was a chainlink fence that marked the edge of the base. A faint breeze coated him in the smell of your skin, settled deep in the well of his lungs. He took a breath, watched your lashes flutter. 

Your thumb stroked a pattern against the inside of his arm, lazy and slow. “You’ve got a soft spot for me, Ghost.” 

He didn’t deny it. 

“What are we doing back here?” 

Ghost pulled away from you with some effort and spread the blanket over the grass. He sat on the concrete steps that led to the back door of the unused barracks.

You sat on the blanket, started to open your lunch and then flopped back in the sun instead. “A usual haunt?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“Secret’s safe with me.” 

“Mind if I smoke?” 

“No.” Then, “I won’t look.”  

He grunted in acknowledgement, rolled the bottom of his mask up, carton of cigarettes and lighter pulled from the depths of a trouser pocket. Simon watched the rise and fall of your chest, tracing the latticework of scars over your face. They looked better on you, he decided. Not as noticeable as his own, faded and light, pencil through wax paper instead of the thick groves of his own. 

They glinted a little in the sun, like the scales of an iridescent fish. 

Your eyes remained peacefully closed, soaking up the sun like a long deprived plant. Sweat beaded along your forehead, and when you pushed up your sleeves, Ghost was reminded that all of you matched all of him.

He recognized a burn mark on your forearm that belonged to him, a cut that wrapped halfway around your wrist. He was pretty sure the burn mark was from a mishandled flare, the wrist scar from a rope that had gotten tangled and burned him. 

Simon wanted to reach down and cup the side of your throat, feel the soft, sun warmed skin beneath his fingers. He wondered if your scars felt the same as his own, rough and grooved. 

Probably not, they were imitations, ungenerous sketchings of his own. 

He’d like to map them all against his own, find out if he bore any of yours. He wouldn’t have noticed something small that you might have collected yourself. A childhood fall, a careless burn while cooking. 

He watched the delicate flex of muscle in your forearms. Your shirt was a little askew, more faded marks left like a tracery of veins on your chest and collarbone and shoulder. It was fucking awful, a wrenching feeling in his chest, to know all that had been inflicted on him, had fallen on you too. 

He wondered about the pain again, imagined you writhing with terror and agony and confusion, every gunshot wound and burn and slash he received an echo inside you. Cigarette burns dotting your arms and wrists when you were just a child, months of pain without end when he was captured and tortured and his life was irrevocably changed. 

Simon wanted to ask, needed to know just how much damage he’d inflicted. But the words stuck in his throat. A fear of knowing, if he asked about the pain, maybe he’d hear other things too, how much you must hate him and didn’t know it was the man in front of you your hate should be directed at.

When he stubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot and rolled his mask back down, you blinked into the sun and exhaled, long and slow, and then sat up, leaning back on your palms. 

“What ‘appened?” He asked.

Your mouth twitched into your usual, if a bit more sheepish, smile. “You’re like a dog with a bone, you know that?” 

“Affirmative,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes and set up straight, brushing your palms together before reaching for your lunch. “I brought something for you.” 

“Stalling.” 

“Pushy,” you countered, giggling, rummaging around in your bag. Your smile faded as you pulled free one of the usual containers, what looked like lasagne within. He watched the edge of your mouth curl, the scar slitted along one side pulling at your expression. “I went on a date this weekend.” 

Ice slid down his spine, curled in a viscous circle in his gut. “Bad date?” 

“No,” you said, shaking your head adamantly, staring down at the container in your lap. “No, it went really well.” You glanced up at him and then dug in your bag again, passing another one to him along with a fork. “Until he saw my—” You fidgeted with your sleeve and then yanked it down. The other followed suit. “My marks. My scars.” 

“He’s a prick.” 

“No, he wasn’t,” you shook your head. “It’s happened before. They see the extent of it, and it’s like something biological clicks. I’m off limits.” You sat your food to the side and wrapped your arms around your knees. “Even though I’m no more likely to find mine than anyone else.” 

You looked very small, and alone at that moment. 

“I know it’s not my soulmate’s fault,” you said quietly. “I know that. I know that. And I don’t blame them for it. But sometimes I get so lonely I just—I wish—I wish I didn’t have one. Sometimes I wish I could hate them.”

The chill spreads outward.  

It was confirmation enough. If you knew, you would hate him. All that repressed, sentimentalized resentment would come bubbling up the moment you were actually faced with the person who so fundamentally changed the course of your life. 

He looked at his scars winking in the sun on your skin and felt a self hatred so intense it nearly made him flinch. He wished he could crawl out of that grave and kill them all over again, slower, just for this. 

You glanced up and smiled tightly. “But I’m a hopeless romantic, and dramatic. It was just disappointing. I always have hope someone will see past it.” You ran your hand over the blanket and unfolded yourself to finally begin eating. “This helped, though,” you said. “Thank you, Ghost.” You nodded at the food in his hands, averted your gaze again. 

And even though you could easily glance at him, Simon pushed up his mask and popped open the lid of the lasagne still warm between his hands. 

You ate together for the first time, in silence in the sun. You closed your eyes, kept your face pointed up and away, a cool breeze ruffling your shirt sleeves. 

“Have you found yours?” 

Simon looked at you, the edge of your jaw, the soft shadows your lashes cast over your ruined cheek. “Don’t think someone like me is meant for one.” 

You nodded. “Me either.”

.

.

.

He walked you back to your office. 

You felt better, settled, but he sort of just had that affect on you, you were coming to find. 

Ghost smelled like sun and freshly mowed grass and cigarette smoke. His shoulder kept touching yours, something in your chest lurching each time, like a rib bone had come loose and was knocking against your heart and lungs. 

Ghost carried the blanket back, folded it and set it carefully along the back of what had become his chair. 

You sat and turned, expecting to find him already silently gone as was his way. 

Instead, he was very close and depositing something on your desk. 

Matte black, compact, deadly, cold to the touch. 

A folded pocket knife sat at the edge of your desk. Ghost loomed over you, his shadow curling around your edges. 

He slid it toward you, watched you fold your fingers around it. For a long moment, each of you was holding it. “What’s this?” You asked when he released it, gloved fingers sliding across your desk, back to his side.  

“A knife.” 

“Oh, really? I've never seen one before.” 

He rolled his eyes. “It’s for you. I’ll teach you how to use it.” 

“Why?” 

“In case you need to.”

“Is this about me staying late?” 

“No.” He did not elaborate. 

“You know I received firearm training. I can shoot a gun. Isn’t a knife a little—” 

“But you don’t carry a gun.” 

“No,” you agreed. “I don’t.”  

He nodded as though that explained it. “Right.” 

You considered it, flipped it open. Deadly, shiny blade newly sharpened and oiled and well cared for. It was odd to be given a weapon, and yet unsurprising where Ghost was concerned. You glanced up, watched his dark, intense eyes flick over your face. You weren’t sure what he was looking for, but his brows knitted the longer you stared at each other. Concern, weariness.

“Okay.”

His shoulders loosened. “Tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow,” you agreed. 

.

.

.

If you thought you would receive one lesson in knifework and be done with it, you didn’t know Ghost very well. 

You only ran drills first, as though Ghost were making sure the physical fitness exam you had to pass once a year was up to scratch. You proved again and again that you could run without getting too winded, disassemble, load, and fire a service weapon. When he was satisfied with that, the real training began. 

You practiced with a rubber blade that bruised when stuck into your ribs. He did not go easy on you. You left the gym battered and bruised, sweaty and just a little bit resentful. But you could break a wrist lock hold, grapple and use your body and size to your advantage. The goal he repeatedly told you, was not to turn you into a fighter or a soldier, but give you an opportunity to get away, to run away.  

What kind of danger he imagined you getting into between the base and your apartment you couldn’t begin to imagine. But you enjoyed spending time with him, enjoyed being in the gym. You found yourself laughing when you were repeatedly slammed into the mat, knife wrested from your fingers. It was fun. And, it was good for you, you decided, even if you thought his intense insistence was a tad dramatic. 

Ghost was a bit dramatic about certain things, you were coming to learn.

This was one of them. You were, you thought with warmth, one of the things he was a bit dramatic about. For whatever reason, you’ve been tucked under his wing, into his shadow. 

On the third week of relentlessly brutal training, you arrived at the base gym, empty as it always was, to find him holding a length of rope. 

You eyed it warily and shifted from foot to foot, amused despite the discomfort. “What do you imagine is going to happen to me?” 

Ghost didn’t answer as you set your bag down and pulled off your sweatshirt. The room was warm, close and humid, the scent of left over dregs of soldiers clogging the room for most of the day. The scent of plastic, lemon disinfectant, and sweat is thick on the air, but when you stepped toward Ghost, his familiar comforting smell of tea and cigarettes washed over you in a vacuous, orbital cloud. 

You looked up just as his eyes slid away from you, blond lashes catching the light, skin pink around his eyes. You’d swear it was a blush if you didn’t know better. “Ghost?” 

“Better to be prepared, yeah?” 

“For what?” All the same, you turned with a sigh. 

After a painfully long moment he stepped close and pressed the dark material around your wrists. His body was warm behind yours for that brief moment even without touching you, like the glow of a heat lamp that made the rest of the room feel cold by comparison. 

His gloved fingers were carefully delicate against your skin. It sent sparks skittering up your arms. What would his bare skin feel like against yours? 

Rough, warm. Safe.  

It’s a thought that had curled its roots into your mind the first time you fell to the mat together and you felt his weight against yours, brief and heavy, but comforting somehow. It wasn’t supposed to be, he was playing predator, it should have been panic inducing. 

Stupid, silly. 

If your most recently failed date had shown you anything, it was that feeling anything for anyone that had seen your scars was a failing venture. And Ghost had seen more of them now, than most. Maybe you should start wearing a mask. 

“What’s the goal today?” You asked, feeling a little like you couldn’t breathe. His warmth and scent and the weight of his presence was overwhelming in a way that made you want to curl into him, gladly suffocate. 

“Same as always,” he answered drolly. “To get away.”

“Hm. I keep thinking you’ll challenge me,” you teased.  

“Not a game, bird.” 

“But what am I meant to do? I can’t fight.” 

“Get out of the bindings. Get to the door.” 

“Is that it?” 

You would swear he’s smirking. “Simple enough, aye.” 

It wasn’t easy. 

For the third time in a row, you landed hard on your back. 

Ghost’s weight was heavy against you, before it lifted away. Your sweaty skin stuck to his hoodie.

Your breath comes in hard, deep pants. Your wrists ached and panic had begun to set in. 

“On your feet.” 

Clumsy as a newborn deer, you stumble to your feet. You had to be faster than him, incapacitate him. “You won’t be getting away from me,” he’d said once, “so you’d have a chance.” It was a compliment; one that said you were doing good. 

It didn’t feel like you were doing good now. 

By the sixth time, you felt raw and helpless, wrists caught at an odd angle beneath you. It wasn’t fun; it wasn’t sparring. You couldn’t manage to wriggle out of the bindings and you were useless at anything he’d taught you without your hands. 

“You’re hurting me,” you gasped. 

He released you immediately and the pressure in your wrists eased. It hadn’t been pain, not really, just panic, just exhaustion. 

But you knew instantly that you’d made a mistake, that he would not take it that way. 

“Shit.” 

.

.

.

The window was open and you were not in your office. 

Simon paused in the doorway, noted your bag on the chair in the corner, the patchwork quilt trailing over the arm of your desk chair and spilling onto the floor. His was gone from the chair. You’d been wandering off without him recently. 

He turned and marched back down the hall. An administrative assistant pointed toward the external door. “Getting sun, she said,” he said. “Sir.” 

Ghost nodded and shouldered the door open. He found you behind the barracks, lying on his blanket, staring up at a patchy sky, slices of blue peaking from between low hanging gray clouds. 

When his shadow fell over you, you opened your eyes and squinted up at him. “Ghost, you’re blocking my sun.” 

“Not much sun to speak of.” You grimace and frown at the sky. “You weren’t in your office.” 

“Sorry, should have left a note.” You patted the blanket next to you. “Sit.” 

Simon sat on the concrete steps. “Where’s your lunch?”

“Forgot it.” 

Worry sprouted, blossomed along his veins, ubiquitous as the pain that accompanies it. 

“Canteen,” he said. “Let’s go.” 

“It’s okay—“

“Wasn’t a suggestion.” 

“You’re bossy,” you said but didn’t move, chin tilted up, eyes flitting shut again. “I’ll have a big dinner.” 

He sighed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, content enough to wait you out and smoke. The clouds continued to gather, putting your beloved sun to rest for the moment. The air grew steadily thicker with humidity. 

“Gonna rain,” he commented. 

You ignored him, eyes squinching closed harder, like you could will the sun to return. He watched you, made himself look at the bruises on your wrists and forearms, he knew there were matching ones on your ribs. They were harmless, just the usual consequence of sparring, but the ones around your wrists—that’s a mistake he won’t soon forget. 

When a fat raindrop landed on your arm, you sat up with a grumble. “Ready now?” He asked, pulling down his mask again. 

“I can see you won’t leave it alone.” 

“Affirmative,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes and started to get to your feet, pausing when he held out a hand to you. You stared for a beat too long before gripping his hand in yours. 

Even through his gloves, it was like being electrocuted. 

You released his hand as soon as you could, eyes skirting his. “Your lead,” you said. “I haven’t had the privilege.” 

He grunted, followed you closely back inside. 

As Simon’s misfortune would have it, Johnny was still in the canteen. 

He lasered in on the pair of you immediately, a grin growing across his face as he approached. “Ach so this is where you’ve been off to LT.”

Ghost herded you into line, a raucous group of new recruits halting their conversation to ogle you before their eyes flicked to his and away, conversation continued at a more subdued level. He shifted closer, between you and them, though you didn’t seem to notice.

“Haven’t been off anywhere,” he grumbled. 

“Who’s this then?” 

You smiled and offered your hand and name. “It’s nice to see that Ghost has bad manners with everyone.” 

“John MacTavish,” Soap said, all charm as he practically bowed. “Call me Soap.”

“Soap,” you giggled. “I’ve seen you in my reports.” 

Soap’s gaze flicked over your face, sharp eyes making the quick calculations that had made Simon hope he wouldn’t be in the canteen. “Are they yours?” 

“Sergeant—,” Ghost said sharply, a warning in his voice. 

But you only laughed and touched your cheek with obvious pride as the line moved up. “No. None of them belong to me. They’re nice though, right?” 

Simon went very still, swore his heart rate slowed. You held out your arm, showed off a sliver flash.

“Very becoming, lass.” 

You smiled again and gestured to your own chin, the side of your head. “Yours?” 

“Aye, all mine.”

“Ah, luck.” 

“Lucky indeed.”

Johnny’s eyes shifted to Simon’s, brows raised, with a look that said he knew. Simon glanced away, gritting his jaw so hard it ached.

 “Am I going to get food poisoning from this?” You asked as a tray was handed over, eying warily what was ostensibly mash, peas and carrots, mystery meat. 

“Probably not,” Johnny answered cheerfully. “Been mostly fine.” 

“Yes, but I think you military people might have tolerance to low levels of poison.” 

“That’s for sure, bonnie.” 

“Bonnie,” you said, giggling. “Are you calling me pretty?” 

Soap covered his heart, balancing his tray with one hand. “You wound me. Simon only keeps us good looking bastards around.”

“Simon,” you said softly, glancing up at him. “I didn’t think anyone knew your name.” 

Ghost didn’t answer for a moment, glaring daggers into the side of Johnny’s head, ignoring the way his heart was clenched so tight it felt like it was in a vise. Simon, his name on your tongue—  

“It’s need to know,” he snapped. 

Your expression folded and you glanced away. “Right, of course. Sorry.”

Simon clenched his jaw so hard it clicked as Johnny shot him a look. “This way, lass,” he said, leading you toward a spot in the corner of the mess. 

“Oh,” you said weakly, “That’s all right. You don’t have to—”

Ghost couldn’t help but notice the anxious look you threw him, the thin line your voice had transformed into. 

Soap wasn’t listening, already talking your ear off, pulling out a chair for you. You smiled and sat and Simon was left to silently watch it unfold. 

.

.

.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap muttered when they’d safely returned you to your office where a contingent of lesser analysts awaited you. The corridor leading away from the now closed door seemed impossibly long. “D’ya know how many people would kill to meet their soulmate? You’ve got yours right under your fuckin’ nose and haven’t even told her yer name!” 

“She doesn’t need to know.” 

“Yer name?” 

Ghost leveled Soap with a stare. 

Soap gaped at him. “Steamin’ Jesus. You aren’t plannin’ to tell the lass at all?” 

“Stay out of it, MacTavish.” 

Johnny followed him down the hall, outside into a bleak, gray drizzle. “You know it can kill you?” Simon kept walking. “Simon.” 

He stopped, glanced at Soap with a warning in his eyes. “Do ya?”

“It won’t.”

Johnny continues anyway, urgently. “There’s a pain, they say, under the ribs when—“

“Stay out of it, Sergeant,” Ghost growled, that very pain growing as it always did as he moved further and further away from you. “It’s nothing.” 

“It‘ll corrode,” Johnny said to his retreating back. “She’ll feel it eventually.”

Simon ignored him. 

But he wondered as he walked away, if he died, if you’d feel the corded snap of his life floating away from yours.  

Somehow, being that sort of ghost, didn’t sit well with him. 

.

.

.

Johnny, predictably, did not stay out of it. 

He regularly and reliably began to show up in your office. More than once, he looped Garrick into accompanying him. Ghost had watched as the same realization Soap had snapped into place on Gaz’s face, and knew it was only a matter of time before Price knew too. 

Luckily, they were the only three on the entire base that could make the connection, that had seen his face, so at least it was done with. None of them said anything to him about it, but there were a lot of worried glances being exchanged. 

Ghost felt the edge of his sanity begin to wear thin the longer it went on, not that there was much left of it in the first place.

The disruption, the infiltration, the distraction grated until his insides felt raw with irritation. He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know, not because he was ashamed, but because you were his, and you didn’t deserve to be burdened by that. He would shoulder that horrible belonging for both of you. 

But the way you’d tenderly touched your cheek remains burned into his memory. The soft look in your eye. The gentle way you and Soap always spoke of soulmates whenever they came up, reverent and tender. 

You enjoyed their company, Johnny and Kyle, and seemed all the better for it. It was clear immediately how much you liked both of them. How much you desperately needed friends. 

Ghost was loath to admit there was a seed of jealousy wriggling in his belly. The easy way you got on with them proof enough that a wire had gotten crossed somewhere, that you were more cursed by him than anchored by.

Then, the gifts left at the edge of your desk began to extend to the lads and not just himself, and it felt vaguely as though he were losing a vital piece of himself to it. 

Then, you stopped coming to the gym. You were gone, office dark, before he could walk you to your car. You went on another date. 

He didn’t know what to do with any of it.

One Tuesday at the end of July you were in your office, but Soap was there before him, tearing into a packet of crisps, lounging in Simon’s chair, patchwork quilt flattened beneath him in a heap. It was hot, and humid, a fan in the corner working overtime, window propped open.

You were happily listening to Johnny explain the ins and outs of football. A match was playing on your computer screen which you’d turned back so both of you could see. 

Your eyes found Simon’s when he paused in the doorway, and you waved him inside, an unsure smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. “Hi, Ghost. Do you keep up with soccer, too?” 

A groan from Soap. “Bloody Americans.” 

“Sorry, sorry. You keep up with footie too, mate?” 

“Horrendous,” Ghost said flatly.

Your smile faltered then brightened again. It didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You should hear my Scottish accent. Soap said I offended every one of his ancestors.” 

“Aye and you did lass,” he said solemnly. “Yeh—” 

“Sergeant,” Ghost interrupted loudly. “Aren’t you due for PT?”  

“Ach, right,” he muttered, getting to his feet, “Thanks for the reminder, LT.” 

“Oh, Soap,” you said, “Hold on.” You rummaged beneath your desk for a long moment, then passed him a brown paper bag full of cookies. “Your favorite, as requested.” 

“You sweet on me or something, bon?”

You rolled your eyes and said, “Out of my office.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Ghost took Soap’s vacated seat, watched you avoid looking at him as you moved things needlessly around your desk, twisted your monitor back around and muted the match. 

The silence was suffocating. 

“All right?” 

You froze, then shuffled the papers together and slid them to a corner of your desk. “I wanted to apologize.” Your voice hitched a little. 

He blinked, taken aback. He didn’t like that you could surprise him. “For what?” 

You bit your lip, fidgeted again. “Your name, I guess. You didn’t want me to know.” Your mouth twisted to the side. “And your team bothering you here—” 

“You’re apologizing for Soap?” 

Your brow furrowed. “Well I encourage it—”

“No.” 

“No?” You shook your head, “and that day in the gym—” You opened and closed your hands anxiously. “I think I upset you.” 

He stared across the room, toward your big, sunny window, all those little potted plants that have flourished through the summer months. Your bug lamp seemed to droop in the heat, sad and watchful. He’d hurt you, and you’d taken the blame. Something horrible lurched in his belly, heavy and unforgiving. “Didn’t. I should have been more careful.” 

“Right,” you said carefully. “So if it’s not that, why are you—” 

He shrugged, watched one of the emerald leaves sway in the warm breeze. “I like you to myself,” he admitted. “Not the best at sharing.”  

“Oh,” you said, voice tender. “Oh.” 

“Mm.” 

“I’ll make space.” 

He didn’t quite understand what you meant by that, but he liked the way it sounded. Space for him. 

“You’ll come to the gym later, yeah?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good.” He stood, deposited your knife, which he’d snagged early in the morning to clean and sharpen, back onto your desk, along with the new box of tea because he noticed you were out the night before. “And don’t tell bloody Soap.” 

“Aye, LT.” 

He chuckled. “Take care of that.” 

“Teach me how?” 

He nodded. 

“Thanks for the tea. I used the last bag yesterday afternoon.” 

“I know.” 

Your smile was soft, your fingers touched his. He breathed a little easier. 

“‘Course you do.” 

.

.

.

Simon couldn’t stop thinking about pain. 

His body functioned at a constant low level of pain, had for years. Maybe it had his whole life, so he tended not to notice it. But the ache you caused had only seemed to grow over time, tendrils spreading to the furthest reaches of his body, the tips of his fingers, the backs of his knees, places he didn’t think could hold pain. 

The intensity increased too, until he could no longer ignore it. It was like a whine, like a child begging to be seen to. 

He kept thinking of your voice, too, dreaming of it. You’re hurting me. Panic ridden, laced with fear.

You said he didn’t, after,  but he didn’t relish the thought of the possibility. Accidentally hurting you, hurting you on purpose. He thought of his mother, doing her best with a brutal man. He was afraid of unknowingly stepping into a cycle, to find himself standing above you one day, drunk, mean, angry. 

You’re hurting me.  

It echoed like a heartbeat. Inevitable. 

You might collect his scars, but he would not add to them with his own hands. He’d rather die; he’d rather be burned alive; he’d rather crawl out of a grave a hundred times over. 

He was afraid of it. Afraid that every terrible aspect of this bond between you could only bring you pain. 

His father loomed in the recesses of his mind, all the violent men he’d ever known, every bloody fist. Simon’s scalp ached, the memories swam behind his eyes. Long nights, wild animals, dead girls. 

There was one person who had a preoccupation with soulmates who was likely to know, who badgered him regularly about eroding the bond, about bond tears and pain. Simon could know, once and for all, if he was the cause of the indirect pain, at least. His own imposed on you, pushed into your skin like a punishment. He could cross that off his long list of sins. 

Johnny, when Simon finally tracked him down, was sat in the armory cleaning a rifle. He watched over his Sergeant's shoulder for a long moment. The methodical movement soothed him, brought his heartrate down a little. 

“Johnny.” 

Soap jumped and glanced around. “Spooky fucker. Should put a bell on ye—” 

“Does she feel it?”

“What—”

He exhaled long and slow. “My pain. If I’m shot tomorrow, would she feel it?”

Soap glanced around, brows raised. “Ye don’t know?” 

“Say I don’t.” 

“No, the lass doesn’t feel it.” Soap turned his wrist, pointed to a scar that was lighter than some of the others, a pale tracery that slipped from the inside of his elbow to mid forearm. “Not mine. Watched it fade in one mornin’. Didn’t feel a thing.” 

Ghost looks at the scar, and Soap lets him. “Tha’ why you haven’t—”

“No.” 

“Why?” 

“Deserves better.” 

Johnny nodded, continued cleaning the rifle. “Thing is, LT. She doesn’t. That’s the point.” 

Well, at least he only had to worry about becoming his father. 

Fucking perfect. 

.

.

.

Two months deployment.  

The pain in Simon’s chest was agonizing, a constant fire. He couldn’t sleep, pain meds did nothing for it. 

He could only wait it out, wait until he was back on base and hope you were in your office, that the solace of your presence in that warm yellow light would be waiting for him. The pain would recede. He needed a plan, though. Clearly it wasn’t fucking viable to just let it go on. It was too distracting and only getting worse. It was no longer something he could ignore. 

Maybe, he didn’t really want to.

Maybe, Johnny was right. 

He half convinced himself that the lancing ache was so bad because you’d been posted somewhere else the last two months and you were further away than ever. Your office would be empty. This was just an agony he would have to learn to live with. 

Finally, though, they were going home. Intel secure. One last building to sweep. Empty. A loaded silence that made the back of his neck prickle. 

Not as empty as they thought. 

Soap steps quickly into the last room ahead of him, gaze sweeping from one side to another before he lowered his weapon and stepped forward. 

Ghost followed quickly, lowered his gun when he saw what Johnny had. Civilians. One curled around the other, sobbing so hard she made no noise. 

When she lifted her face, Simon sucked in a startled breath. She looked like you, only without his scars. There was a mark slowly bleeding into place on her temple, one that matched the gunshot wound of the woman beneath her. 

The wail that suddenly pierced the air was distraught, horrible, a lurch and a bang. 

Soap was there, kneeling, looking for wounds that Ghost knew didn’t exist. Horror froze him for the second time in his life, your face swimming behind his eyes. 

“I thought you said they couldn’t feel it,” he barked. 

“What?” 

“Soulmates.” 

Soap looked at the pair with fresh eyes. 

“They can’t, LT,” Soap said without glancing at him. “It’s no’ that. It’s just—” 

Grief. The unbearable snapping of a fated cord. The tether in his own chest pulsed, ached. He thought of it breaking cleanly in two, as though it never existed, your light snuffed out, leaving him in total darkness again. 

It wasn’t pain she was feeling, it was the absence. 

“Ghost,” Johnny said sharply and Simon finally snapped out of it, went to his side. 

It wasn't worth it, he thought. None of this could be fucking worth it. He was left with the sinking sense that all he could ever do was hurt you. 

All the same, he felt an urgency to go home. To return to your side. To feel your pulse under his fingers. 

Just to be sure. 

It took them a long time to get her to leave the body. 

.

.

.

Task Force 141 was deployed for nearly two months. 

September and October passed slowly, in starts and fits that seemed to drag. 

You developed a pain in your side, a stitch from taking it too hard in the gym you assumed. But nothing seemed to help it. The pang became a prick became a small misery that the base medical staff couldn’t pinpoint the origins of. 

You missed Ghost, and Kyle and Johnny, tolerated the terrible tea your coworkers made for you, went on another series of failed dates, and finally became friends with your cross-hall apartment neighbor. Months of baked goods and hellos finally coming to fruition. Pieces of a life were falling together. 

Finally, they were coming home. You left your offer that night with the assurance that they were uninjured, that Ghost, and likely Soap, would be in your office by noon the next day. 

But Simon still managed to reappear as he always did, silently and without warning. A shadow crossed your back as you were locking your office near midnight, a hand grazed your back. You followed the series of steps you’d been taught months ago. Foot back, elbow out, knife in hand, open, turn—

Your wrist was caught by the flat of his palm, fingers of the opposite hand yanking it from your grip.  

You blinked and breathed out heavily, relieved. The tight tenderness in your side leveled off for the first time in a month. “Ghost,” you murmured, lowering your now empty hand, “You aren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow morning.” 

“That disappointed to see me?” 

No. Never. But he was still in full tactical gear. The skin around his eyes was still layered with eyeblack, exhaustion and an acid tension rolling off him in a thick wave. His gaze was heavy, but steady, assessing you in turn. He smelled like diesel and cigarettes and gun powder. You lifted your chin. “Surprised to see you. Glad to see you.” 

He only flipped the knife around and held it out to you. “Nice work.” 

You smiled as you took the blade and stored it again. “You’re making me paranoid, I think.” 

“Good. Paranoid keeps you alive.” 

His eyes flicked over you, looking long and hard, though for what you couldn’t be sure. He stepped closer, until you were forced back against the door. He towered over you, corralled you back against the cool wood. Soft, dark eyes like wells of ink in the shadow of the hood pulled over his head, searched long enough that you began to worry something was wrong. 

You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. His body was so taut you could feel the tremble of exhausted, overwrought muscle. “Ghost,” you said gently, carefully. “Are you okay?” 

He inhaled deeply, so hard and fast it sounded pained. 

He looked at you again, eyes sliding over you slowly, like he was orienting himself, finding steady ground on which to stand. 

“Why don’t you cover ‘em?”

Your belly clenched. “Cover what?” you queried, silently begging him not to ask that question. 

“Scars.” 

You went still, looking down at your skin. You had rolled up your sleeves earlier in the evening when furious typing had required it. They glinted silver in the low light of the hall. Pretty and delicate as dragon scales. 

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. 

Still, you fought the urge to cross your arms. You hated when he stared at them. 

“Why would I?” You rubbed your wrist. “I don’t want to. They belong to my soulmate.”

He glanced away from you, his jaw tight beneath the mask. “You actually believe in that shite?” His voice was harsh, aggressive in a way he had never spoken to you before. “It’s a bloody children’s tale.”  

You bristled, felt something hard and mean well behind your breastbone in a tight knot. The pain that had been kicking you in the ribs lately reared again, made you wince and cover your side. “Well,” you snapped, gesturing to yourself with your free hand, “these aren’t mine, so I guess I have to.”  

He scoffed and you felt your heart lurch, hurt settling in your gut, twisting an invisible knife that much deeper. You tried to side step him but he didn’t move, a terrible, solid wall of muscle and—anger? Irritation? You couldn’t tell. “What the fuck do you care? Maybe you’re ashamed of yours,” you said roughly, “But not all of us are.” 

His brows furrowed and he shook his head again. “Oh, come off it.” 

“What?” 

“You’re tellin’ me that if you came face to face with the bastard that did this to you, you wouldn’t hate him?” 

Indignation burned a righteous path up your throat. “You don’t get to do that,” you said lowly. 

“You didn’t deny it,” he said. “You would.” 

“No,” you interrupted vehemently, swallowing around the word like gravel in your throat. “No, of course I wouldn’t. It wasn’t done to me, it—” 

But Simon was determined, his mind set. 

“He hurt you, changed the course of your bloody life, whether you want to admit it or not. You’ll hate him for it, love.” 

“For something he went through?” You asked incredulously, defensively. “Do you know how scared I was?” 

Ghost’s eyes went blank, his stare suddenly flat and far away. His gaze drifted from yours, the weight of flinty amber lifted. “Of him,” he said viciously, like something terrible he’d always known had been confirmed. 

“No,” you snarled again, not sure why Ghost was fighting you, not sure why he cared about your scars suddenly. “You aren’t listening. For him.” Your ribs ached, your breath came in short bursts. He was too close, the clashing sensations of safety and agitation calcifying the tension between you into a solid, immutable wall. 

You inhaled shakily through the sudden distress. Your lungs hitched and spasmed before you could suck in a proper breath, feeling faint, glad for the wall behind you. 

He blinked, looked down at you again. “Hey—” 

“I was so scared I would lose him before I ever got to meet him. Ever since I was a kid I’ve had scars. Cigarette burns and scratches, bite marks. I used to hope he was older than me, so it wouldn’t have meant that he—so that he wouldn’t have been—” Agitation rises like a tide, all the nights you’d sat awake watching scars bleed into your skin. Your parents had been unable to look at you in the morning, wondering what the future held for you. What kind of person that child would grow up to be. 

The same fear Simon seemed to be holding onto so tightly. 

You stumbled over his concern, something prickling at the base of your neck. 

“Once,” you continued shakily, “they just kept showing up, day after day, for months. I didn’t know what was happening and there was nothing I could do. I thought he was going to die and I couldn’t help him. I was so worried and all I could do was watch.” 

You met his eyes, saw something so raw and wretched there that you flinched back, closed your eyes, breath caught. 

You aren’t sure when you transitioned to using he instead of they. 

It suddenly didn’t feel like you were talking about someone you hadn’t met yet. 

You thought of how strangely intense he was about you. How you had felt so strongly about him immediately. How the only bit of his skin you’ve ever seen has been around his eyes; the delicate veins at his wrists.

You thought of him making you tea and teaching you to defend yourself. You thought of him walking you to your car and pulling you into sunny days. You thought of all the cups of coffee and boxes of tea, the gentle way he handled the blanket you made him from cheap cotton like it was spun gold. 

You thought of Johnny asking after your scars the first time you met him. How not long after you’d been personally introduced to the rest of the 141 for no discernable reason. How they checked on you. How they were probably the only people that knew what Ghost’s face looked like. 

“No,” you whispered, pieces of a terrible puzzle sliding together in your mind. 

You opened your eyes.  

“Ghost?” you asked softly, tentatively lifting your hand. 

He jerked back. “Don’t do that,” he warned.  

You stepped closer, knowing you were playing with fire, that he might burn you, lash out like a dog with its leg in a trap. 

But if he was yours—

If he was yours, you would not be the one to inflict more hurt on him. 

He did not want this, he did not want you, that much was clear. 

You closed your hand and let it fall, pushed your fist against your heart instead. “I see you,” you said gently. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

“You don’t understand,” he rasped.  

“You survived.” You backed away. “That’s enough. To know you’re okay.” 

The empty spot in your chest ached, seemed to grow tendrils that wrapped around your heart. A bond so close and not latched. Because you haven’t seen him. He has to let you in.

“When you’re ready. If you’re ever ready. I'm here.”

He finally returned his gaze to yours. 

“Did it hurt?” 

“Did what hurt?” You tilted your head but he didn’t answer, just stared at you with big, moon dark eyes, brows pinched inward, eyeblack creating a tiny white line there. “Oh, you wouldn’t know, I guess.” You shook your head, “No I was just scared. Just worried. It didn’t hurt. You’ve never hurt me.” 

He moved so quickly and silently that you jumped when his hand curled around your wrist. Light enough that you could pull away if you wanted.  

“You don’t have to. You never have to. I don’t want to take anything else from you.” 

Ghost hesitated, his chest rising and falling quickly. “Do I have any of yours?” The question was quiet, almost reverent.  

You nodded, “‘Course you do. I fell out of a tree when I was a kid. Gave me a nasty scar on the back of my elbow. I landed on a rock.” 

His eyes flicked away, like he was trying to imagine it. You twisted your arm, showed him the thick line of scar there, totally different than the lighter version of his on your skin. “See? You’ll have that one in the same spot but lighter. Maybe not even visible, since you’re so pale.” 

Your breath caught when he stepped closer, the pain in your chest was so intense it made breathing difficult.

“It’s not fair to you.” 

“What isn’t?” 

“To bloody leave it. Hurts, yeah?” 

You didn’t admit to the spasming in your chest; it wouldn’t help anything. “When have you ever cared about fair?” 

He made a pained sound. “Don’t.” 

“I’m okay. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything from you.”

“You’re supposed to need things from me.”  

He peeled his gloves off, tucked them into his back pocket. The hall was still and silent aside from your combined ragged breathing. It sounded like you’d been running a marathon. “Ghost—” 

“Simon,” he said. “Please, call me Simon.” 

You closed your eyes, felt his hands graze your collarbone, your throat, before anchoring on your jaw, tilting your face up. “Look at me, sweet’eart.” 

“I can’t.” Your voice trembled, tears clogging your throat. 

“Can.” 

Very gently, he leaned down and pushed his forehead against yours. 

You shuddered and swallowed and stepped closer. Simon curled his arms around you, pulled you into his chest. He was so broad and tall, you felt swaddled against him, warm and secure. His scent wrapped around you like ribbons holding you together. “No point dragging it on, yeah? No point you being in pain.” 

“How long?” 

“The whole time,” he admitted after a moment. His voice rumbled against your cheek. It felt like home. “First time I saw you.” 

“You have had this pain for almost a whole year—” 

“Not your fault,” he interrupted, one massive hand sliding down your spine. “Not your fault.” 

You huffed, hooked your fingers beneath his tac vest. “I’m sorry anyway.” You pulled back, felt his arms tighten around you for a moment. He didn’t want to let you go. “Is there anything you need to take care of? Reports or debriefing or something?” 

“No.” 

“Would. . . would you want to come to mine—” 

He reached under your arm and plucked your keys out of the lock before you could finish, guiding you down the hall, his hand never leaving your skin. 

You had never seen Simon outside the base, you realized suddenly, and everything felt vastly more fragile. It also felt as though that hollow pulse in your chest would tear if you were asked to walk away at that moment, something real and physical would tear and drop out of you, an irreparable part of your soul. 

You weren’t sure how you drove home, Ghost huge in your passenger seat, your hands shaking each time he shifted his grip on you. 

In your apartment, you hesitated, not sure where you belonged in your own space anymore. Simon looked strange in your tiny living room, among soft blankets and years of collected books and knicknacks. An all consuming shadow. You wondered if this would end like all those dates, just another failure, another loss. 

When you started to step toward the lamp, Simon’s fingers curled around your wrist to keep you by his side. “No.” 

“Just turning on the lamp.” 

He released you.

As you stepped away, a hollow pulse in your chest retched with pain that made you gasp and clutch the edge of the sofa. It felt real, like something was breaking, jagged edges clawing at the inside of your skin. You wondered what Ghost’s self imposed distance might have done to the bond. There were stories, albeit few, of corrosion. The bond literally rusting out, slowly poisoning the soulmate and their pair. 

“Come ‘ere,” he muttered. “Sit down.”

When his palm cupped your elbow, the world became softer. Like purr instead of a shriek. He guided you onto the sofa. 

Your hands shook when he released you, making quick work of the lamp. The room flooded with soft yellow light. He glanced around. Art on the walls, forest green rug over hardwood floor, molding you had painted a delicate gold. You felt embarrassed of it all suddenly. 

“God,” you muttered. He didn’t seem to feel the pain at all, which made your chest ache in a different way and guilt pool heavily between your bones for it. You didn’t want him to be in pain, but you felt as though you were breathing water, choking on your own lungs. “How have you dealt with this?” 

“Worse now,” he said, though you felt it was his version of a kind untruth. 

He sat next to you, reached for you, then faltered, unsure. You closed the space, folded your fingers between his. The scars made a fucked up little mirror when you looked down at your hands. They matched exactly. “I’m sorry.” 

Simon didn’t answer, but stayed close to you, letting you hold his hand. Even the smallest amount of space between you seemed to burn, a brazier that flared hot and demanded attention. But it was better; just having his bare hand in yours helped. 

“Nothin’ t’be sorry for.” He said after a few minutes of uneven breathing, eyes trained on your hands, thumb running over the back of your fingers. 

“You don’t want me.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

He glanced up, something razor sharp in his eyes. You flinched a little, but his hand tightened on yours. 

“You don’t have to—We don’t have to bond,” you tripped over the last word. “It’s okay.” 

“Obviously it’s not, bird.” 

Your heart sunk and you glanced away. A one in eight billion chance was sitting under your nose for months, and he wanted nothing to do with you. He was being forced into it.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured again. “Ghost, I’m—”

“Simon,” he corrected.  

“Simon,” you echoed. 

He curled his hands around your wrists, lifted your palms to the bottom of his mask. He let your hands settle at the base of his throat, eyes never leaving yours. “I didn’t want you,” he said plainly. “I never wanted you to know.” 

You swallowed and nodded. “I’m s—” 

“No.”

You closed your mouth with a click of your jaw. You don’t expect a speech and he doesn’t give you one. “You deserve better,” he said. “But I’m all you get.” 

His knee touched yours. Your faces were tilted together, so close that the only thing you could see were the soft depths of his eyes reflecting the gold light.

It didn’t feel close enough. 

You wished it were all different. 

That he didn’t feel forced, that you were what he wanted. 

“I deserve you. Isn’t that the point?” 

He watched you for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, then nodded. 

“Go on, then.” 

Your throat felt tight as you tugged the mask upwards, heart lurching when you recognized the same scar on your throat on his. You pushed the fabric over his chin and mouth, up until you could pull it over his head. 

You looked at him, the same scar over his mouth, along his cheek, the bridge of his nose was nicked, the outline of burn scarring crossed the edge of his jaw and neck. When you looked past that, you saw him. Crooked nose, thick, furrowed brows, dark eyes you’d loved for a long time cast darker by the black around them, light eyelashes and hair, longer on top and curling. 

Something seemed to. . .snap then. A warmth broke between you, filled that awful, dark, pained well in your chest. It hurt, but the pain was brief, like stitches done by a seasoned medic. 

Breathing was easier. You could feel the pulse of him without the threat of imminent pain. It was a warm, comforting, safe thing in your lungs. You inhaled, attempted to stand, to give him a bit of space. “Should be able to separate now. Shall we test it—” 

You didn’t get a chance to move away, tugged suddenly from your seat and into his lap. You fell heavily against his chest, wrapped tightly in his arms, foreheads slanted together. 

“No,” he said, sounding, for the first time since you’ve known him, breathless. “No.” 

“I don’t want to.” 

“Good.” 

“Can I touch you?” 

“Can do anything you like to me, bird.” 

You stroked the side of his throat, felt him shiver. “Well, I won’t. Not anything.” 

He made a content noise of agreement. 

You touched his jaw, his cheek, the tail of his brow, the faded check through it that you’d never noticed matched your own. His arms tightened around you in increments until the pressure forced you to take shallow breaths. “You’re beautiful.” 

“Lookin’ in a mirror, are you?” 

“Sort of,” you answered. “A little.” 

His hands shifted, anchored on your hips, and pushed you back a little. 

Disappointment that it was over so soon pinched at your throat but you backed off, attempting to slide from his lap. His hand caught at your hip. “Stop trying to bloody move.” 

“What—” 

He was only taking off the vest, which probably should have been left at the base. It dropped heavily to the floor as he pulled you against his chest. It was warmer, softer like that, thick muscle coiled beneath your cheek when you rested it against his shoulder, heartbeat hard against yours.  

“No more pain?” 

“None.” 

“Good.” 

You pushed your face against his throat, felt him tense and then uncoil. One large hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you there. You brushed your lips against his pulse point, felt a scarred flutter against your mouth, a muted grunt.

“You’re all I want,” you admitted quietly. “I think I knew. I think everyone knew. I’m sorry,” you finally said, “that I’m not who you need.”  

His hand squeezes your neck and then he’s pushing you down against the cushions, pressing one massive thigh between your legs, hauling you closer like it could never be close enough. The space between your bodies would always be too large, because you couldn’t climb into his chest, nest among his veins. 

It would have to do then, his hand tilting your jaw up, his eyes searching yours as you part your lips. 

“You are, sweet’eart,” he said simply, mouth brushing yours before he kissed you properly. 

He tasted of black tea; his eyeblack rubs off on your temples. 

Already, he was leaving pieces of himself behind with you to mark safe.

“Simon,” you murmured against his mouth. Just to say it, just to be rewarded with a shudder.

The kiss slipped into something more desperate, your hands felt the skin of his back, your own scar on his elbow, and you thought, maybe, you could become what he needed.  

You stepped outside, the chill biting at your skin through the worn fabric of Joel’s flannel you’d pulled on. In your hands, his coffee mug, a brown owl printed on the side, the glaze cracked, and a chip missing from the rim. The scent of the coffee curled up in the air between you.

“Joel?” you called, voice soft but carrying in the stillness.

He glanced up, a small, crooked smile flickering across his face. He gave you that look, the one that meant I hear you. I’m not done yet, as the hammer in his hand didn’t pause.

You sank into the rocking chair with a quiet sigh, setting the mug on the side table. The wood was rough and sun-bleached beneath your fingertips. Joel’s guitar rested nearby, strings catching the light like spider silk. You reached for it, the weight familiar and comforting.

A tentative strum sent a warm, uneven chord into the morning air. You tried to recall the chords Joel had shown you the week before, your hand stumbling over the frets. It was hard to focus when your eyes kept drifting back to him. The way his hands gripped the hammer, strong and steady, veins like old rope beneath sun-darkened skin. Those hands had carried you through storms, patched roofs, and pulled you close in the dark.

Even now, they distracted you.

You shook your head, chasing away the images of Joel’s hands—rough, scarred, so impossibly gentle when they held the guitar. But it was no use. The memory of his fingers moving over the frets, coaxing out soft, aching notes, settled stubbornly in your mind. 

You exhaled, glancing down at your clumsy and uncertain hands. The guitar felt heavier now; its neck was too broad, and the strings bit into your fingertips like always.

Still, you tried.

Your fingers fumbled for the shape of the chord he’d shown you days before. A rough pluck, then another. The opening notes of Make You Feel My Love drifted thin and uneven, snagging on missed strings and hesitant pauses. It was a ghost of the song, fragile and unfinished, but it filled the quiet morning.

You grimaced at a wrong note, muttering under your breath, “Shit.”

From down by the fence line, the steady thud of hammering stopped.

A beat later, you heard the crunch of boots over the leaves, and Joel’s silhouette appeared leaning against the porch railing, his expression softened by the early light.

“Didn’t mean to distract you,” you teased, setting the guitar in your lap like it might hide the heat rising to your cheeks.

He huffed a quiet laugh, wiping his hands on a rag tucked into his back pocket. “Sounded like someone was tryin’ to murder that poor guitar.”

You shot him a look, but his grin was fond, the kind that melted you down to your bones.

“Here,” he said, crossing the porch and lowering himself beside you. His hands covered yours, guiding your fingers to the right frets. The scent of cedar and earth clung to him.

“Like this,” he murmured, the words threading through the still air. His thumb brushed the strings, and the note rang out clean and sweet.

You swallowed hard, your gaze fixed on his hands as they moved yours, calloused fingers coaxing the right shape out of yours. The steady warmth of his skin against yours made it impossible to concentrate, and you didn’t even try to pretend otherwise.

“Eyes up here, sweetheart,” Joel murmured, the pad of his finger hooking gently under your chin, tipping your face toward him.

Your eyes met his, heat rushing to your cheeks like you’d been caught doing something scandalous. “Sorry,” you muttered, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips.

Joel chuckled, the sound curling around you like the morning chill. “You make an old man like me feel downright irresistible,” he teased, a crooked grin settling.

“Joel,” you huffed, nudging his knee with yours, “you’re my husband.”

He shrugged, his thumb still tracing lazy circles against the back of your hand. “Yeah, well… still. You’re sittin’ here blushin’ over my hands like we’re a couple’a teenagers behind the bleachers. It’s weird.”

You laughed, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. “Can’t help it,” you said, leaning your shoulder against his. “You’ve got good hands. And I happen to like the way you use ‘em.”

He snorted at that, shaking his head, but his grin softened, his gaze lingering on you a little longer. “Keep talkin’ like that, darlin’, and I ain’t gonna be much help with your playin’.”

“Was hoping you’d say that,” you whispered loud enough for him to hear.

Joel groaned good-naturedly, leaning in to press a quick, scratchy kiss to your temple. “Troublemaker.”

“Alright, alright. Just help me,” you finally relented, the words slipping out on a breathy laugh.

Joel’s grin spread across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners. He reached for you without a word, his hands settling at your waist. You barely had time to react before he plucked you right out of the rocking chair like you weighed nothing.

A surprised little gasp escaped you, your hands catching at his shoulders. “Joel!”

He huffed a laugh, sinking into the chair with you cradled against him. The old wood creaked beneath his weight. His arm looped around your middle, pulling you close.

“Oh yeah, that’ll help me focus,” you snorted, wriggling slightly in his lap, the corner of your mouth twitching.

“Quit your squirmin’,” Joel said, his voice low and warm against your ear. “Or I’ll find a better way to distract you.”

You laughed, leaning back against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. The world felt quieter like this, the morning sun brushing over the porch, the faint cluck of chickens in the yard, and Joel’s familiar, steady presence wrapped around you.

“Now,” he said, reaching for the guitar and settling it across both your laps, “let’s see if we can’t keep you from murderin’ this poor thing.”

You grinned, your fingers brushing against his as you both found the strings. “If I mess up again, you can’t make fun of me.”

“No promises, darlin’,” Joel murmured, kissing your temple before guiding your hand to the first chord.

Joel’s hands covered yours, his calloused fingers guiding yours along the strings as the melody stumbled back to life. It was shaky, a little uneven, but better than it had sounded when you’d been struggling on your own. 

“Just relax,” Joel murmured, his thumb brushing slow circles against the inside of your wrist. The warmth of his touch chased away some of the tension coiled in your shoulders.

“I’m tryin’,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut for a second, savoring the quiet kindness in his touch.

Joel chuckled under his breath, his voice brushing the shell of your ear. “Maybe Ellie oughta be the one teachin’ you. You wouldn’t be actin’ all—”

“No!” you cut in too fast, your voice sharper than you meant. His brow arched, a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at you.

“Oh?” he drawled, teasing laced in every syllable.

You huffed, feeling the heat creep up your neck. “I like you teachin’ me,” you admitted, your voice softening, “I just… get a little distracted by how handsome you are.”

Joel snorted, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he heard, but the pink dusting his ears betrayed him.

“Jesus, woman,” he muttered with a grin, nudging his nose against your temple. “You’re somethin’ else.”

You grinned, leaning into him, letting the moment settle around you like a favorite old quilt — frayed at the edges but warm where it counted. His hands tightened gently around yours, guiding your fingers back to the strings.

“Alright then,” he said, his voice rough and fond. “From the top. And quit makin’ googly eyes at me while we’re at it.”

“No promises,” you shot back, smiling as you let him pull you through the notes again, your fingers clumsy but eager.

Somehow, you managed to focus, obedient under Joel’s steady hands. He guided you through the chords, his touch gentle, patient in a way only he could be. The notes came softly and unevenly, but they came, and that was enough.

You’d never been able to play without singing. The words found their way out even when you barely knew the notes. Quiet at first, more of a hum than a song as it filled the space between you.

Joel let out a soft sigh, sounding more like contentment than exhaustion, and lowered his head until it rested against your shoulder. 

The melody drifted over the porch, catching in the cool morning air. Your voice was unsteady, but Joel didn’t seem to care. His arm slipped around your waist, holding you closer, and you could feel the curve of his smile against your neck.

“You sound real pretty, sweetheart,” he murmured, like gravel warmed by the sun.

Your fingers faltered for a beat, your heart stuttering at the words. You turned your head slightly, your cheek brushing against his. “Only ‘cause you’re helpin’ me,” you whispered.

Joel chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest against your back. “Nah. You’d be somethin’ special with or without me.”

The porch, the rising sun, the whole vast, broken world seemed to narrow down to just the two of you — the old guitar balanced across your laps, your voices tangled together in a half-remembered tune, and Joel’s steady warmth anchoring you to the here and now.

You kept playing and singing, just for him.

And he stayed right there, head on your shoulder, like he belonged nowhere else.

“Quit fussin’, it’s just Ellie—” Joel started, his voice carrying that familiar mix of fondness and exasperation as he leaned against the doorframe, watching you pace the kitchen.

You glared at him over your shoulder, though there wasn’t an ounce of real heat behind it. “It’s not just Ellie,” you huffed, gesturing wildly with the dish towel. “It’s Ellie, Dina, JJ, Tommy, and Maria coming over. So no, I won’t quit fussing. I’m a host, Joel—”

Before you could finish your sentence, Joel crossed the room in a few unhurried strides, slipping his arms around your waist from behind. His chin came to rest on your shoulder, stubble scraping lightly against your skin, and he pressed a soft kiss to the side of your face.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “you’re actin’ like the goddamn Queen of England’s comin’ over.”

You sighed, your body instinctively leaning back into his, the tension bleeding from your shoulders a little at his familiar weight. His hands settled against your stomach, rough palms warm through the thin fabric of your shirt.

“It’s family,” he went on, swaying you both slightly in place. “Ain’t nobody comin’ here to judge the state of the house or whether you baked enough pies.”

You let out a reluctant laugh, dropping your head against his shoulder. “I just want it to be nice. It’s been a while since we had everyone here at once.”

Joel’s fingers gave your waist a gentle squeeze. “It’s already nice, darlin’. ‘Cause you’re here. And I’m here. And there’s gonna be food, bad jokes, and probably Ellie makin’ fun of me at some point.”

You grinned at that, turning in his arms to face him. “She is ruthless.”

“Downright cruel,” Joel agreed, his grin lazy and fond as he leaned in to brush his nose against yours. “Now, how ‘bout you let me finish settin’ the table while you stop rearrangin’ them biscuits for the third time?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t protest when he stole another kiss, his thumb stroking lazy circles against your hip.

“Okay,” you breathed, the word soft as you finally let the biscuit drop from your fingers onto the plate. Joel squeezed your hip before releasing you, moving easily around the kitchen to help.

It didn’t take long for the two of you to fall into your old, familiar rhythm — him chopping vegetables while you stirred the gravy, the clatter of dishes and the low hum of the wood stove filling the space between you. Joel hummed under his breath, some old tune you half-recognized, and you found yourself relaxing into its simplicity.

But your ears kept flicking toward the window.

The sound came slowly at first—the faint, steady rhythm of hooves on hard-packed earth. Your pulse kicked up, just a notch, as it always did when they came down the road. It wasn’t far from Jackson to here, but every trip made your stomach twist in the same anxious knot. The world was quieter now, safer in some ways, but old habits died hard.

Joel must’ve heard it too, because he straightened up, wiping his hands on a dish towel as his gaze shifted toward the porch.

“They’re here,” he said, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You moved to the door without thinking, pushing it open just as Ellie’s voice rang across the yard.

“Y’all better have food ready!” she hollered, perched high on her horse, Dina behind her. JJ was cradled in Dina’s arms, bundled tight against the cold, cheeks flushed pink from the wind.

The tightness in your chest eased at the sight of them. 

Joel stepped up behind you, his hand settling on the small of your back like it always did. “There’s my girls,” he murmured, voice rough with fondness.

JJ spotted you and let out a happy little squeal, wriggling in Dina’s arms and waving a mittened hand. The sound made something warm and aching bloom in your chest.

“Hey, potato,” you called, waving back, already reaching for the spare quilt draped over the porch rail. “Bet you’re frozen solid, huh?”

“Mom’s been riding like a damn maniac,” Ellie grumbled, but she was grinning.

Dina laughed. “Kid loves it. Don’t let her fool you.”

Joel chuckled, heading down the steps to help them unload. “You all drive your old man to an early grave, you know that?”

“Too late for that,” Ellie shot back. Joel answered with a mock scowl, the kind meant to cover how goddamn pleased he was to see her in one piece, and it didn’t fool a soul.

You glanced past them, scanning the tree line, as if maybe Tommy and Maria would come riding up any second, but the road stayed empty.

“Where’s Tommy and Maria?” you asked, shifting JJ in your arms as he reached up, tiny gloved fingers curling around the collar of your shirt. You tucked the quilt closer around him, his nose cold against your neck.

Ellie swung her leg over her saddle, boots hitting the dirt with a soft thud. She exchanged a glance with Dina, something quiet passing between them before she spoke. “Y’know how it is,” she said, voice a little softer now, less sharp around the edges. “Maria’s got a town to run. Tommy wanted to stick around and help out.”

Joel’s jaw ticked, and you felt his hand brush against yours as he took JJ’s little mittens off, rubbing warmth into the boy’s tiny fingers. Neither of you needed it spelled out — it was code for they’re still working through it. The same way people said she’s just tired or he just needs space—small words for heavy things.

You exchanged a glance with Joel, and both nodded. It was the kind of shared understanding you didn’t need to speak aloud. You hoped they’d find their way back to each other. It was a hard world to stay soft in, harder still to hold on to the ones you loved.

Joel cleared his throat, shaking the tension off with a practiced ease. “Alright,” he said, jerking his head toward the house. “Let’s get inside. Food’s ready, and it ain’t gettin’ any hotter.”

JJ squealed at the sound of food, not knowing what the word meant, and you laughed, kissing the top of his head.

“Bet you made that cornbread I like,” Ellie teased, stepping beside Joel as they headed for the porch.

“Made two pans,” he grunted, side-eyeing her. “One for the rest of us, one for you, since you eat like a damn wolf.”

Ellie smirked. “Guess that makes you the old dog, huh?”

Joel shot her a look, but it was all warmth. Dina chuckled, and you cradled JJ a little tighter, feeling the old porch boards creak under your feet as the house filled with voices, laughter, and family.

After dinner, the lot of you settled into the living room, the last of the evening light giving way to the glow of the fireplace. The scent of woodsmoke clung to the air, mingling with the lingering warmth of cornbread and roasted vegetables.

JJ was perched happily in Joel’s lap, his tiny fingers tangled in the buttons of Joel’s flannel as he babbled nonsense words, occasionally punctuated by an enthusiastic slap to Joel’s chest. Joel bore it patiently, one big hand keeping the boy steady while the other cradled a half-full glass of whiskey.

Ellie was sprawled across the floor in front of the hearth, one leg stretched out, the other bent, picking at a loose thread on her sock. Dina sat cross-legged beside her, leaning into Ellie’s shoulder as they swapped stories about Jackson’s latest gossip. Who was sneaking out after curfew, which old timer claimed he’d seen a clicker near the old mill, and a petty feud over who had the nicest tomatoes this season.

“I swear to God,” Ellie snorted, tossing a peanut shell into the fire, “if I hear one more argument about whose chickens lay better eggs, I’m movin’ to another town.”

Dina grinned. “Sure you are. You barely leave your house unless there’s food involved.”

“I leave for important things,” Ellie shot back, smirking. “Food. Booze. Threatening people.”

Joel grunted, taking a slow sip from his glass. “Sounds like a hell of a role model for this kid,” he muttered, jostling JJ gently.

JJ let out a happy squeal, and Ellie pointed a finger at Joel without missing a beat. “You’re one to talk, old man. Kid’s already learning how to scowl just like you.”

“He’s got my charm, too,” Joel drawled, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin.

“God help us all,” you teased from where you sat curled up on the couch, a warm quilt draped over your lap.

Joel’s gaze flicked over to you, the firelight catching the soft curve of his smile. “You love it,” he said, voice quieter, meant just for you.

You smiled, eyes soft as they lingered on him, the flicker of firelight catching in the lines of his face. “’Course, I do,” you murmured, the words easy and sure, like saying I love you without needing to.

Leaning forward, you reached your arms out, palms open. Joel gave a mock sigh, shaking his head like it was the greatest burden in the world, though the warmth in his eyes betrayed him.

“Alright, c’mere, you little traitor,” Joel grumbled good-naturedly, lifting JJ from his lap.

The boy let out a delighted squeal, wriggling excitedly when Joel passed him over. His tiny hands immediately latched onto your collar, tugging with surprising strength as if you’d been gone for hours instead of minutes.

“Hey, little man,” you cooed, settling him against your hip as he giggled, his face nuzzling your neck. His skin was cool from sitting near the window, and he smelled like woodsmoke and cornbread crumbs.

“Already got him spoiled,” Joel teased, leaning back in his chair with a smug little grin. “Can’t stand to be five feet from you.”

“And yet you pretend like you’re not the same,” you shot back, raising a brow at him.

Ellie groaned dramatically from her spot by the hearth. “God, you two are worse than a couple of teenagers.”

“Don’t start, kiddo,” Joel replied without missing a beat, earning a laugh from Dina.

You just shook your head, rocking JJ gently in your arms as his giggles turned to soft, contented little sighs, his weight settling warm and steady against your chest. With the fire crackling low, the room bathed in soft, flickering light, and your family gathered close. You thought — this, right here, might be what peace feels like.

“Would you stop squirming?” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep. Your words slurred a little as you reached blindly across the bed, fingertips searching for him in the dark.

Joel grunted, the soft, rough sound you’d heard a thousand times — equal parts irritation and tenderness. He batted your hand away with little force, and when you opened your eyes, you found him sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand kneading at his knee.

The room was dim, and the dying fire cast a faint orange glow across the worn wooden floorboards. The wind rattled against the window panes, reminding you of the cold biting at the world outside.

Your expression softened, the haze of sleep falling away as you took him in. The tight line of his shoulders and thumb worked over the same spot as it might undo years of aches.

You shifted closer, the quilt dragging with you, and reached out to touch his shoulder, your hand warm against the chill of his skin. “C’mere,” you coaxed softly, your thumb brushing the curve of his neck.

“I’m fine,” Joel grumbled, though the rasp in his voice and the way he lingered beneath your touch said otherwise. “It’s just goddamn cold.”

“Stubborn,” you muttered under your breath, catching the faintest twitch of a smile from him.

Before he could argue, you gave his shoulder a nudge and tugged him gently back down. He sighed, a little huff of resistance that didn’t stick, and let you guide him onto his back.

“You could’ve cuddled up to me for some warmth, y’know,” you teased, shifting so you could settle against him, one leg draping over his, careful of the knee you knew gave him hell.

“Mmm,” Joel grunted, but he didn’t move away. His arm slipped around your waist, fingers curling at the curve of your hip, holding you like he always did.

You reached for the salve on the nightstand, the little tin cold against your fingers, and without a word, you pulled back the covers just enough to bare his knee. The scars there were old, pale against his skin, but you knew them like you knew the lines of his face.

He hissed softly when your fingers brushed over the tender spot.

“Easy,” you murmured, working the salve in slow, practiced circles. The scent of eucalyptus and pine filled the space between you. “I got you.”

Joel let out a long, quiet sigh, the tension leaving his shoulders as he closed his eyes.

“Dunno what I’d do without you,” he muttered.

“Good thing you’ll never have to find out,” you murmured, leaning in to kiss his shoulder.

Outside, the wind rattled against the side of the house, making the windowpane shudder in its frame. You glanced back at it instinctively.

“Don’t worry about it,” Joel whispered, his version of a promise. You knew that tone — it meant he’d be out there first thing in the morning with a hammer in hand, probably cursing under his breath the whole time.

You nodded, stifling a yawn behind your hand, then reached over him to tuck the tin of salve back into the nightstand drawer. The quilt slipped down your shoulder, cool air brushing your skin. You moved to pull away, but Joel’s hand shot out, catching you by the wrist.

You paused, hovering above him, a sleepy chuckle slipping from your lips. “What?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted from your face down to where the neckline of your nightgown had dipped, a bit of cleavage visible in the low light.

“Just admirin’ the view,” he drawled, one brow lifting, that unmistakable smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You huffed a laugh, rolling your eyes as you swatted lightly at his chest. “Old man,” you teased, but there was no bite.

“Hey,” Joel murmured, catching your hand in his again, holding it against his chest. His voice softened. “Lucky old man.”

Your smile returned, slower this time. You kissed him softly before pulling the quilt around you both.

“Go to sleep, Miller,” you whispered against his lips.

Joel let out a low, contented grunt, sinking deeper into the mattress as his arm tightened around your waist, pulling you snug against him. The moonlight’s glow painted soft silver lines across the room, flickering over the weathered planes of his face.

“Can’t sleep,” he whispered, voice rough and lazy, “when I’ve got a beautiful wife lyin’ next to me.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, the sound small and fond in the hush of the room. You opened your mouth to toss some teasing remark back, but the words caught in your throat when Joel’s hand slid lower, settling at the curve of your butt, his palm warm through the thin fabric of your nightgown.

Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut at the easy, familiar touch.

“One who takes care of me,” Joel went on, voice barely above a whisper now, “even when I’m too damn stubborn to deserve it.”

Your heart tugged at that, the quiet sincerity in his words weaving through your chest like thread. You shifted, lifting yourself just enough to lean over him, one hand brushing through the soft, graying hair at his temple.

He tilted his face toward you instinctively, and you pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the scar that cut across the bridge of his nose. The old wound was a rough line beneath your lips, a story you didn’t need retold because you already knew it by heart.

Joel let out a breath, his hand flexing against your hip. “You always do that,” he murmured, a little wonder in his voice.

“Do what?” you asked softly, resting your forehead against his.

“Kiss that ugly thing,” he said, the faintest trace of a smile playing at his lips.

You smiled too, fingers tracing down the side of his face. “Ain’t ugly to me.”

The wind rattled against the window again, and Joel’s other hand cradled the back of your head, holding you there like he couldn’t quite bear to let go.

You closed your eyes, your words catching in your throat, settling somewhere deeper than speech. You kissed him again, slow and lingering, savoring the taste of him, the scrape of his stubble, the warmth of his breath against your skin.

“Gettin’ me all warm now, darlin’,” Joel rumbled against your lips, that lazy grin you could feel more than see.

You smiled, dragging your teeth lightly over his bottom lip before pulling back just enough to whisper, “Maybe that was the plan.”

Your hands roamed up his chest, fingers threading through the soft hair dusting his skin, the heat of him under your palms chasing away the last of the chill. His muscles tensed under your touch, a low sound catching in his throat.

“That so?” he muttered, and before you could answer, his hand slid down, fingers digging roughly into the curve of your ass. The sudden squeeze made you gasp, your body arching into him, a spark of arousal pooling low and thick between your thighs.

“Joel,” you breathed, as his mouth moved to your jaw, then lower — hot, wet kisses trailing down your throat, teeth grazing just enough to leave your skin tingling.

In one easy motion, he rolled you onto your back, settling between your legs, his weight delicious and solid above you. His mouth found your collarbone, where the strap of your nightgown had slipped down, and he followed it with his lips, pressing hot kisses to every inch of exposed skin.

“Oh, fuck, Joel,” you whimpered, your hips shifting restlessly beneath him, desperate for more.

That earned you a smirk, the kind that made your stomach flip. “Such a dirty mouth,” he teased, voice rough against your skin. “Oughta put it to good use.”

He kept kissing lower, his stubble scraping a path down your chest as his hands found the straps of your nightgown, tugging them down your shoulders, dragging the thin fabric with agonizing slowness.

“But,” Joel murmured, his mouth trailing over the swell of your breast, “I wanna make my beautiful wife feel good first.” His gaze flicked up, locking with yours filled with warmth and hunger.

You bit your bottom lip, a whimper catching in your throat, your body already trembling beneath him. “Joel… please,” you whispered, the ache inside you sharp and sweet.

He groaned softly at that, clearly savoring the way you begged for him. “Mmm, what a good girl,” he rasped, his breath hot against your sensitive skin as he kissed over one nipple, his hand kneading the other, rough palms and gentle touches making you shudder.

“Don’t have to beg, honey,” he murmured. “Just relax… let me take care of you. You’ve earned it.”

Joel’s mouth drifted lower, leaving a heated trail of kisses from the swell of your breast to the edge of your nightgown. His stubble scraped over your skin, a delicious contrast to the warmth of his lips. You shivered beneath him, your fingers threading into his hair, clinging just enough to make him smirk against your skin.

Without a word, he shifted down, settling between your legs. His big hands slid up your thighs, rough palms coaxing the nightgown higher, the fabric bunching around your hips until you felt the cool air of the room kiss against your bare skin.

Joel stilled momentarily, his gaze locking on the sight of you lying open for him. A low, guttural groan rumbled from his chest, his thumb grazing along the soft inside of your thigh.

“Fuck,” he rasped, his voice rough. “So goddamn pretty.”

You let out a soft whimper, your hips tilting instinctively toward his touch.

His hands spread you open with practiced, careful ease, thumbs pressing into your skin, the pressure just enough to make your breath hitch. Joel leaned in, pressing a slow, unhurried kiss to the top of your pussy, the heat of his mouth making you jolt.

“Been thinkin’ about this all damn day,” he groaned against you, his breath hot, the gravel in his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “You always get me like this.”

Your fingers tightened in his hair as he kissed lower, teasing, taking his time like he wasn’t in any rush to let you go. His tongue flicked out, a light, maddening touch that had your thighs trembling around him.

“Joel—” you gasped, your head tipping back into the pillows.

He chuckled, and glanced up at you from between your legs, his eyes heavy-lidded and hungry. “Patience. Gonna take my time with you tonight.” His hands smoothed over your thighs, thumbs pressing gently into your skin.

You barely managed a nod, your fingers threading into his hair, the strands warm and soft under your touch.

Then Joel’s mouth was on you again. His tongue moved with maddening precision, every flick and stroke drawing out a fresh wave of heat that made your back arch and your breath break apart. He wasn’t in any rush, savoring every sound you made, every tremble in your thighs, the way your hands tightened in his hair when you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Christ,” you gasped, a soft, helpless sound you didn’t mean to make.

Joel’s grip on your hips tightened, holding you steady as he looked up at you again, his lips slick and curved in the faintest smirk. “That’s it, honey,” he rasped. “Lemme hear you.”

Joel’s mouth never relented, his tongue and lips working you open with devastating precision. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking soft, soothing circles against your skin even as he kept you pinned in place. Every flick of his tongue, every careful pull of his lips sent another pulse of heat through you, winding you tighter and tighter until you felt like you might come apart.

And then you did.

Your body arched, a choked cry slipping from your lips as release crashed over you. Joel groaned against you, the low, rough sound sending another shiver through your spent body. He didn’t stop — his mouth gentler now, but still savoring you, lapping up every last tremble, every aftershock, until you were breathless, your voice wrecked from the way you gasped his name.

“Joel… please,” you managed between shallow breaths, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging lightly as the overstimulation made your thighs twitch around him. “I can’t—”

He chuckled, a satisfied sound that rumbled against your skin. Pressing a tender kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another a little higher, his scruffy beard grazing your sensitive skin in a way that made you shudder.

“Alright, alright,” he murmured, voice rough and full of affection. “Wrecked you good, huh?”

You let out a shaky laugh, your chest still heaving, as he kissed his way up the length of your body, savoring every inch like it mattered. When he finally reached your mouth, he paused, cradling your jaw as his thumb brushed your cheek.

Joel kissed you, deep and warm, tasting you and lingering with want.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath in the hush of the room.

“Love seein’ you like that,” he whispered, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. “Ain’t never get tired of it.”

You smiled, fingers still tangled in his hair, your touch gentle, affectionate even in your haze of want. “Wanna make you feel good,” you whispered, your voice shaky but sure.

Joel let out a soft groan, the sound thick with need. His lips brushing your jaw, he lowered them to the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “You do, sweetheart,” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and uneven. Every damn time.”

His hand cupped your cheek, holding you there for a beat, his thumb stroking over your flushed skin. His voice dropped, rough and tender all at once. “Gonna let me have you now?”

“Yes,” you gasped, your body arching toward him, trembling with a fresh wave of need.

That was all he needed.

Joel wasted no time, rising onto his knees, shoving his boxers down just enough to free himself. His cock was hard, thick and already leaking, and your mouth watered at the sight of him. He stroked a hand down himself, eyes locked on yours, watching the way you shivered beneath him.

“Been thinkin’ about this since dinner,” he confessed in a gravelly murmur, a small, crooked smile tugging at his lips.

You bit your lip, reaching for him, your touch making him hiss through his teeth. “Then stop takin’ your time, Miller.”

Joel chuckled, leaning down to steal a slow, heated kiss, his hand sliding between your thighs, parting you with the same care he always took.

“You got me,” he whispered, lining himself up, the head of his cock nudging against you. “Always.”

Joel pushed the tip inside with slow, steady pressure, and the moment he breached you, both of you let out a low, broken moan. The stretch, the heat, the sheer ache of having him fill you made your head fall back against the pillows, your fingers gripping at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto.

“Oh, Joel,” you whimpered, your voice catching on the way your body opened for him, already trembling with the desperate need for more.

He groaned at the sound, leaning over you, his lips finding your throat in a series of open-mouthed kisses. His stubble scraped your sensitive skin, a rough contrast to the softness of his mouth as he murmured your name against your neck.

“Goddamn… you feel so good,” he rasped, his voice thick with hunger and something deeper beneath it. Something that sounded a little like awe.

His hands slid down your sides before guiding your legs around his waist. His touch was unhurried but sure, as if he were fitting you exactly where you belonged. You locked your ankles at the small of his back, and he let out a shaky breath, bracing one hand beside your head while the other gripped your thigh.

“Hold on to me,” Joel muttered, his voice a low promise as he pushed in deeper, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt, the stretch making your body arch into his.

A gasp tore from your lips, your nails digging into his back. Joel cursed under his breath, his lips brushing your ear. “That’s it, honey. Just like that.”

His body blanketed yours, his skin hot and slick against yours. Joel’s hand slid up your side, rough fingers trailing over your ribs before cupping your breast, his palm warm as he kneaded the soft flesh. His thumb brushed over your nipple, teasing it into a tight peak before rolling it between his fingers, and the jolt of sensation made you arch into him.

His hips rocked against yours, deep strokes that filled you perfectly, each one hitting that spot that made your toes curl. It wasn’t rushed — it never was with him. Joel fucked like a man who meant every movement, like he could live in the moment forever if you let him.

A breathy moan slipped from your lips, your head tipping back as pleasure coiled tight in your belly, building with every unrelenting, perfect thrust.

“Feels so good,” you panted, your voice breaking on the words as his fingers tugged and toyed with your nipple. Your thighs clenched around his waist, your hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging into sun-warmed skin.

Joel groaned low in his throat, ducking his head to press his mouth to your collarbone, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin. “Yeah? Can feel you squeezin’ me. So fuckin’ perfect.”

Sometimes you wished he could stay like this, buried deep inside you, his body over yours, the world outside forgotten.

You let the thought slip past your lips in a ragged whisper, “Wanna keep you like this… always.”

Joel’s pace stuttered briefly, a rough, wrecked sound leaving him before his mouth found yours. The kiss was all heat and tenderness, tongues tangling as his hand cradled your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. 

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Joel rasped, breath hot against your ear. “Wanna feel you make a mess on my cock.”

The words hit you like a jolt, a needy moan slipping from your lips as you buried your face against his neck, your teeth grazing his skin. Joel groaned at the sensation, his hand sliding down from your jaw, fingers trailing over your flushed, sweat-slick skin before settling between your legs.

His thumb found your clit, circling maddening patterns in time with the steady, deep thrust of his hips. The friction sent sharp sparks through your nerves, the pleasure building too fast, too much, but you didn’t want him to stop.

“Oh, Joel… fuck,” you gasped, your voice breaking, your whole body trembling beneath him.

Joel smirked against your shoulder, feeling the way your thighs tightened around his waist, how you clung to him like you might fall apart if he let go. His gaze stayed on you, drinking in every flicker of pleasure that crossed your face, the way your lips parted in a soft, helpless cry.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he growled, his thumb pressing just a little harder, his cock driving deep and slow. “Let go for me. Lemme see you.”

Your fingers dug into his back, nails leaving faint crescents in his skin as your release finally tore through you, your body arching into his. A raw, breathless sound escaped you — a mix of his name, a gasp, and a whimper.

Joel’s pace slowed, his hand steady on your hip as he rode you through it, watching you fall apart like it was the best thing he’d ever seen. “Atta girl,” he murmured, his thumb easing up but never leaving you entirely. “Just like that. So goddamn beautiful when you come for me.”

Your chest heaved, the aftershocks making you shiver as you clung to him, the warmth of his body anchoring you to the here and now.

Joel’s lips brushed your temple, his breath hot and ragged against your hair as he slowed, his hips stuttering. He started to pull out, muscles tense like he was holding back, when your eyes flew open and your hand shot out, catching his wrist in a firm, desperate grip.

“No,” you breathed, voice trembling as you looked up at him, your gaze locking on his. “Come inside me.”

Joel’s breath hitched, his jaw tightening as his brow knitted. His eyes searched yours as a storm of desire, hesitation, and tenderness flickered across his face.

“Sweetheart—” he started, his voice rough and uncertain in that way he rarely showed.

“Please,” you whimpered, your legs tightening around his hips, clenching around him as if your body could keep him there on its own. Your fingers traced up his arm, over the tense line of his shoulder, to cradle his face.

Joel groaned, the sound breaking low and deep in his throat, his eyes fluttering shut like he didn’t stand a chance against you. “Christ, honey…”

His restraint shattered.

He rocked back into you with a sharp, shuddering thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and your body welcomed him like it was made for it. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as his release hit, his whole body trembling as he spilled inside you.

You felt him tense, felt the warmth flood through you, and the sound he made — a low, wrecked groan into the crook of your neck — left you almost desperate for him again.

“Fuck,” Joel whispered against your skin, his breath uneven, his hold on you unyielding. He stayed buried deep, like he couldn’t bear the space between you.

You pressed your lips to his temple, your fingers gently carding through his hair as you both came down, your bodies still tangled together.

Eventually, Joel moved to lie beside you, one arm draped heavy and warm across your stomach, his fingers absentmindedly tracing lazy circles against your damp skin.

Your chest still rose and fell in uneven breaths, the aftershocks of sex lingering in the ache of your muscles and the pleasant haze behind your eyes. His scruffy cheek brushed your shoulder as he shifted closer, pressing a kiss beneath your collarbone.

You let your fingers card through his hair, tugging gently at the damp strands. Joel hummed low in his throat, that rumbling sound you loved, and nestled his face against your neck like he was trying to soak up every last trace of you.

“Hell of a way to warm a man up,” he said, voice thick and hoarse but threaded through with a rare, unguarded sweetness.

You smiled, your eyes closed, and the ache in your limbs was welcomed. “Told you it was the plan,” you whispered, your palm sliding over his broad back, the ridges of old scars familiar beneath your touch.

Joel huffed a quiet, contented laugh, his hand smoothing over your hip and pulling you impossibly closer. The quilt had slipped to your waist, the cool air brushing against overheated skin.

Outside, the wind had quieted, leaving the night still and heavy with the scent of rain in the distance. The world beyond the walls felt far away. The steady beat of Joel’s heart beneath your palm, and the deep, bone-deep peace that followed a storm.

He shifted enough to press another kiss to your temple, lingering there like he wasn’t ready to let the moment go.

“Love you,” Joel murmured so softly it was barely a sound, his lips brushing your skin as the words slipped out.

You didn’t say it back. You didn’t have to. Instead, you turned your face to his, caught his mouth in a tender, unhurried kiss, and let him feel it.

And in the quiet, with nothing but the steady rise and fall of your breathing, Joel smiled against your lips.

The morning had passed in the slow, easy rhythm you’d come to love. Feeding the chickens as the sun climbed over the hills, collecting a handful of stubborn eggs from beneath their nesting boxes, and brushing down the two horses you and Joel had kept since settling on the farm.

Dusty and Apollo — named with Ellie’s enthusiastic help — shifted lazily in their stalls, the scent of hay and earth hanging thick in the air. The old barn was cool despite the warmth rising outside, beams of sunlight slipping through the weathered slats to stripe the floor in soft gold.

“There you are, darlin’,” Joel’s voice carried through the space, low and familiar, like a song you knew by heart. You glanced up to see him wiping his hands on his jeans as he stepped into the barn, a crooked little grin on his face.

You offered him a smile, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “That window give you any trouble?” you asked, lifting a brow in challenge.

Joel huffed, shaking his head as he came closer. “Please. I've been fixin’ worse than that since before you were walkin’.”

You snorted, though warmth bloomed in your chest at the easy way he teased you. He reached for your hand, the one still holding the brush, his calloused palm covering yours. Without a word, he guided your stroke lower along Dusty’s dark coat.

“Start from the bottom,” Joel said, his voice soft as his thumb brushed your knuckles. “Work your way up. Feels better for ‘em.”

You glanced at him, catching his gaze on your face before flicking back to the horse. The years had etched themselves into his skin, but his eyes — warm and impossibly kind when he let you see them — made your heart flutter.

“Gentler, too,” Joel added, his lips curving into a fond smile as he watched you follow his lead.

You bit back a grin. “I can be gentle.”

“Oh, I know you can,” he drawled, a glint of something playful in his voice. “Just like teasin’ you about it.”

You rolled your eyes, bumping your shoulder against his as you worked the brush through Dusty’s coat. Joel let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, but said nothing, content to fall into the quiet rhythm of the barn. The scrape of a hoof against straw, the muted clatter of chickens pecking outside, the steady rise of warmth as the morning stretched on.

After a while, you glanced up at him, brushing a hand down Apollo’s nose as the big chestnut gelding nuzzled against your palm. “Ellie told me someone in Jackson’s has coffee to trade.”

Joel grunted, hauling a bundle of hay over to Dusty’s stall. “Yeah? What they askin’ for?”

You smirked, watching him out of the corner of your eye. “Chickens.”

He paused mid-toss, brow arching. “How many?”

“Four.”

Joel straightened up, scoffing under his breath. “Christ. Four chickens? What kinda coffee we talkin’ here? Magic beans?”

You bit back a laugh, moving to stroke Apollo’s flank. “Don’t act like you’re not tempted. We both turn into miserable assholes without it.”

Joel gave you a sidelong look, a crooked grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Speak for yourself, sweetheart. I’m delightful.”

You snorted. “Sure you are. Real ray of sunshine before your first cup.”

He stepped closer, hand reaching out to tug playfully at the loose tie of your braid. “If I give up four chickens for some half-assed coffee, it better be strong enough to put hair back on my head.”

“Too late for that,” you teased, grinning as you reached up to smooth a hand over his graying hair.

Joel chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re real funny, you know that?”

“I try,” you shot back, leaning in to brush a quick, affectionate kiss to his cheek before moving toward the feed bins. “We’ll talk about it later. You know you’re gonna cave.”

“Might,” Joel muttered, grabbing another flake of hay. “But you’re pluckin’ the damn birds.”

“Deal.”

“C’mon,” you murmured, brushing hay from your hands. The sun hung lower now, casting long golden streaks through the slats in the barn. “We’ve worked hard enough for one day.”

Joel looked at you, one corner of his mouth tipping up in that slow, familiar way, and gave a slight nod. Without a word, he reached out, his calloused hand slipping easily into yours. 

Neither of you spoke as you walked back toward the house, the worn path beneath your boots soft with dust, the last of the chickens clucking softly in the yard. The quiet between you was filled with little touches. Joel’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand. Your shoulder bumping his. The occasional glance traded like secrets.

Inside, the house smelled faintly of woodsmoke and something sweet from the pie you had made earlier. You slipped into the kitchen while Joel stoked the fire, grabbing ingredients with practiced ease.

“Hope you washed up good,” you teased, glancing over your shoulder as he came to stand beside you, sleeves rolled up, hair mussed from the wind.

Joel snorted, holding his hands up. “Clean as I’m gonna get,” he drawled, though you caught the faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“Uh-huh.” You reached for his wrist, pulling his hand toward you to inspect it like you might catch a stray bit of dirt. “Hmm. Debatable.”

He stepped in close, hand slipping to your waist, his voice dropping low. “You wanna check me head to toe, darlin’, just say the word.”

You laughed, swatting at his chest with the dish towel, but your heart ached a little at the easy, worn-in affection of it all of having him here, cooking dinner like any other ordinary night in a world that hadn’t offered many of those.

“Maybe later,” you whispered, giving him a smile that held a little more than teasing.

Joel’s gaze lingered on yours a moment longer, something quiet and certain in it, before he turned to start chopping vegetables. The two of you moved around the kitchen with ease. 

After dinner, your mind was already drifting toward a hot bath and a quiet night in bed — a book in your hands, Joel’s arm heavy around your waist, the world kept at bay. You started up the stairs, stretching your arms above your head, when a warm, calloused hand caught you gently by the wrist.

“C’mere,” Joel said, his voice a little rough, but soft in that way he saved just for you.

You turned, one brow lifting, a smile tugging at your lips as you took in the look on his face — part mischievous, part tender, eyes shining in the room's low light. “What’s that look for?”

He didn’t answer; he just tilted his head slightly. “Just… c’mere.”

Curiosity bloomed in your chest as you let him tug you along, following him toward the living room. The fire there burned low, casting warm, flickering light across the old wood floor. Joel moved to the corner, crouching by the old record player he’d scavenged years back on some long-forgotten patrol. The thing had scratches on the wood and a crack in the lid, but it still functioned properly.

A worn copy of Otis Redding’s These Arms Of Mine sat beside it, the vinyl already resting in place.

“What’s going on?” you asked, your brow furrowing as he dropped the needle. The soft, familiar crackle filled the room before the first notes hummed through the air.

Joel didn’t say a word. He just turned to you, held out a hand, and waited.

Your heart gave one of those quiet, aching stutters in your chest, and you crossed the room without thinking, slipping your hand into his.

His other hand settled at your waist, pulling you close, your bodies fitting together. The music wrapped around you both, the gentle sway of the melody guiding your steps as Joel led you in a slow, unhurried dance.

His thumb traced soft circles at the small of your back, his breath warm against your temple. You closed your eyes, your head resting against his chest, the steady beat of his heart syncing with the song's rhythm. The world outside the house, the years of danger and loss, all slipped away in the quiet safety of his arms.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” Joel said against your hair, his voice a little hoarse, like maybe it caught in his throat before it made it out.

You smiled, tilting your face up to his. “Takes one to know one, Miller.”

He chuckled before kissing your forehead. 

“Since someone’s in a good mood—” you started, a teasing lilt in your voice.

Joel shook his head before you could finish, a knowing grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Ain’t happenin’, sweetheart.”

“C’mon,” you coaxed, tipping your head back to look up at him, eyes shining with mock-innocence. “Just once. Please?”

“I’m too old for that shit,” Joel drawled, though his hands stayed firm at your waist, his thumb brushing soft circles against your hip. “You try jumpin’ on me, we’ll both be flat on our asses before you even leave the ground.”

You pouted, leaning into him, arms looping around his neck. “Alright, fine,” you sighed dramatically, though the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “But a woman can dream.”

Joel huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he dipped his face close, his stubble scratching against your cheek. “You keep dreamin’,” he said, his voice teasing, but full of affection. “Ain’t no way I’m recreatin’ some damn Dirty Dancing scene.”

You grinned, swaying in his arms as the record crackled on. “You’re no fun.”

“Mm,” Joel smirked, pulling you closer, his hand sliding down to the small of your back. “That so? I seem to recall you weren’t complainin’ about my kind of fun last night.”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks as you laughed, pressing your forehead to his chest. “Point taken.”

He hummed, content. The two of you were still swaying long after the song faded out, the world narrowed down to the steady beat of his heart and the warmth of his arms around you.

The ride to Jackson wasn’t far. Just a few miles of winding trail through dense trees and open fields, but it never felt easy. Even with Joel at your side, the moment you crossed beyond the fence line of your land, a familiar unease crept in like a second skin.

You rode atop Dusty, his ears flicking with every distant sound, while Joel kept pace beside you on Apollo, his rifle slung over one shoulder. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. The only sound was the soft clop of hooves against the dirt path and the occasional rustle of wind through the trees.

It was always quiet on these rides — a silence born not from peace, but necessity. Both of you scanning the tree line, eyes flicking to the shadows, muscles tensed in that old, familiar way you never quite unlearned.

Joel rode like a man still expecting the worst. He never admitted it or spoke it aloud, but you saw it in the tight set of his jaw, how his broad shoulders stayed stiff beneath his jacket, how his gaze never stopped moving — left, right, behind, and always watching, counting.

He hated leaving the farm. Hated stepping away from the safety of what you'd built together. But he wouldn’t leave you to ride in alone either. Not a chance in hell.

You nudged Dusty a little closer, your knee brushing his for a fleeting second. Joel glanced over, and for a beat, his face softened. That quiet look that only ever seemed meant for you. A flicker of warmth in otherwise storm-weathered eyes.

“Should be an easy ride,” he muttered, though you both knew it wasn’t about the distance.

You gave a small nod, your fingers tightening around the reins. “It better be,” you replied, a wry smile tugging at your lips.

He snorted, a sound more habit than humor, but the tension in his shoulders eased by a hair.

Eventually, Jackson's worn timber walls came into view, rising from the trees like a promise of safety. Smoke drifted from chimneys, the faint clang of metal on metal carried on the wind, and the murmur of life happening just out of sight.

You and Joel approached the gates, the patrolmen up top giving curt, familiar nods as you passed beneath. One of them tipped his hat, and Joel returned it with a lift of his hand. His expression was unreadable, but his posture was a touch looser than it had been on the trail.

Joel swung down from Apollo with practiced ease, boots hitting the packed dirt with a soft thud. He tied the reins to a post, his movements quick and efficient, like he couldn’t shed the tension of the ride fast enough. Before you could swing your leg to dismount, he was already there, one hand steadying Dusty’s bridle while the other reached up for you.

“C’mere,” he said, his voice low but roughened by the morning’s quiet.

You let him help you down, your hands briefly finding his shoulders as his firm grip circled your waist. When your boots touched the ground, you muttered, “Thank you,” a small smile tugging at your lips.

He gave a soft grunt, the corner of his mouth twitching as his hands lingered at your waist a beat longer than necessary. “Course, darlin’.”

You reached to brush a bit of dust off your thigh, suddenly remembering. “Dammit, I forgot—”

Joel cut you off with a slight shake of his head, already anticipating you. “I remembered,” he said, a faint grin pulling at his mouth as he tipped his head toward the stables. “Told Ellie last time she was by to bring four chickens back for that damn coffee trade.”

You huffed a laugh, leaning closer as you stepped beside him. “You’re a good husband, Miller.”

Joel slung an arm loosely around your shoulders as you made your way toward the town square, the scent of fresh bread and woodsmoke filling the air around you. 

The trade went through without much trouble — four chickens handed over, a large sack of precious coffee beans in return — though Joel grumbled about it the whole damn time.

“Can’t believe we’re givin’ up good layers for this,” he muttered, eyeing the beans like they might disappear before he could get them home.

You just chuckled, shaking your head in quiet amusement as you looped your arm through his, steering him toward the rest of your errands. “You’ll be singin’ a different tune when you’ve got a hot cup in your hands tomorrow morning.”

Joel grunted, but the corner of his mouth twitched, the hint of a smile breaking through his usual gruffness.

The two of you spent the next hour wandering Jackson’s main street, gathering what you needed — extra nails from the smithy, a spool of thread from Susan’s store, dried herbs Dina swore would help settle JJ’s fussy nights. 

By the time you stepped into the dining hall, the warmth from the fire inside wrapped around you like an old quilt. The scent of stew lingered in the air, mixing with fresh bread and something sweet baking in the back.

“Heard from Ellie y’all were comin’ into town,” a familiar voice called, and you looked up to see Tommy striding over, a wide grin splitting his face.

Joel met him halfway, the two men pulling each other into a rough, back-patting hug.

“Tommy,” Joel grunted, patting his brother’s back twice before stepping back, though the warmth in his eyes lingered.

You smiled, watching the easy way they fell into step together. It wasn’t always like this between them, but lately, it was better. Softer around the edges.

“Good to see you,” you said, squeezing Tommy’s arm.

“You too,” Tommy grinned. “C’mon, Maria’s around here somewhere. And Ellie’s been talkin’ about that coffee since sunrise.”

Joel rolled his eyes with a huff, but his hand brushed against yours as he moved to follow Tommy. You laced your fingers with his without a word, and Joel didn’t let go.

It was simple. Easy. Cozy in a way you never took for granted anymore — a full meal, the warmth of good company, and the quiet comfort of knowing you belonged to this small, stubborn patch of world.

By the time you, Joel, Tommy, and Maria stepped out of the dining hall, the evening light had faded to a dusky gold. The air had cooled, lanterns flickered along the street, casting soft pools of light as folks made their way home for the night.

“Y’all should stay here,” Tommy offered, leaning casually against the porch rail with a hopeful grin. “We’ve still got that extra room fixed up. Warm bed, decent mattress. Better than ridin’ back in the dark.”

Maria gave a slight nod, folding her arms, her gaze slipping between you and Joel. “Wouldn’t hurt to stay in town now and then.”

Joel shifted his weight, his hand instinctively finding the small of your back. “Nah,” he said, his voice low but kind. “We need to get back. Y’know I don’t like leavin’ the farm alone too long.”

You gave a soft smile, leaning a little into his side. “Yeah. It’s a quick ride. We’ll be fine.”

There was a brief pause where you could feel unspoken words hanging in the air. Tommy let out a breath, shaking his head like he knew better than to push. Maria’s mouth twitched in reluctant amusement.

“Stubborn as ever,” Tommy muttered, a grin tugging at his lips.

Joel gave him a look — half fond, half warning. “Runs in the family.”

That earned a quiet laugh from Maria, who stepped forward to press a hand to your arm. “You two be careful.”

“Always,” you promised with a soft squeeze of her hand.

Joel tipped his chin at Tommy. “We’ll be by the end of next week with those tools you wanted.”

Tommy clapped a hand to his brother’s shoulder. “I’ll hold you to it.”

You and Joel made your way toward the horses, the quiet hum of Jackson winding down behind you. Lanterns glowed in windows, soft voices fading as folks headed home, and the cool night air settled gently against your skin. The path back to the farm stretched ahead. 

You caught Joel squinting as he adjusted Apollo’s reins, his brow furrowed, eyes narrowing toward the shadowed trail beyond the gate.

“Should’ve worn your glasses,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips.

Joel huffed, shooting you a look as he swung into the saddle. “Don’t need glasses. It’s dark.”

You mounted Dusty, leaning slightly in your saddle to smirk at him. “That why you’re squintin’ like an old man tryin’ to read fine print?”

Joel’s glare wasn’t the least convincing. “Keep talkin’, woman,” he grumbled, though his voice was thick with amusement. “See how far that gets you.”

“Probably about halfway home before you admit I’m right,” you teased, nudging Dusty forward with a light kick.

Joel clicked his tongue at Apollo, riding up alongside you, his posture loose now, some of the tension from earlier replaced by the easy banter between you.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he muttered, giving your reins a playful tug as he passed.

You grinned into the darkness, heart warm in your chest. “I know.”

Together, you rode out into the night, the stars scattered above like pinpricks in velvet, the world around you hushed and still. The only sounds were the steady clop of hooves on packed earth and the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. The cool night air brushed against your cheeks, carrying the scent of pine and distant woodsmoke.

For a while, neither of you spoke; it was the kind of easy, companionable silence you had both grown accustomed to over the years. But as the trail stretched and the landmarks shifted in your periphery, a faint prickle of doubt worked under your skin.

You glanced around, frowning as you recognized a familiar old tree, crooked and leaning with a wide, twisted branch that reached out like a bent arm.

“Joel,” you called softly, pulling Dusty closer. “You’re headin’ the wrong way.”

Joel grunted, squinting ahead as he kept Apollo moving. “No, I ain’t. I know this path like the back of my hand.”

You raised a brow, nudging Dusty so you rode side by side. “I know you do, but we just passed that big split oak instead of the hollow stump by the fork. Which means…” You gestured ahead with a chin tilt, “We’re headed toward Flat’s Creek. Not home.”

Joel slowed Apollo to a stop, turning his head just enough to glance at you. His brow furrowed in mild irritation.

“You wanna say you don’t need glasses again?” you teased, a gentle, knowing smile tugging at your lips.

Joel let out a sharp breath, shaking his head as he rubbed a hand over his face. “Goddamn trees all look the same in the dark.”

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed, leaning in a little. “I can lead us back, old man. No shame in lettin’ me take point.”

Joel gave you a flat look, but the affection in his eyes softened it. “You’re enjoyin’ this way too much.”

“Maybe a little,” you admitted, unable to keep smiling as you reached out and let your hand brush his arm. “C’mon. I’ll get us home.”

Joel sighed, a low, fond sound as he let you take the lead. He muttered something you didn’t catch, falling beside you as you turned Dusty toward the right path.

You stirred, furrowing your brow at the emptiness beside you. The bed was still warm where he’d been, but the absence of his steady weight made the room feel too big. You blinked up at the ceiling, the faint glow of dying embers from the hearth down the hall casting a soft flicker of light across the walls.

It wasn’t the first time.

Joel had nights like this. Nights where old ghosts kept him restless, where the quiet pressed too close. Sometimes it was bad dreams, other times just that wired, sharp-edged instinct neither of you had ever truly shaken. He’d slip out of bed without a word, wander the house, check the locks, listen to the night.

You lay there a while, eyes tracing the shadows on the ceiling, hoping you’d hear the floorboards creak and feel him settle in beside you again.

But he didn’t.

With a sigh, you slid out of bed, bare feet brushing the cool wood floor. You grabbed his flannel from the back of the chair, pulling it over your shoulders, the scent of him wrapping around you.

The house was quiet, save for the soft pop of the last logs in the stove. A lantern on the kitchen table cast a faint, wavering light, shadows dancing across the walls as you padded through the hallway.

You caught a flicker of movement through the window.

There he was—Joel, sitting in the old chair on the porch, the rifle leaning against the house nearby. His shoulders were hunched, one hand wrapped around a half-forgotten mug of coffee gone cold, his gaze fixed on something far beyond the dark tree line.

You hesitated, your hand resting on the window frame. You knew that look. He wasn’t really seeing the night, not anymore. He was someplace else.

Grabbing a blanket off the couch, you pushed open the door, the night air cool against your skin.

“Can’t sleep?” you asked softly, not wanting to startle him.

Joel turned his head, his eyes meeting yours in the low light. Unsurprisingly, he’d heard you coming before you stepped onto the porch. He reached a hand out toward you, palm open in silent invitation.

You smiled faintly, moving toward him and settling yourself in his lap without a word. His arms came around you automatically, pulling the blanket over your shoulders, tucking you in against his chest like he’d been waiting for you to do just that.

Your eyes drifted to the rifle, propped against the house within reach. “You hear somethin’?” you murmured, your brow creasing as your hand brushed his forearm.

Joel exhaled, the sound rough and tired. “Just a few elk movin’ through,” he muttered. But his eyes didn’t leave the treeline.

You rested your head against his shoulder, feeling the tension still coiled tight in him.

“It’s not them,” you whispered, because sometimes you both needed to hear it.

“I know,” he said, and you felt it in the way his arms tightened around you and his lips brushed the top of your hair. “Doesn’t stop my head from goin’ there sometimes.”

“Mine too.”

You both sat in the quiet, the night pressing around you, familiar and heavy but softened by the warmth between your bodies. The wind rattled the branches in the distance, but here on the porch, wrapped up together, it felt a little safer.

A little easier to breathe.

Joel sighed, tipping his chin against your temple. “Guess neither of us’ll ever fully shake it.”

“No,” you said, your voice barely more than a hush between you. “Ain’t easy lettin’ your guard down. Not after all this time. But I wanna be here… with you. Always here.”

Joel said nothing, but his hand found yours under the blanket, fingers threading together as he held you closer. 

You closed your eyes, savoring the simple weight of his hand in yours and the warmth of his body against your back. The old ache—that restless worry, the quiet fear that one day the world might come for what you built—lingered. It always would. You both knew it. The ghosts never stayed buried for long.

But here with Joel’s arm around you, and the steady sound of his breathing, it was enough. You wouldn’t trade this life with him for anything else.

The night stretched quietly around you, the wind carrying the scent of pine and distant rain. Joel shifted, pressing a soft, unhurried kiss to your temple.

“C’mon, darlin’,” he murmured. “Let’s head in. Reckon it’s cold as hell out here.”

You smiled against his chest. “Not so bad, long as you’re here.”

Joel gave a soft chuckle, the sound rumbling through you as he helped you to your feet. The blanket was still wrapped around you both as you stepped inside. The porch light flickered out behind you as the old house settled with a sigh.