ee-SHAW-buhl

In, and out.

Repeat.

In, out.

You count them.

One, two, three…

Eyes falling to your lap where your fingers anxiously pick at the other, you find you’d picked completely through the skin by the side of your thumbnail. Blood builds and smears along your nail fold where the skin had given in to the small assault, but you can’t stop. Your other thumb still picks at it, its blunt nail scratching through the sticky warmth and spreading the blood further. 

Breathe.

In, out.

It’ll be okay.

It’ll—

You grind your teeth as tears begin to sting behind your eyes. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this shaken, this terrified, in your entire life. Not when you’d been a part of this world all that time ago—you were on a different side back then. Not when you’d been arrested—you’d been scared, sure, but at least they were the so-called ‘good guys’.

They wouldn’t kill you just because you were an inconvenience to business.

You’re going to die.

It sinks into you, heavy and relentless. You wonder if what they say about a warm bright light is true, if you do get a few moments of reliving memories before falling into the inevitable abyss. Would it hurt? Be quick? The fear of death is nothing compared to the fear of not knowing all that could happen before the end. Maybe they’ll drag it out, make it a punishment for getting in their way before showing some mercy with a bullet. 

No. No crying, you tell yourself. 

This is it, and whatever happens… well, there’s no changing it.

A voice echoes in your ears—warm, familiar, stubborn. 

I won’t let anything happen to you.

You can’t be mad at him for breaking his promise. It was your own stupid self that got you into this position. If you had just waited at his apartment, endured the safe walls of his home and the waft of his cologne after he left… if you had just listened, you wouldn’t be here. 

It was heartache that had you all but running out of that door. You needed air, needed something to clear the sudden onslaught of memories and the way his voice swirled in your mind. It was always real to me.

It had been real.

The soft spoken words, the gentle touches, the way he had looked at you, the way he had made you feel, the way he said those three little words that had been your ultimate undoing…

It wasn’t all a lie.

At least if you die, when you die, you’ll know that. You’ll have that to reflect on. You’ll go knowing the love you had felt had been accepted, and returned. It still hurts, the scarring left from how everything had changed permanent and lasting deep in the very core of you, but at least, while it was happening back then, it had been real. 

The car rolls to a stop, and your heart briefly along with it. You don’t know where you are, where you’re being taken to next. You don’t move until they gesture you to. The hand that curls around your arm when you awkwardly make your way out of the backseat is tight, an unspoken promise that there was no easy way out of this.

There was no running.

In, out.

Maybe he’d find you in time. Maybe he was already close.

You comfort yourself with that as you’re moved into a new vehicle, the sound of liquid being thrown about and splashing behind you. You look back out the open door in time to watch one of the men throw a small lit match into the now vacant backseat, eyeing the flames that engulf the interior of the car you had been in, thankful they didn’t decide to just leave you in it.

For now, there was still a bit of time. 

—

His heart still beats thickly in his throat. Sweat had gathered on his palms as soon as he saw you exit the elevator, and had slowly built along the back of his neck with every moment in your presence. He's surprised he's been able to keep control over his voice so far, a barely there tremble threatening to break free in his words and cause him to stutter under your attention.

You were hard, and completely closed off. You listened throughout his little debriefing, and understandably been pissed when he told you just exactly what they were asking of you. It was hypocritical, even he had to admit.

Even with your evident and spoken anger and borderline disgust, a part of him still warms at the sight of you. He doubts that will ever fade. 

“Are we done here?”

He sees how you struggle to look at him, feels the hollow echo of what once was before getting hit with harsh reality.

“Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

He feels weak as you move to leave the room, you couldn’t move quick enough.

It all hits him like a punch to the stomach and he folds from it, bracing his hands on the cool top of the conference room table and letting his head hang low. He drags in a breath, catching the smell of your perfume as you pass. It’s new, so different from your old one.

A reminder of how everything had changed, of what he did to you.

He exhales quietly, eyes slipping shut and seeing the hatred that had swam in your eyes behind his lids. The door slams shut behind him.

—

He gets it over a call.

The car was found, torched and completely destroyed, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that any potential evidence has been destroyed, doesn’t care they weren’t quick enough to intercept before whoever took you fled again. He doesn’t care because he’s relieved at the following information provided to him.

No body was found within the vehicle.

The immediate thoughts that had assaulted him of seeing your body, twisted, unmoving and burnt beyond recognition, vacate to the depths of his mind, and he finds he can breathe a little easier. His tie sits a little more comfortably around his throat, and he’s able to focus a little better on the road as he drives to the office.

You’re okay. For now, you’re okay.

They still want you alive, and that’s good. That means he has time.

“There’s a security camera around the corner from the lot,” Wilson’s voice continues to fill the car.

Marcus didn’t comment on it at the time, too busy swimming in his own thoughts and the sheer relief flooding his system, but he had heard the edge in the young agent's tone when he had answered the call. He’s thankful Wilson wouldn’t be forever haunted by the sick images his mind had conjured. 

“It's old, but we’ve been able to get a rough image of the vehicle. Black SUV, tinted windows so we weren’t able to get a look at the occupants. Also got a slight partial plate, but it’s barely readable. I’ve sent it through to forensics to see if they can do anything with it.”

“Good. I’m sending a team your way, make your way back to the office once they arrive. I want you with me.”

If anyone on his team would understand the depth to this, it’s Wilson.

“Yes, sir.”

Marcus knows the agent has some experience at this kind of shit, having previously read over his history within his file before confirming his success at getting the position he was so eager for, but this time it was a little more personal.

You two had spent quite a bit of time together during the start of this case, would go as far as to call you two somewhat friends, and so the softer, less Special Agent Pike, more Marcus side of him feels the need to ask, to focus on something other than his own emotions.

“How’re you doing?”

The line falls silent, before the younger agent clears his throat quietly. “Can I speak freely, sir?”

“Always.”

It comes out in a quiet rush. “I’m so fucking relieved she’s not in that car.”

Marcus makes a low noise of agreement. “You and me both.”

—

“0800, on the dot. Not a second after, understood?”

The young agent before him nods, his enthusiasm evident. Marcus remembers that enthusiasm, the excitement at finally being where he wanted to be, where he worked so hard to get to.

This new guy… Marcus liked him. He knew watching over his interview that he’d be a good fit within his team. The kid was eager for an opportunity, had gall, and Marcus knew you’d be safe in his agent’s hands.

“Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“I don’t expect trouble along the way, but I’ll note it now that her safety is paramount. She’s—” he stops, looking down at an older photograph of you sitting amongst the various bits of paper pulled from the file and feeling the familiar ache creep around his heart. 

She’s important to me.

The words had almost slipped free, danced so easily, so naturally, on the tip of his tongue it had taken his mind a moment to catch up and stop them from leaving his mouth. He clears his throat softly, tucking the image back into the manilla folder so he doesn’t have you smiling up at him.

He didn’t want to use your mugshot for the file made for Wilson. He didn’t want the agent to go into this with a preconceived idea of who and what he would assume you are. After everything, the least he could do was give you a chance to be known as you are, not what they made you to be.

“She’s integral to the case. Should anything arise, her safety is your highest priority.”

Agent Wilson straightens in his seat, a cool wash of determination settling into his features. Yeah, Marcus thinks to himself, he’s a good fit.

“Understood, sir. She’ll be in good hands.”

Marcus nods.

He thinks you’ll like him the most out of his team. His other agents are great, but you’ll be on your guard. The others will be quiet, and will keep to themselves more often than not. That wouldn’t help you. Wilson’s a talker, though. Sometimes, relentlessly so. It might help you find some comfort in this shitshow, might make things a little easier for you, a little less lonely. 

—

He studies your photo where it’s pinned on the board, only a little ways away from one of the murder victims' post mortem images. The images are a stark contrast from each other, one warm in hues, brightness swimming throughout the image and bursting from the wide spread of your smile. The other is cold, clinical. Void of life.

The more he looks, the more his mind twists and runs, swapping the features of the two women until it’s painted a version of your own post-mortem photograph. Skin sunken beneath your open eyes, pupils fixed, unseeing. A cold measuring tape held next to the gaping hole in your skull.

He blinks, and the images are as they were.

Jane is damn near adamant they want you alive, but without definitive proof that you’ll be okay, it does little to settle his mind.

Marcus turns away from the board with a new wash of nausea he swallows down, flicking through the notes provided to him by Lisbon’s team from the interrogation and marking the noted locations of addresses on the map spread out before him. 

He can hear the work beyond the conference room, a part of him comforted by the sheer amount of effort put in by both his own and Teresa's agents.

They’re close.

That familiar feeling swirls in the pit of his stomach, knowing that with every new bit of information that comes through by the hour, they’re closing that gap between them and you. It overrides the worry, pushes his anxiety to the side until all he feels is brute determination, the urge to get the job done and retrieve you swiftly and safely.

You’ll be okay.

He’ll make sure of it.

Marcus feels the presence of someone hovering just inside the door of the conference room, and fights the sigh of annoyance threatening to break free from his lungs. He doesn’t want to entertain niceties, doesn’t have time for idle chit chat and useless empty conversation, so he cuts straight to the chase with a sharp edge in his tone that says just that.

He’d feel ashamed by the bluntness of it if his mind wasn’t working so damn hard to absorb every possible bit of information given to him in an effort to get any closer to you.

“Can I help you with something, Agent Van Pelt?”

He sees her move in his peripheral as he shuffles through more notes, more paper, more satellite images of warehouses and shop fronts and galleries. She shifts slightly, almost unsure as her eyes glance back to the open door to the conference room before they roll back to settle on him.

“I just wanted to say that it’ll be okay,” she says finally. “We’ll find her.”

It’s spoken so surely, so warmly sincere, it completely cuts through the icyness that had settled in his chest and worked its way through his nervous system. He feels his shoulders slacken slightly when he eventually meets her eyes, the tightness of his features softening when she gives a small reassuring smile.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, giving his head a little shake to settle the mess of emotions swirling through him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be—”

“It’s okay,” Grace’s smile widens . Her eyes fix on the board behind him in open interest, but it doesn’t hit him like it did with Jane and Lisbon. It doesn’t get his hackles up in defence with a need to shield you from potential judgement.

“Seems like she’s really something.”

He looks over his shoulder, gaze swiping one more time over your image. “She is.”

—

It’s a warehouse, empty save for the leftover pallets, a few odd pieces of old machinery from previous companies and the van you had been driven in.

You’d lost track of the route they had taken you, not wanting to risk anything by making it obvious you were trying to decipher your location by looking out of the windows. There was no point. You doubt you’d make it very far if you chose to run.

Playing along, doing what these people ask when they ask it, it’d hopefully buy you some time. Hopefully the time Marcus and his team needs if they were looking. No, you know he is. You can feel it.

Before all the recent developments, you probably would’ve resigned yourself to your uncertain fate, and accepted that you were just another pawn for the FBI. A nobody, just mere collateral damage in the wider grand scheme of things.

You lost track of how long you’d been standing in the one spot, almost scared to move. The small group of men had shown you out of the van and onto the main floor of the warehouse, and then moved to the sides. They stayed quiet, sometimes talking quietly amongst themselves, but otherwise leaving you alone.

A welcome relief.

“You’ve certainly been working away, haven’t you? Piece after piece. Surely you’re tired.”

The men take their cue and start their exit, leaving you alone with the newcomer. The one pulling the strings and keeping them in line, if their quick and quiet departure was anything to go by. They clearly deem you no threat whatsoever.

You turn to the voice, eyes sweeping over the familiar face of Edward Thomas. You recoil a little in surprise, almost expecting someone else to be with him because of how out of character something like this was for the older man, but he remains alone, and you are left standing corrected.

“Didn’t really have much of a choice,” you murmur.

You don’t think openly admitting you had readily agreed to helping the FBI wouldn’t work well in your favour.

“How’d you know it was my work?”

“I didn’t,” he admits quietly, “in the beginning. We actually thought you were still in prison.”

“We?”

Edward smiles, though it lacks any warmth or sincerity. He looks tired, older. “Asking for yourself, or your FBI boyfriend?”

You ignore the goad, glancing carefully around the vacant space with a barely concealed shiver down your spine. Now what?

“What am I doing here?”

He sighs, rubbing a tired hand across his weathered features.

“This whole thing, it’s—it’s turned ugly, and quite frankly I’m tired of it. I had no intention of being this involved. I needed something to offer in return for my… retirement, let’s call it. After all, after a few of your pieces had been discovered by myself, interest has grown in your particular… area of expertise. You have a few curious in what you can offer.”

A sick feeling turns your stomach, but you keep a hold of your expression.  “So you’re not auctioning off my pieces anymore, you’re just auctioning off me.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Throwing me to the highest bidder so you can, what, run away to a sunny beach somewhere? That’s not like you, Edward.”

“Yes well, as I said, it’s turned ugly.”

“By ugly, you mean the people that have been killed.”

“You’re quite naive if you didn’t think that was happening before your arrest. People died then, and people will die now. It’s simply a part of the world you so readily jumped into.”

“Can’t really blame the girl.”

A calm and collected voice takes you off guard, and you quickly school your stunned expression into something a little less obvious as the one and only Patrick fucking Jane all but waltzes into the room, looking completely at ease as he slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

“She wasn’t exactly given a brochure on the workings of an underground art ring upon her application.”

If he’s here, then his team isn’t too far behind.

And if his team isn’t too far behind, surely that means Marcus would be with them, too? A slight twinge of hopes grows to life in your chest, your heart picking up with the possibility you’d be walking free from this.

Edward frowns at him in confusion, eyes darting to the direction of the van and where the three men that had bought you in had disappeared to.

“How the hell did you get in here?”

“The door,” Jane comments as if it were obvious, and you can’t help the eye roll, pinning him with such a look of disdain it makes his lips twitch.

“And what are you doing here?”

He has the nerve to look bored, eyes observing the empty warehouse in false interest. The sheer ease he remains in has Edward’s frown deepening with every step he takes further into the room.

“Checking out industrial real estate. What’s the going rate for one of these?” His hand leaves his pockets to gesture vaguely about the open room. 

“Mr Jane, I must admit I do tire of your little games.”

You startle, eyes widening as you glance between them.

“You two know each other?”

“We met at the museum,” Jane shrugs. “When I said I was following my own leads, I was. It just wasn’t you. I did have to get you out of the way, though. Sorry about that.”

He doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest. You stare at him, at a complete and utter loss, your mind struggling to piece together all of the events that had led you here. Did he intentionally upset you at the museum? To get you to leave?

It’s all a big fucking game to this man.

“You knew,” you realise slowly, your brows coming together, “you knew I’d leave the investigation.”

“I expected. Just like I expected Mr Thomas here to make a move as soon as he knew you weren’t being monitored anymore,” Jane explains easily, unbothered by the way your face twists with his little reveal.

You had been a pawn.

Just not the FBI’s pawn.

You were Patrick fucking Jane’s pawn.

“What I didn’t expect, was you running off, and.. you know, all that happened after,” he trails off with a slight wince. “That was inconvenient, I’ll admit.”

He, at the very least, has the grace to look apologetic at that. So he didn’t mean for it to work out like this. He knew Marcus would flip and put you into protective custody. He counted on Marcus getting you out of town and finding you somewhere safe to lay low while they worked out the rest of the case.

What he didn’t count on, however, was the mountain of emotional baggage he was undoing and letting loose during his little playtime pretending to be an FBI agent.

“Inconventient?” You grind out, anger simmering beneath your skin. “I got fucking kidnapped, Jane!”

“Like I said—inconvenient.”

“Enough.”

“Oh my God, I can’t believe you. Marcus was right, you really are a fucking dick.”

“Things could’ve gone smoother, yes—”

You jump at the sudden firing of a gun, wide eyes immediately flying to Edward where he stands unimpressed, holding the weapon towards the ceiling. He then levels it between you, your undeniable anger at the consultant melting steadily into fear.

Jane takes a step towards you automatically, his arm outstretched as if he could reach you despite the distance between you, but he stills when the gun is aimed for him.

“I said enough.” 

—

“North entrance is covered,” Rigsby reports as Marcus arrives on scene mere moments after them. “South’s free—they’re not expecting company.”

“Good,” Marcus nods, eyes scouting the area around the warehouse and the flashy expensive car Thomas had left parked along the side. Might as well be a flashing neon sign in an area like this. “How many on the north?”

“Three,” Cho replies plainly, checking over his weapon.

“You certainly work quick. We’ll send a small team to cover both exits for now, when—”

“We need to wait for back up, we don’t know how many are inside yet.”

He fights the frown threatening to dig between his brows as he looks at Lisbon, her expectant gaze already fixed tightly on him. He knows that. He doesn’t need to be told that like he’s some freshly graduated baby agent, let alone by someone who’s not even on his team. He bites back the sarcastic words building on his tongue.

“When SWAT arrives,” Marcus continues as if she didn’t interrupt him, “we make the call to move in. How far out are they?”

“Four minutes,” Cho provides again, looking between the two superior agents with a look he couldn’t quite decipher, but otherwise keeping quiet.

Anything could happen in four minutes.

Marcus presses his lips together, eyes raking over the structure they suspect you’ve been taken to and its wider surroundings. His hands find his hips as he studies the high windows, wondering if Wilson would be able to find anything to climb up on to find a point to look in to until backup arrives.

“Uh, where’s Jane?”

Rigsby’s carefully posed question pulls Marcus's attention from the building, his teeth quickly mashing together as he attempts to reign in the hot flood of irritation that sweeps over him. Sure enough, the consultant is nowhere to be found when the team looks, and the irritation morphs into something a little stronger, something with a bit more of a kick.

He can’t help it.

Marcus smiles at Lisbon, stiff and sarcastic. “I see that tight leash is working well.”

She sighs, barely sparing him a glance. “Don’t.”

“If he does anything to—”

A single shot echoes from the warehouse and he jolts as if it had come straight for him and pierced right through his chest. Seconds of silence pass, and with each slowed tick of time in his mind, there you are. On the autopsy table, a bullet through the head. Cold. Lifeless.

Someone speaks, reporting to the incoming team that shots have been fired and he doesn’t care to look at who calls it in. His eyes dart over the building, waiting for movement, a yell, a scream, anything—

He doesn’t, he can’t, wait any longer. Logic, strategy, training—it all blends and settles at the sound of nothing. It’s instinct, it's pure adrenaline. Marcus takes off towards the building while reaching for his weapon, the thought of you bleeding out on the filthy floor, losing precious time with every moment he wastes standing around, pushing his legs harder as he comes up upon the back entrance.

“Marcus!” Teresa shouts after him, already following. “Cho, on me. Rigsby, Van Pelt, you’re on the north entrance. Wilson, wait for SWAT and direct on their arrival!”

—

Your ears ring from the gunshot. The piercing echo of it threatens to stop your heart then and there, the tremble in your hands obvious as you quickly and carefully raise your hands in an effort to show you’re of no threat. Jane mirrors you, studying the way the gun ever so slight shake in Edward’s hand as the barrel of it bounces between the both of you.

“FBI, put your weapon down.”

You almost choke on a sob at the familiar voice.

He’s here. 

You feel Marcus move step up and next to you, his own weapon held steady and pointed directly at Edward . You watch the recognition, the panic, the indecision, the urge to flee play out on the older man’s face, the shake in his hand increasing under the presence of Marcus. 

“You’re surrounded. Don’t go doing anything stupid. This is your one and only chance to walk out of here, so put it down, and we’ll talk. We can figure something out.”

“I just want this to be over,” Edward mutters with a distinct tone of irritation, flustered by the sudden presence of an actual FBI agent and having their weapon pointed at him, “it wasn’t meant to go this far… I didn’t want any part of this.”

“I know,” Marcus soothes carefully, his voice smooth and calm. “Put the gun down, and we’ll talk about it.”

“You know, it’s your fault,” Edward continues, completely absorbed in the stress of his thoughts, and the gun changes direction to land directly on you, “if you had just stayed aw—”

“Hey,” Marcus snaps immediately, “if you’re going to point that at anyone, you point it at me. She got dragged into this because of me. All of this? It’s on me, do you hear me?”

You jump in fright at the echo of two gunshots towards the front of the warehouse, and in a split second, you watch Edward jump in surprise too, and give way to the panic that overrides the logic of a negotiation.

It all happens so quickly. You feel a shove from the right, the direct force of a body moving and colliding with you just as more shots ring out throughout the warehouse and you stumble back and away from where you had just been standing.

Edward falls back from the shots Teresa and another agent direct at him, the pair suddenly appearing from behind you and quickly advancing towards him, while Jane jumps forward to kick the gun away from the hand that weakly reaches for it.

The body that had collided with you is sprawled on the ground and your heart drops to the pit of your stomach at the familiar hand swept dark hair of Marcus. He doesn't get up. He doesn't move.

Bile builds in your throat as you drop to your knees, uncaring as the rough floor scuffs the skin of your knees through the thin material of your dress. You tug desperately at his jacket, rolling him over and clawing at his body until he sprawls over your lap, heavy and unmoving.

“Marcus? Marcus, look at me,” you beg softly, a strangled sob falling from your throat when his eyes eventually flutter open languidly and focus tiredly on yours. “What did you do? God, what did you do?”

His lips part, words building on his tongue, but before they can fall from his mouth he jolts in your arms, heaving and coughing and sputtering. It sounds fucking horrible.

You watch the blood ooze from his lips, creating a stark trail of bright red that melts into his faded stubble and slides down along his jaw. You push at his jacket and feel your heart plummet to the floor at the deep maroon patches outwardly soaking the crisp white shift from the holes in his torso.

“It’s okay,” you soothe shakily, wiping the blood away from his lips with your thumb and feeling your stomach jolt with the wet sticky feel of it. “It’s okay. Keep looking at me, okay? I’m here. Somebody help me! Marcus, please—hold on, please—”

“Pike!”

Someone takes him from your arms, lays him on the ground and covers the bullet wounds with their hands. Teresa is yelling out orders, something about getting medics in and SWAT and soon more people swarm the warehouse. You sit on your knees, hands warm, and when you look numbly down at them, you see the glisten of his blood coating your skin.

There's so much blood.

“Marcus?” You whimper quietly, his name sticking to the inside of your throat.

“Hey, come on,” a female voice speaks from the side of you, her hands winding around your arms and pulling you from the ground. Your widened eyes find hers as you stumble to stand on two feet, her red hair previously pulled into a ponytail slightly ruffled and out of place as strands fall across her face.

“Let’s give them some space, let them help him. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” you reply hoarsely, eyes falling back to where Marcus lay on the ground as even more people surround him.

“Look at me,” the redhead speaks, a gentle smile pulling at her lips as you do as she says. “Good. Do you feel any pain?”

“Uh, I don’t… I don’t think so.”

“Okay,” she says softly, winding an arm around your back and gently leading you from the warehouse. “We have people out here that are going to help you—”

Why are you shaking so much? So damn hard?

Your breath gets stuck in your throat, and your hand moves to cover the length of it in confusion, hoping the press of your fingers would help the oxygen move more freely into your lungs.

Instead of helping you find your breath, you feel the smear of blood along your skin and the heady metallic ring of it sinks into your senses, the urge to vomit suddenly curdling your stomach.

The shaking increases as you jerk your hand away from your neck as if it had cut you. You make a noise, something small and choked, and your knees weaken from the spin of your head. 

“Hey, I need you to take a deep breath for me, can you do that? I’m here, I’ve got you.”

“I-I’m trying,” you choke out, suddenly aware of the hot tears spilling down your cheeks as the wind hits with a sharp bite as soon as you step out of the building. “Is—is he going to be okay?”

The redhead briefly glances back at the warehouse, and you think you find a small edge of uncertainty shine in her eyes, but it’s gone within a blink. She gives you another small, reassuring smile though it does little to steady the tremble sitting within your limbs.

“The medics are onsite, he’s in good hands.”

—

The plastic chair is uncomfortable beneath you, the thin scratchy blanket wrapped around your body doing very little to cushion the solid surface of it, yet you don’t move. You don’t think you could if you tried. You hate hospitals. You hate the sterile smell, the cold white walls, the rush of staff and the endless ring of alarms and codes.

This room isn’t too bad, though.

It’s a smaller waiting room, away from the hustle and bustle of the main hospital corridors, and away from the half dozen pairs of eyes that seemed focused on studying your every move. It’s nicer in here, both in style and temperature. The walls are a softer, more welcoming cream colour and a little wall mounted heater keeps the space filled with a nice warmth, but it does very little to calm you.

Your tea had long gone cold next to you, delivered by a startlingly quiet member of Lisbon’s team, Rigsby was it?, before he left you to your thoughts again. You didn’t reach for it once.

Instead, you stare blankly ahead, mind turning over with worry as Marcus is off somewhere in the hospital, somewhere bleeding and hurt and possibly dying. No one comes to talk to you. No one had come to comfort you since Grace had found this room and put you in here, and you think you prefer it that way.

You think she knows you would prefer it that way.

He’s hurt. Severely so.

He’s hurt because he pushed you out of the way, because he took the bullets that had been meant for you, whether they were accidental or not. He had moved with very little regard for himself, instinctively putting himself between you and potential death.

You should be the one in theatre. You should be the one broken and bleeding on an operating table. And yet, you’re not. Here you are, with nothing but bruised, scraped knees and a shot to shit nervous system on the brink of collapsing in on itself.

“Hey Picasso,” Jacob murmurs softly, his face appearing in your view as he crouches down before you, “I think we should get you home—”

Your head is already shaking before he can even finish. Leave? No. No, you can’t do that. What if something happens during surgery? What if he deteriorates and he has no one here to beg them to keep trying? What if—what if he dies on the table and you’re not here for it? 

His face creases in sympathy, his hand warm as it comes to rest over your knee. 

“Listen to me, alright? You with me?”

His head tilts, waiting until he’s sure you’re fully locked in and focused on him.

“He’s lost a lot of blood. He’s got a collapsed lung, and quite extensive internal bleeding. They said he’s gonna be in there for a while—hey, look at me.”

He ducks his head to help your eyes meet his, and you do your best to swallow down the lump quickly building thickly in the base of your throat.

“While he’s in there, getting the help he needs, I’d like to get you home so you can shower, and get into something more comfortable. Lisbon’s under strict instructions to call me if anything changes, and we’ll come right back once you’re done, alright? How does that sound?”

“Sounds like he could die,” you mutter, voice rough and hollow. “Is he going to die?”

His thumb softly swipes at the stray tear on your cheek.

“I have been assured they are doing everything in their power to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“It should’ve been me. It should be me.”

He gives a small, sad smile. “I may not have been a part of this team for very long and know him very well, but I think we both know that was never an option for him.”

“Is it my fault?”

“Absolutely not,” he says firmly, shaking his head, “and you know damn well he wouldn’t want you thinking like that. Now come on, the quicker we go and do this, the quicker we can get back.”

“You promise we’ll come straight back if… if he—”

“If I happen to get a call to say he…” he trails off, eyes dropping to where his hand rests on your knee before he gathers the strength to meet your eyes again. “If I get that call, we’ll come straight back, alright? Even if you’re all shampooed up and half naked. I swear.”

Your eyes dart between his, searching the soft forest green depths for any trace of a lie. You find nothing but sincerity. Your fingers wrap around his hand, briefly comforted by the steady warmth of it as he turns it in your hold and interlocks your fingers carefully.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

He helps you stand, releasing your hand in an effort to keep the blanket wrapped around your frame. He tucks it back under your chin, giving you a little grin.

“Hell, you being here half naked would probably bring him back before any crash cart could—”

“Jacob,” you half sob in surprise, unsure whether to be horrified or angry. Your face must display it all openly.

He flinches, face creasing from shame. “I know, I know. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I get weird with this kind of shit, let’s just go.”

It is as if your soul leaves your body. The sight of Rendell Crik standing above Din Djarin, smoking blaster in hand, mouth curled into a sneer, vaporizes any sense of living that still fights in your chest. 

Again—he has done it again: stolen the thing you hold most dear and crushed it beneath his heel. You struggle to breathe, and your skin breaks out in a cold sweat. Din—Jeelia—both at the hand of the same feckless thug.

Crik lifts his gaze. Recognition, however, does not dawn as he lifts his blaster. He does not know you, and why should he? After so many years—with growth and scars and change beyond the counting—why should he know you?

But you know him. 

His eyes still hold that same serpentine gleam. His hands still glisten with the blood of your sister. Smirk widening over his chapped lips, he cocks his head to the side. “Inoran scum.”

So he does remember.

You spit on the ground, a glob of blood splattering the stone floor. Reaching behind, you unclip a weapon from your belt, tucked beneath the folds of your shirt. The Darksaber extends with a woosh. Its edges glisten, its song hums in your veins. A rush of energy surges through your palms, winding around the flesh and muscle of your arms.

It is now Crik’s turn to stop in his tracks. He visibly hesitates, a pucker between his thin brows. “What the fuck…” 

You barely allow him the breath to finish his sentence.

Charging forward, you shriek, swinging the Darksaber in a wide, powerful arc. The battlecry rips your vocal chords, reverberating upwards and outwards, swirling like a cyclone of rage in the domed room. Crik stumbles back, eyes wide in something akin to fear. He catches himself quick enough to raise his blaster in defense. This time the barrel of the gun wavers as his eyes track the Darksaber growing closer and closer to his sweat-slick skin.

You grip the hilt with both hands, screaming and swinging and slashing. There is naught but madness in you now. You have ceased to exist on this earthy plane. With Din’s body like a carpet on the floor, you are vapor. You are no more. The Darksaber, though—it sings. As though an extension of your very self, the weapon takes each of your uncoordinated, blood-soaked movements and sharpens them to deathstrikes. Crik scrambles backward as you advance. He calls to the wings of the stage for more—more hands, more firepower, more fucking men—but you cannot hear him. You and the Darksaber are one.

One man, two, three come stumbling out of the wings of the stage. Their arms pinwheel with urgency as they jump from the dais to the floor. Their eyes swing from their master to the bodies of their fallen comrades strewn about the music hall. Their withdrawn weapons catch the stagelight and a certain hunger rises to blanket their faces. One man motions to you with his sickle, but you cannot see him. You and the Darksaber are one.

You plunge the sword through the stomach of the man first to step into your path. His skin sizzles, shredding with bright red fire as you rip through the wall of his abdomen. Another, this one large and corded with muscle, is strong enough to grab your free wrist. He grits his teeth as he glares down at you, and he must see something in the vacuous stare of your eyes because he falters, his grip loosening. You spin on the ball of your foot, body moving with all the grace of a dancer, bringing the Darksaber around with you. With a clean slice, you cut the hulking behemoth through. 

Crik is on the stage now. He gestures to the third man, the one still standing, who seems to hesitate. With a rough shove, he pushes the third man forward. You drop him with a blaster shot beneath the eyes. Before Crik can make his desperate escape, you flick your wrist. A dagger, one with a bluestone hilt, carves through the air to pin Crik to the wooden throne in the center of the stage. He drops to his ass, wrist punctured and bleeding, a wail rending the air.

The Darksaber buoys you upward. As if on air, you rise from floor to stage. Blood drips from the point of the sword. It leaves a watery trail as you walk the length of the stage to the crumbled, quivering form of Rendell Crik.

He scrabbles for the dagger, his eyes bouncing between you and the weapon that tears at the tender flesh of his arm. He grimaces as he yanks the dagger from the wooden leg. Blood bursts from his wound, spraying the toes of your boots as you come to stand above him. He tilts his head back, and a rueful chuckle escapes his twisted mouth. He clutches his wrist to his chest. He makes no move to stand.

“You always were a spitfire,” he says. He winces, eyelids fluttering as a wave of pain washes over him. “Even back then, when you killed your own sister, I saw it in you. That… fire.”

You could do it now, you think. You could strike to the very heart of him and render him mute, impotent. But you hesitate. You stare at him, and you listen. 

“We—I could use that fire, you know. Out here. You could…” He shifts in discomfort. Blood soaks the heavy fur coat draped around his shoulders. “You could stay, help me. I’m sure you’ve learned a lot from your Mandalorian and—”

“Help you?”

Light flashes in Crik’s eyes at the sound of your voice. He nods, leaning forward, grasping to your words like a drowning man. “Yes. We could do great things. Powerful things. That’s what you want, right?”

“What I want…” You narrow your eyes, tilt your head as though listening, considering.

He pauses long enough in his bloody plea to glance at his wound. He curses, fingers shaking as he watches his lifeblood pulse from his wrist. “Yes, yes. Anything.”

When Crik turns his gaze back to you, he startles. You have drawn nearer, crouched before him, the Darksaber a careful shimmer at your side. He sucks in a breath, and his pupils blow wide. Outside the wind rages, beating the sides of his compound with relentless force. 

The storm has begun.

“What I want,” you repeat, drawing your words slow and deliberate, “is my sister.”

A ghostly pallor washes over Crik’s face. He curls his hand around his wrist; scarlet blood seeps between his fingers. Wide eyes meet yours, and you see yourself in his horrified stare. You see yourself and you see him and your tandem dance through time and space. 

“She’s dead,” he says. 

“I know.”

In one easy motion, you lift the Darksaber and slide it across Rendell Crik’s neck. 

There is a moment, a flash of a second, where he registers what has been done to him. Indignation mottles his brow as blood gushes from the wound in his neck. His mouth gapes, open and shut, open and shut. He chokes on his tongue as the blood rises up his throat. And you watch. You watch, unblinking, until he is dead. His head drops back against the seat of his throne, the severed muscle and tissue of his neck exposed like corroded wire. 

You stare a moment longer, feeling your nostrils flare as moisture pricks your eyes. Reaching forward, you grab a twine necklace laid against his chest and tug. The cheap rope snaps, coming free from his neck. You stare at the purple moon rock, wondering where it came from, what it meant to him to be worn around his neck on such a cheap string. You pocket the item and step away, depressing the Darksaber. 

Finished. For Jeelia. 

Turning from Crik’s body, you jump down from the stage and hurry to Din’s side. You cannot linger in the emotion of ending Crik, not yet. There is still too much at stake, too much to lose, and time is not on your side. 

Knelt at Din’s side, you press your hand to his unarmored chest. Fucking idiot, you think. If he’d just kept his armor on, not given it to you, this wouldn’t have happened. You could have been out of this shithole by now, flying away, far far away, with nothing but possibility laid out in front of you. 

Din feels still beneath your hand, almost statuesque. You tap the side of his helmet, but his head just lolls to the side. 

“Mando?” You tap again. “Din?”

No response. 

“Fuck.” Panic threatens to clog your throat, but you push it aside. No time. You lean over to press your ear to his chest, and it is there, faint but there. A heartbeat. Relief wooshes to your lungs.

Glancing around the room, you take in the carnage. Bodies litter the floor. Blood soaks the ground like rainfall. All is quiet. You aren’t out of danger—not yet. You need a medpac. You need an escape plan. You need Din to wake the fuck up.

Learning over him in a crouch, you whisper, “Stay right here.” 

You stand and survey the room again. There has to be something that you can use to move him. You aren’t strong enough to drag him, let alone lift him, but you can’t stay here. Anyone could emerge from the wings or an outside corridor at any moment. They would take one look at Rendell Crik’s severed body, and you would be next. Din would be next. 

There is a curved bar at the back end of the music hall. You hurry toward it, stepping over the Twi’lek you killed but moments earlier. At the bar, shot glasses litter the worn wooden top. An opened bottle of shitty hooch. A door and—

A door. 

You round the bar, glance over your shoulder at Din’s prone body, then shoulder your way through, blaster ready at your side. You are met with an empty kitchen, or what must pass as one in this ramshackle lair. At the sink you find dirty dishes, and strewn across a center island, you rifle through boxes of dried meat and packets for powered soup. You throw open the doors of a narrow shelving unit. Empty, save a brown pouch in a darkened corner. You grab it, open the pouch, and silently thank the Maker. It is rudimentary, but it is one more medpac than you had. You pocket it and are prepared to go when you notice something tucked alongside a squat oven. A serving cart. It is short, painted metal, jagged in places where rust has eaten through the soldered corners. You run your palm across the top. 

Could you? Really? Din is too tall to lay comfortably across the top, but it is something. You push against the cart. It wobbles, wheels squeaking. Maybe not the sturdiest option either. Inhaling deeply, you shake free your reservations.

It takes some maneuvering, but you are able to push and pull the serving cart to where Din lays. One wheel goes cockeyed every few steps, and you have to push harder than you think is strictly necessary, but it is better than attempting to drag him back to the hangar. Your plan is barebones: get Din to the speeder outside, get Din on the speeder, figure it out after that. One step at a time. The cart will have to do.

You must stop yourself from crying as you wrestle Din from the floor to the top of the serving cart. He is heavy, deadweight in your arms, and the fear that this is your end claws at the back of your mind. If he dies here… Gods, it will be the end of you, too. 

When he is situated atop the cart, limbs hanging loosely from all sides like a sacrificial lamb, you begin to push. You grit your teeth and summon strength from the deepest wells of your chest. One step, then two. To then hangar then the speeder then to home. 

The halls are quiet as you push the cart in the direction of the hangar. You labor as you alternate between pushing and pulling, your breaths coming uneven and harried. You are unsure of where the rest of Crik’s men are hiding, from behind which door they may spring out and finish you off. Logic tells you at least one soldier must remain, devout until his last; hope whispers all of Crik’s men fled at the sound of a real fight.

It is slow going, but you make it to the hangar without detection. At the hangar door, you pause long enough to check Din’s pulse; a steady thrum, but not nearly as strong as it should be. You can’t see any outward sign of injury, not without disrobing him, but you don’t have the time. You position the cart against the wall and push open the door to the outside. 

A cold blast of wind hits you square in the face, ripping the air from your lungs. You gasp. Your hair a swirling storm around your face, nettles of ice prick the skin of your cheeks and coat your lashes. You can barely keep your eyes open amidst the wind, but what you can see is white. Nothing but pure white, the inside of the hangar blanketed beneath the drifting snow. There is no way you can traverse that. Even if Din were able to walk on his own, going out into a blizzard just to ride on an exposed speeder would mean certain death. You grit your teeth, curling your fingers around the frigid metal door handle, and pull against the screaming wind. 

The door closes with a heavy thud, and you fall back several steps. Plan B, then. Whatever that is. 

But all thought of a new plan is put on hold at the sight of a figure advancing at the other side of the atrium. Robed in brown and hooded, you cannot see their features. They move quickly in your direction, booted feet echoing against the flagstone floor. 

“Hey!” You withdraw your blaster and point it at the figure, clicking the safety off. “Stop!” 

The figure halts. They lift their hands in surrender. 

“Don’t move.” 

But they go to push back their hood, and their hand is moving, and you see them in your mind’s eye pulling out a blaster and —

You fire a warning shot on the floor as the figure pushes back their hood to unearth a head of russet spirals.

The singer, you recognize her. You heard her voice, followed the sound of her music to where Crik lay in waiting. In the chaos of your attack, you did not question what became of her after the first shots rang out. She stands at the end of the hall now. Goggles obscure her eyes, and she is wrapped tight in layer upon layer of clothing, as if she is about to flee into the storm. You do not lower your blaster. Your fingers grasp the fabric of Din’s flightsuit. 

“They’ve all gone,” the woman says. Her voice is low and honeyed, as beautiful spoken as it was sung. “The storm plus your surprise visit—the whole lot of them ran when word got out. Mercenaries, all of them.”

“And you?”  

“There’s nothing for me here. Never was.” She takes a tentative step forward. Your fist tightens around the blaster grip. “I just want to go home. Get away from here. If you’ll let me pass…”

She takes another step, and you angle your body to shield as much of Din as you can. “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

She shrugs. “You don’t. But I have no fight with you or your man. I just want to leave.”

“In this blizzard?” You scoff and take a step in her direction. She stops advancing and returns her hands to surrender. 

“You forget people call Hoth their home. We know how to survive here.” Her gaze flicks down to the serving cart. “Unlike some.”

Without warning, she pounces, lunging forward to grab the end of your blaster with both hands. She pushes the gun up, angling it toward the ceiling as she leans against you. You put your weight onto your back foot, struggling against her as she thrashes, pushing and pulling your blaster this way and that. 

“I should have shot you when I could,” you mutter and throw your shoulder against her collarbone. She grunts and stumbles back, landing against the wall with a thud and crack of her head. 

You press the muzzle of your blaster against her forehead. She swallows past a lump in her throat, and the lens of her goggles appear foggy with mist. She is crying, but the picture does not inspire sympathy within you.

She deflates against the wall. “There is medicine here, food, shelter. You can nurse your man. Just let me go. Please.”

“Where is it?” 

She points to the west side of the atrium, the corner opposite where you followed Din into this den of vipers. 

“Please,” she says again. 

It is with some reluctance you cock your head in the direction of the hangar door. She sighs in relief and pushes off the wall. Throwing her hood back up, she hurries around you, her cloak swirling in her wake. You keep your blaster trained on her until she is at the door, her gloved hands wrapped around the door knob. When she pauses to look over her shoulder, you lean forward, the blaster an unrelenting threat. 

“Crik’s room,” she offers. “In it there is a safe beneath the rug. Thought you might like to know.”

She opens the door before you can ask anything further. You drop your blaster, the blizzard wind battering the already-unsteady serving cart. You throw your bodyweight over Din, a shelter from the storm, until the woman is gone and the door is closed and you are left alone.

/

By the time you make it to Crik’s room, you are drenched in sweat. Your throat aches for water and your side burns, but you made it without further issue. The woman must have been telling the truth: the fortress seemed deserted, silent save for the sound of the serving cart clattering along the floor. Now you must move Din from the cart’s top to the plush bed and then—

And then you aren’t sure…

It is not difficult to move Din from the serving cart to the bed. You are able to kneel in the center of the mattress and drag him with two forceful heaves. He falls to the bed, arms and legs splayed, and you sit back on your heels, out of breath and sure to be sore come sunrise. 

You hesitate before pulling the medpac out of your pocket. If Din dies here, you think… If he truly gave his last in that music hall, you aren’t sure if you will have the strength to carry on. He would want you to—that you know without a doubt—but he is Din, your Din. Somehow, between the moments of strife, he molded himself with the very fabric of your being. To lose him would be to lose yourself. To go on without him would be to go on without half of your very being. Can you do that?

You bury the thought, the possibility, as you withdraw a slim tube of bacta spray and a pair of scissors from the medpac. You cut through his flightsuit, ignoring whatever reservation rises in your chest. You have seen this skin in the dim light of the Sunder, in the moonlight of your childhood room, beneath the sun on your father’s wheatfield. Skin is skin, and he has given you this much. You will cut him free of the flightsuit to determine if he is at all injured, but the helmet will stay on. Until he deems it otherwise, the helmet stays on.

Once cut from collarbone to navel, you push either side of the flightsuit away from his shoulders. You have to twist his arms out of the tight fabric, but he is soon naked from the waist up. You study his flesh for signs of injury. Save the graze of Crik’s sword at his stomach, there isn’t obvious evidence of some profound wound that could keep him unconscious for this long. You cut through the rest of the flightsuit until he is left in a pair of slim briefs. 

For once, the sight of his unarmored flesh does not ignite a sense of need in you. For once, you are not distracted by the feel of his warm skin under your hand. 

You work quickly, turning his arms side to side then inspecting his legs. Nothing. When you slide your hands beneath his shoulders, aiming to turn him on to his stomach, he twitches. His left arm rises slowly, caught somewhere between pain and sleep, and a soft groan filters through his voice modulator. 

You move to his opposite side, relief a cool balm to your frenzied senses. “Din!” You capture either side of his helm as he falls onto his back with a longer, deeper groan. “Din, can you hear me?”

“My helmet…” His voice is rough, textured by a dry throat. “Take it off.”

You lift your hands from his shoulders, burned by the shock of his words. “What?” 

He coughs then mutters a curse. He wraps his right arm around his ribcage, legs curling in on himself. “Take… the helmet off. I can’t—” He is wracked by a pained wheeze. “Can’t breathe.”

You cannot fathom the words he is saying. You sit, frozen at his side, the wind outside as loud as the silence in your head. His helmet? Off?

Din reaches out, grabs your wrist. His touch is slick with sweat. “Scout—take it off!”

You are quick to obey.

With shaking fingers and stomach a twist of tight knots, you grab either side of his helmet and lift. Your heart hammers against your ribs, your tongue gone chalky and limp. In the deep recesses of your mind, the words holy shit holy shit holy shit ping-pong from brain receptor to brain receptor. 

Din—his face—before you, unfurled like a clenched fist, slowly then all at once, open and unguarded. 

Before you can consume the course and contours of his face, you first notice the pain etched in the lines of his brow. His plush lower lip curls in discomfort, his eyelids fluttering against sharp cheekbones.

“Where does it hurt?” You skim your palms over his cheeks, feel the prick of his patchy beard against your skin.  “Tell me.”

“My ribs,” he croaks, and you would laugh that his first sentence to you sans helmet is so clinical if the situation weren’t so dire.

You tear your eyes away from his face long enough to brush your fingers across his ribs. Either side, your fingertips a barely-there caress. He grunts when you gently prod a spot with discoloration, a splotch of red-and-purple bruises just forming.

“It’s broken.” He shifts his body in an attempt to skirt the pain, but it does nothing to alleviate the core issue. 

“I don’t—I don’t have a bone-knitter.” You rip open the medpac, its contents spilling across your lap. Your fingers tremble as you sift through the items, coming up wanting in almost all departments. “This pack is so fucking basic.” 

You look up, and you are sure your stare is frantic because Din waves off your panic with a look of pained nonchalance. “Just… give me the bacta. The bacta and the wrap. We’ll make do.”

He drops his head against the pillow, eyes shut, and you follow orders. After spraying his skin with the bacta, you apply a narrow, piss-poor excuse for a bacta patch found at the bottom of the medpac. You begin unfolding the roll of gauze wrap. 

“You’ll need to sit up for this.” You speak the words to your busy hands, afraid that if you look at him for too long, you may never finish the job. 

Grunting, Din pushes himself to a sitting position. He holds his arms out when you instruct him, and he only puts up a small bit of fuss as you wind the gauze wrap around his chest tight enough to rip at the hair on his sternum. At the end of the roll, you yank the gauze as tight as his breadth will allow.

“Fuck!” Instinctively, he claps his hand over yours where you tape the wrap secure. “You did that on purpose.”

You cannot help but grin, your face still angled near his chest. “You scared the shit out of me.” 

He breathes once through his nose, the sound so familiar to his helm you almost wonder if he put the bucket back on. “Crik?”

You hesitate, if only for a second, before saying, “Dead. I killed him.”

He, too, is quiet before his voice sweeps your ears with its feather-lightness. “Scout, look at me.”

And for the first time, you do. 

He is nondescript in his appearance; there is nothing otherworldly or phantasmagoric about him. In the early days, when you pictured him with sprouted horns or as a ghostly spectre, you rarely let your mind imagine this. The memory of your confession in the womb of your childhood home comes back to stare at you in the face. Brown hair and brown eyes, you had said. You were right about him.

A strong nose, the most noticeable of his features apart from his eyes. A gaze like warm chocolate, so at odds with the brusk man you know him to be. His tousled hair is short, but touches his ears enough that it softens the lines which crease his forehead. 

He is human—utterly, devastatingly so. 

As you stare at him, openly running your eyes over every crevice of his face, Din seems to do the same to you. He studies you, going so far as to lift his ungloved hand to cradle the side of your head. His thumb runs through the wisps of hair at your ear. 

“Mesh’la…” His voice is low now, scraping against the baser parts of himself. You know that tone, have heard it through a voice-coder more times than not. His pupils are wide, cutting into his irises with such need it almost scares you.

You press your palms to his thighs, anchoring yourself to his firm body. Gods, you could float away in this moment if you aren’t careful. “You’ve never told me what that means.”

Din’s brow folds with a confused frown. It is almost amusing, the sight of his emotions playing out across the canvas of his face. Who knew he was so expressive beneath the visor? “I didn’t?” 

At the shake of your head, he nudges your chin with the crook of his finger. You lift your mouth, and he lowers his face. His mouth hover over yours, his breath a tease against your lips. “It means beautiful.”

“Hmm.” You close the gap between your lips, pausing long enough to whisper against him, “Mesh’la.”

Din kisses you. Without the pretense of his helmet or the cover of darkness, he kisses you. As his lips claim yours, he works his fingers to the back of your head, securing you against himself. His lips are soft, luxurious in all the right ways. His tongue skims your lower lip, and you open yourself to him willingly. 

You move your hands from his thighs to his chest. The feel of his skin so exposed to the light of day startles you at first; enough that you break your kiss with a nervous chuckle. He cocks his head in amusement, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a wry grin. 

“Still me,” he says. 

You nod, and your gaze skips between his eyes, those dark, endless pools of brown. You raise a hand to brush your knuckles over his brow. On instinct, his eyes flutter closed, and he leans into your touch. 

“I never thought…” You do not finish your sentence, but he understands you well enough. 

“I would have given you this. In every lifetime.”

Emotion clogs your throat, then. Tears flood your vision, and it catches in your chest like fire. Not now, not when he has just given you this, the most sacred part of himself. You will let nothing cloud your sight. Never again. 

Twining your arms around his neck, you return your mouth to Din’s, a new eagerness thrumming through your veins. Your mouths move as one. His skin is hot against yours as you straddle his hips. His hands on your waist set the pace of a slow, unhurried roll of your hips.

You grin against his mouth. “Someone’s impatient.” 

He taps your ass with a playful swat. “Shut up.”

It is like finding an ancient cadence as he rids you of your clothes. First your outer layers still showered in dried blood then your tunic. He pauses long enough to grasp your breasts, laving his tongue over your nipples with equal care. You shudder a sigh and fist your hands in his hair, rubbing yourself over his stiffening length. When he has sucked your nipples to a stiff peak, he pushes you off of his lap long enough to pull at the waistband of your pants. You drop to standing on the floor, fumbling with your tacbelt until it comes away with a hurried tug. You drop your trousers and help him remove his underwear. 

Your pace slows as you return to one another. He settles against the array of pillows at the headboard, and he reaches for you. Again, you feel a lump lodge in your throat as you come to him. He must notice because he swipes at a tear clinging to the corner of your eye. 

“You and me,” he whispers. 

You nod and lift your hips over his pulsing length. “You and me.”

You take him into yourself in one fluid motion. Your jaw drops on a silent whine, your neck gone slack at the pleasure. The stretch of him, the fullness of him—it sends a tidal wave of slick to your center. 

Din kneads his hands into your hips as you adjust to him. A look of concentration twists his brow and sets his teeth on edge. He bites the tip of his tongue as he pushes his hips up once, twice. Your eyes roll back until the underside of your lashes is all you can see. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, dropping your hands to his chest. 

“That’s it.” He thrusts upward again as you set your rhythm. “Just like that.” 

You ride Din’s length, grinding your clit against his pubic bone. Sparks of pleasure course from the center of you through your arms, your legs. You latch onto the feeling, riding harder, faster as you toss your head back on a moan. 

“Goddammit.” His voice is a prayer, a plea, to the very heart of you. “Fuck me, Scout. Come on.”

You jerk your hips forward and backward until a spiral begins to form at your clit. You choke on a moan, eyes squeezed tight against the mixture of pleasure and pain and utter divine. 

“Look at me. Look at me when you cum.”

You open your eyes, and you see him beneath you, the sheen of sweat at his forehead, the muscles on his throat strained with effort as you fucks you from beneath. You see the animalistic twist of his mouth as he pushes his cock in your core, and you see the primal claim staked in his eyes. 

You cum—a shattering cry as you release over his length with spasm after spasm. 

He is quick to follow. His eyes close as he paints your womb with his cum. A ragged moan mangles his voice, and you ride him through the aftershocks, until he is pulling you to his side and off of his cock.

You lay your head against his chest, listening to the rapid tempo of his heart. How lovely the sound, you think. You never want to hear it as faint as it was mere hours before. 

“Now what?” Your question breaks the comfortable silence, and you wish you were better at this, at simply being. 

“What do you mean?”

“No more Crik, no more bounties. What do we do now?”

Din rubs his hand up and down your shoulder as he considers the question. He is quiet long enough that you twist to look at him, to watch the thoughts cycle through his brain in a twist of uncertainty.

“Forget I said anything,” you offer. “I just thought—”

He opens his eyes, and the sincerity in his gaze arrests the momentary regret in your chest. “We can do whatever we want. I mean it, Scout. Mandalore, more bounty hunting, fucking moisture farming for all I care. All I want is you by my side.” 

“We don’t have to decide now.”

“No, we don’t.” 

Sucking in a steadying breath, you return your head to Din’s chest. An overwhelming sense of fatigue falls over you, emanating from your very bones. Your time of running—of searching and stealing and fighting for survival—is drawing to a close. Who will you become when the morning dawns? What girl will reveal herself from the chrysalis? You aren’t sure, but you are eager to meet her. 

Just before sleep claims you, Din speaks into the quiet of the room. “On Mandalore, they never said it. There wasn’t really a translation other than Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum — I will know you forever.” He squeezes the muscle of your arm and repeats the phrase, “I will know you forever, Scout.” 

His heart dropped to his stomach, his ragged breathing hitching at the back of his dry throat as your answer settled in the dusty confines of his mind.

This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be fucking real. For the first time in his life, Harry Castillo thought he’d found the mythical one, thought he’d finally found that feeling everyone kept talking about—the evasive true love. So blind, he’d thought you were meant to be; so convinced, he had bought the ring in the first month of dating you.

And for the first time in his life too, Harry was utterly speechless. Frozen under your mortified gaze, his mouth opened just to shut it again, unsure of what to say or what to do.

You were meant to say yes. Yes to a lavish life with him, yes to be with him forever, yes to have all your needs and wants taken care of, yes to create a family of your own, yes till death do you part.

And yet, he was met with a candid, straightforward no. Even when he was fully convinced you did love him the same way he loved you—with all his heart, soul and mind. You were the red thread of fate he’d been chasing his whole life, the yin to his yang, the kindred spirit that had awakened his own.

Proposing was the logical path to him, the next step to take in life with the person he cherished most. Surely, it was what you expected of him after a year of officially seeing each other—of making your relationship so public, it had been published in every tabloid and gossip magazine.

There wasn’t a single person in the whole of New York that didn’t know that one of the most sought-after bachelors of Manhattan was taken. Your name had been plastered all over his on every newspaper headline.

“No? You… you won’t marry me?”

Your mortified gaze softened, warm hands wrapping around his and closing the ring box. Pressing your lips together, you shook your head in a negative.

“No, Harry,” you whispered breathless, your thumb brushing his knuckles. “Please, sit with me.”

The chair’s legs screeched against the marbled slabs as you dragged it to your side, Harry’s eyes tracking the moves while his knee was still nailed to the floor.

A myriad of emotions coursed through him in a fleeting instant—disbelief, anger, confusion, doubt. His brain couldn’t even compute them all at once, couldn’t even comprehend how this was the outcome. It just made no sense at all, considering how he’d planned and curated every single detail so the night would end exactly as he had expected.

The day had been perfect, or so he’d thought. A sumptuous breakfast in bed with all your favorite fruits and sweets, while he most patiently waited for his to be served—you, legs completely spread out on the silken bedsheets, exposing your glistening pussy in an invitation Harry couldn’t resist. He’d eaten you out until you had come on his tongue and fingers several times, leaving you so satisfied and dazed you had to take a morning nap before heading out for the day.

A few hours later, Harry got you a beautiful dress that hugged your every curve exquisitely—one he helped you out of before fucking you quick and nasty in the dressing room of a high-end brand store in Manhattan. You had walked out all flustered with your clothes completely disheveled, and a smug Harry had emerged right behind you with a crooked bowtie and wrinkled shirt before pressing his card to the reader without even looking at the price.

Then treated you to lunch at one of the best hotels in Manhattan, where you had teased him under the smooth, gold-threaded tablecloth—sinking the sharp high heels into his groin, before subtly gesturing towards the bathroom as your tongue darted out to wet your lips.

He’d met you in the restroom, locked the door and pushed you against the granite countertop, his throbbing cock pressed against your ass as you giggled and muttered a breathless “Here? Now?” before rolling up your dress. Harry had taken you indecorously, pushing your panties aside and sheathing himself in your warmth in a smooth thrust from behind.

He could still remember your breath against his palm, how he had to quieten your loud sobs as he railed you against the sink countertop. How his hand had locked around your jaw, forcing you to look at yourself in the big mirror, so you could see how your expression morphed into pleasure. How your eyelashes fluttered and your eyes rolled back when he completely buried himself in you, down to the hilt to kiss your cervix. How your pussy had welcomed him, tightening around his girth and squeezing him hard, milking him dry as you came crashing down on his dick with a few tears sliding down your temples—the proof he needed to know you’d reached the heavens.

After the perfect lunch date, an elegant black limo had been waiting outside to take you both to The Met for a private auction and gala, where he introduced you to his stakeholders and investors for the first time—figures in the shadows whose names you’d never hear anywhere else, but were truly paramount in making the intricate, invisible pulleys of New York work smoothly. You’d shown great interest in his endeavors from the beginning and now knew he could trust you with such sensitive contact list.

The way back in the limo had been strangely silent, with you nervously typing away on your phone and throwing skittish side glances at him. And for a second, Harry worried you suspected of his plan, that you were messaging a friend to somehow let out the excitement without showing it to him. He could only hope he hadn’t spoiled the surprise.

By the time you both had gotten to the restaurant, Harry was all fidgety and flustered. What better way to top the perfect day off with breath-taking views over a fine meal under the candlelight if not with a proposal? The decoration was soft and luxurious: black marbled walls with rivets of gold and blues with matching floors, the sheer curtains gently flowing as the breeze pushed through the open sliding doors to the terrace, exotic plants and selected pieces of expensive fabric hanging off the exposed industrial beams on the ceiling. The intimate table was dressed elegantly as well: a huge porcelain vase of fresh, vivid flowers presided over it, brass cutlery and silk napkins, golden-rimmed wineglasses, plates with the most exquisite art hand-painted on them. Castillo hadn’t spared any details, knowing of your good taste for fine things.

Harry had hired the whole room for you both, paying a fortune to keep this moment private and somewhat simple, away from flashing lenses and prying eyes. Not only that, but there was also a violinist on tow in the staff room, waiting for the cue of your emotional “Yes, Harry!” to come into scene as he would slide the diamond-cladded ring onto your waiting finger. Harry hazarded now the musician would never come into the scene.

All his dreams, all his hopes for a shining future with you… all gone with an unexpected two-letter word that crushed all of it. How could you tear apart the relationship you both had carefully built? Why would you lead him down this path of love if it seemed unrequited now? Why play with his feelings when you were fully aware of how hard it’d been for him to open up to the remote possibility of being seen for who he really was?

Your no… angered him for a brief instant. Mad at how easily you’d rejected him, as if his warmly delivered speech meant absolutely nothing to you. As if all the moments you had spent together were just a mirage of his imagination; as if all the confessions he breathlessly whispered in your ear while making love were just meaningless words that never took root in your heart.

“Harry,” you murmured, palming the chair for him to sit beside you. “Please.”

As he stood, knees cracking under his own weight, Harry lost himself in the vast darkness of the windows to your soul. Half-lidded, dimmed orbs that professed the same gut-wrenching ache twisting in his tummy. The pain they emanated placated his resentment—your own desperation, drowning in your irises.

Harry took a seat, half-facing you. His hands dropped to his lap, fingers fidgeting with the velvet ring box. His sight instantly evaded yours, so unsure of himself now, all his insecurities arose to the surface of his cold skin. They came back harder and stronger even though they never really left him, nagging at the of his mind like rust and corrosion winning over an iron rod.

Stripped of his wealth, there wasn’t much left. Not tall enough, not handsome enough, not fit enough, not funny enough, not kind enough, not selfless enough, not fluent enough in his mother tongue, not confident enough. Some of those, money could fix—but the ones that weren’t that easily resolved consumed him, kept him up at night. Painfully aware of his lacks and deficiencies, Mr. Castillo was just like any other middle-aged man going through a life crisis.

“I thought this was what you wanted,” he barely husked out, avoiding meeting your gaze.

Warmth reached up to his cheek, your thumb brushing his jawline as you gently redirected his eyes to yours. But this time, there was a tinge of pity—one that broke his already fragile heart some more. Being broken up with he could try and handle, but the commiseration was harder to swallow.

“Is it what you wanted?”

The question caught him off guard. Wasn’t it obvious? After all thought he’d put into today, after the last few months spent together… How could you even possibly ask?

“Of course I want this. Wanted you to say yes too,” Harry registered the next unanswered question in your eyes before you even spoke. “Because I love you.”

A flicker of… something shimmered fleetingly in your eyes—recognition? And then, your hand instantly dropped from his cheek as your sight darkened, your lips pursed in unspoken reluctance. And with your doomed expression, the whole atmosphere in the room shifted, your demeanor changed. The air got colder, crispier, harder to breathe. The lights had dimmed, or so he thought—shadows dancing around them, getting dangerously close to the table, like ghosts waiting their time to slither through the cracks of reality.

“You don’t love me, Harry. You love the idea of me. Those are two completely different things,” sighting heavily, your eyes scanned everything around you except for him—his eyes you were avoiding like the plague. “You love being loved, having someone by your side, just because you are afraid of dying alone. Doesn’t matter by who though—it could be me, but it could literally be anyone else. Wouldn’t make a difference to you.”

Shock hit his chest, blooming and bending his ribs until the ends drove right through his lungs. How could you think you didn’t make a difference? He’d ripped his heart apart in front of you halfway through the relationship. One restless night, after an argument he couldn’t even remember what it was about anymore, Harry had knocked at your door way past midnight—with greyish bags under his eyes and in his sleeping attire. Didn’t even have the time to dress nicely as he’d have done before, always more concerned about appearances and what others might think.

That night he profusely apologized for being a selfish dickhead, for fucking up and thinking of himself more than of you. Castillo had humbly laid out all his demons for you to dissect—his fears, his hopes, his insecurities, his dreams, his commitment issues, his will to overcome it all. For himself, but for you too. All of it he’d let go, being vulnerable outside of the jail his own brain for the first time in his goddamn life.

And that night… that night changed him for good. It marked a before and after, opened up his eyes until the frivolous judgement he’d grown up with dissipated. Made a proactive effort to be more considerate, to learn how to be with someone he could trust. You were his comfort, yes, but also his rock in turbulent waters, his headlights in the darkest of nights, the lighthouse that brightened the path he had yearned for his whole life.

“How could you say that? That’s not true—not true at all,” Harry emphasized, cupping your hands with his in a desperate attempt to regain your attention, needing your eyes on him so you could see the truth for yourself. “I love you, only you, baby. I haven’t loved anyone in my fucking life like I do you. You’ve taught me how to truly love, how to be a better man. How to care, how to be kind, how to have a good laugh when the situation becomes too much, how to be more spontaneous, how to be present, how to just enjoy the small things in life. Everything I am, I owe to you, so of course I love you. Nobody could ever replace you—nothing, not even a no to my marriage proposal, could ever erase how grateful and lucky I am to have you in my life, sweetheart.”

Your eyes sparkled at his sudden love confession, words he’d never said out loud before because Harry thought you already knew, that his actions were louder than any spoken reassurance he could give you. Perhaps that had been his mistake—thinking that saying something lacked nuance when he could just act on his feelings.

Harry had to briefly stop to sip at his drink, throat running dry, and then scooted his chair closer to yours, gently squeezing your hands when your eyes watered ever so slightly.

“If you don’t want to get married, that’s completely fine. I thought we were ready for the next step, but it’s okay if we aren’t. I can love you better, I promise. Just need more time so I can show you…”

You shifted in your seat awkwardly, one hand clutching your vibrating phone and shoving it down into your purse.

“Harry, you don’t really know much about love, do you?” And before he could even say anything, you continued, “What’s my favorite color?” Your eyes stabbed through his, sharp and cold, the mist clouding them gone when you subtly checked something behind his back.

“What?” Harry asked, confused, briefly looking over his shoulder and not seeing anything.

“What’s my favorite painting? My favorite snack? My favorite place to holiday?”

Harry was stunned into silence, his brain instantly freezing and unable to think further than what was happening right now. No answers came to him, but he thought he’d asked all of these before. Surely he had, otherwise he would be a terrible boyfriend.

His jaw hung open as he tried to speak, but no words came out.

“Exactly, Harry. You don’t know because you never asked.”

“I… I never asked?” he repeated, speechless.

Shaking your head, you lounged back on your chair, his hands losing their grasp on yours. You looked so uncomfortable now, Harry just felt completely out of place. This had to be a nightmare. You had been beaming with joy all day, receptive to his touch and laughing with him—when did he lose all sense of reality? When did his perception become so warped? Had his love-deprived brain manufactured all of it?

Was he losing his fucking mind? What the hell was going on? Was this some sort of sick joke?

“I have. I have, right?” he insisted, desperate for the shared connection that was quickly slipping away from him. “I’m sure I have. I’m sorry, baby, I just can’t remember…”

“Don’t try to apologize, I’ve heard all excuses under the sun already before I met you,” you choked out, blinking away the tears that never materialized. “Really thought you were different. Guess that’s my own fault for thinking you were the one for me, the person I’d grow up old with. But you were never the one… I can’t compete with your own ego. You’re no better than any other man I’ve crossed paths with. You’ve fallen short and no surgery can remedy that.”

His chest wheezed with the final blow of your words. The emphasis and delivery of the last one was a proper slap to the face, throwing his biggest insecurity back at him as if it was just a trifle. Something he’d shared with you—a secret he confided, because Harry didn’t want anything between you two. A lapse in judgement that he’d regret for the rest of his life, one instance of misplaced trust was all that was needed to dilapidate him, to break him for good.

Harry irremediably winced at your mockery. A dense void spread and anchored in his belly, his heart heavy with a profound loss he couldn’t even comprehend. Your cruelty seemed to know no limits, your blank face giving no indication of remorse except for your trembling bottom lip, pin-like holes dotted on your chin.

Did you hate him so much you couldn’t even stand staring at him anymore? Couldn’t even keep the façade up any longer? Was any of it real? Had he just seen what he wanted to see in you? Was he so desperate for love he’d seen it where there was none?

“Do you… do you even love me?” he mumbled, panting, lungs collapsing under the distress that took ahold of him.

You shook your head no, and the weight of the world fell upon his shoulders, metaphorically crushing him down to the floor. That simple gesture wrecked him so much, Harry braced the armrests.

“Was it all theatrics then? All these months together… they mean nothing to you?” You simply stared him down, apathetic. “Why?”

It was just a whisper under his breath, almost a rhetorical question. But you heard.

“It was fun for a while, you know. And you got me all these wonderful gifts—the flowers, all the branded dresses and shoes, the expensive jewelry, the design bags. But it’s just gotten boring now, you have gotten boring. Taking your money is not exciting anymore,” your tone was flat and steady, devoid of any true emotion—so unlike you, who were always chirpy and expressive. It was like you were a completely different person, a stranger he’d never met before. “I thought I could force myself to love you, love you for all the materialistic reasons, but I guess there are things money can’t truly buy.”

One of his worst nightmares just materialized, shaped after you. Love didn’t exist for people like him—his mother was right. Now that ominous “She’s not right for you, she’s just after your fortune. When will you open your eyes?” his mother had uttered under her breath when he first introduced you over a fine dinner rang in his ears with a truth he’d wanted so badly to deny at the time.

And even after such display of disdain, Harry wanted—needed—to grasp onto something. A chink of hope, anything that would ground him and keep him sane. He loved you, deeply and blindly so. Even after the wreckage you had caused in the barren wasteland his soul was trapped in, he couldn’t just… give up and let go.

But the steeliness of your expression prevented him from pushing for what was already broken. Your love, your affection, was a lost cause. A cause that was never really there, that he’d fabricated to feel better about himself.

“So… it’s over?” he husked out, defeated and drained of all purpose.

“Yes, Harry, we’re done” you nodded, standing up and smoothing out the dress he’d bought for you that morning.

How could those two words he’d been waiting to hear since he woke up make his whole being shake with grief? How could a marriage proposal break him past the point of mending?

“Okay,” he finally agreed, fingers drumming on the table after leaving the ring box behind, and then got up too, eyes stuck to the floor as he began processing.

He’d fucked up, big time. Harry had been so inattentive with you, he hadn’t even bothered to ask about the small details that brought people closer. You were right: there were things money couldn’t buy nor fix, and his selfishness was one of them. He’d longed so much for love, he’d lost sight of it at some point. And now that same love he’d yearned for had destroyed him.

Harry veered around and started walking away, but suddenly your hand clasped around his wrist. Confused, he blinked up at you—and that chink of hope shined brighter through the crack of a slim chance, stronger than ever, thinking that perhaps…

“Would you take me home, please?” Harry didn’t notice the fleeting panic darkening your widened eyes, nor how your bottom lip was quaking again, too overwhelmed with his own misery to register your uneasiness. “I have no way of getting back and didn’t bring anything with me.”

He should say no, tell you to fend for yourself and get home however you could, tell you that you had already taken enough from him. But the love he still harbored for you prevented him from doing so, as stupid as that was.

“Of course,” he muttered, lifting his hand as invitation to walk with him.

“Thank you.”

You hated yourself—despised your own calculated actions to the point of bile rising up your throat. So you absentmindedly brushed your bottom lip with your thumb and swallowed hard, eyes locked on the whirlwind of city lights refracting through the rain drops licking the car’s tinted window in the backseat.

The silence in the limo was hefty and thick, a reminder of your cruelty towards the only man who had ever gotten through the fissures of the barricade you had carefully built around your heart.

The day had started so beautifully that you could never have expected it to end like this. For it to end the only relationship you had truly cherished in your life. Saying such vile lies to Harry’s face had felt like a myriad of countless needles stabbing right through your chest. Just thinking about it made the nausea return, doom pooling in your belly like heavy rocks pulling you down to the seabed.

Subtly, you wiped the tears pricking your eyes and bit down your bottom lip, angling your face towards the window so Harry wouldn’t see the sorrow plowing through your features.

Born into the gripping claws of family business, your fate had been sealed even before birth. The sacrificial lamb for your father’s mistakes, for your whole life you had found yourself in the crossfire of feuds that had nothing to do with you. But in any case, you always obliged your father’s requests, naively thinking that once his debt had been paid, you’d finally be free—free to live far away from crime, free to build a career completely removed from your family’s wrongdoings, free to love and have a family of your own.

Never did you think you’d end up falling in love before you had broken free of the chains tangled around your wrists. Even less that the person who made your pulse rise and your belly twist with excitement, would be the man you ought to destroy.

Your first encounter with Mr. Castillo had not been a happy coincidence nor destiny being fulfilled, as Harry might had thought. It had been carefully set up by your father and his underboss, a precise, mapped out plan to steal Harry’s investors. You’d only need to get their details and bring them to your father’s side to slowly drain their bank accounts, so his decade-long arrears with another kingpin would be settled.

Not fully understanding what you were getting yourself into, you had agreed under two conditions: this would be the last time you’d help, and you’d require a substantial sum as payment that would allow you to vanish into thin air, cut ties and leave no trace behind. That last part, you had left out, knowing your father would never allow it.

At first, you wagered that Mr. Castillo was just another rich guy with his head so up his tight ass he couldn’t care less about others. So conceited that he wouldn’t glance at your dolled-up form twice when you “accidentally” bumped into him and stained his white tailored shirt with a freshly brewed coffee. You definitely thought he’d probably yell at you and make a scene in the coffee shop. But instead, he’d been all apologetic and asked if you were okay, even checked if your too-tight dress had been spared.

The moment your sights crossed, you knew you’d fuck up accepting this final concession to your father. Harry’s soft, brown eyes raptured you, and his hand on your hip to stop you from falling backwards sent shivers up your spine. The easy smile that had curled up the corners of his inviting, parted mouth made your knees wobble, and a rush of liquid fire wetted your lingerie—he was even more handsome up close, his attractiveness luring you in. It was an instant, two-way connection that rattled your bones.

That same day after a few rounds of drinks at Overstory, you’d asked him to drop you home, just like tonight. His hand had lingered on your knee, thumb mindlessly brushing the hem of your fitted dress, and before you knew it, you were straddling him, throwing your panties somewhere to the side, and messily riding him in the backseat of the same limo you were now sitting in.

He’d drunk your moans so the driver wouldn’t hear, but the wet squelching of his bare cock cracking your pussy open could not be mistaken, not even when the chauffeur turned up the volume of the classical music playing in the background. You wailed like a bitch in heat when Mr. Castillo heavily unloaded into your pussy, coating your clutching inner walls—the creamy rings at the base of his swollen dick a testament to the wild lust you both shared.

You’d breathlessly exited the car and ran inside your building, with your stuffed, raw cunt dripping white all along the corridor until you reached the safe haven of your flat. Thinking you had messed the whole thing up by giving in to pleasure way too soon, relief hit you when your phone pinged with Harry’s message, “Meet me tomorrow? Please?”

And a year later, here you were again. In the same car, being driven back home, but this time you were not desperately bouncing on his lap to milk him dry and get your pussy painted white with his cum. Instead, you were fighting back the tears that threatened to dampen your cheeks. What a fucking contrast.

Against all odds, you loved Harry Castillo. At some point, you fell prey to your own machinations. Discovered the real man behind the mask, the one who was scared out of his mind to fall in love but did nonetheless. In return, he had taught you how to love blindly, how to believe in yourself and your own dreams—dreams he had offered to invest in since the very start, because Harry was the type of person to support his loved ones without conditions, without asking for anything in return. Not only that, but also how to trust again, how to be listened to without the other person making you feel crazy, even shown you that there was a different, uncomplicated life waiting for you if you only dared to choose him over family.

Mr. Castillo was everything you didn’t know you sought in a man, even with all his defects. Because that was what love truly was about: love the other person unconditionally, not only their light, but also the darkness that hugged them at night when their demons would stalk them.

However, the constant lies, the continuous evasion of certain questions he’d asked, began to weigh you down. And when you learnt that he wasn’t really involved in any dodgy business, you felt even worse for what you were meant to do to him, to strip him of his most valuable contacts to your father’s benefit, which would turn Harry’s life upside down for a while.

Unlike you, Harry hadn’t hunkered down—he had really made a great effort to cultivate the intimacy between you two, to open up about his insecurities and wants, to learn anything he could from you. On the other side of the coin, you had been the complete opposite. Every time he’d asked a trivial question like what your favorite color was, you lied through your teeth—afraid that the heartbreak would be worse for both of you once the time came.

And yes, he obviously had already asked all the questions you had thrown at him just fifteen minutes ago. But in a desperate attempt to stop him from continuing to beautifully profess his love before you broke down in tears and confessed, you had exploited one of his weaknesses: Harry always got nervous and his memory and social anxiety would betray him, especially with a little alcohol involved, when suddenly challenged. In business and public galas, he was a masking predator, but in his private life that confidence abandoned him. That was why you’d spat out unexpected, rapid-fire questions at him, because you knew he’d freeze.

You didn’t want to do it; didn’t want to end the only real relationship you had ever had. For weeks you had been scheming a plan where both of you would get out of this mess unscathed and live your happily ever after together. But the circumstances dramatically changed the moment you both left the gala at The Met earlier this evening.

Once in the limo after leaving the party, you had texted your father’s underboss to lie and inform him that you still didn’t have all the investors’ details. He’d been the person who had almost interrupted on two occasions when Harry was professing his eternal love to you in the restaurant, his presence a reminder of what your duty was. Once when Harry said he wanted to marry you because he loved you, and the second time before you put Harry on the spot with your fast questions and were deliberately cruel to him.

What the underboss had texted back had frozen the blood running through your veins, nervously looking at Harry sideways with every word you read. “Just spoke to your father. Change of plans. Target will be eliminated as soon as all info is acquired. You don’t need to know more, just gimme a call and get out of the way as soon as you have everything.”

Murdering Harry in cold blood had never been in the cards. You had never taken part in the blood-shedding business, and was sure as hell you weren’t going to be a participant now. Much less if it involved killing Harry. The mere thought of it had bile climbing up your throat, your heart fluttering against your ribs. You wouldn’t—couldn’t—let that happen.

That was why you didn’t dial back when the underboss called you in the middle of the breakup, flatly ignoring his stupid face peeking through the ajar door. That was why, when Harry gave up and began walking away, you had stopped him and asked him to take you home in a desperate attempt to stop this madness from materializing.

Because leaving the restaurant without Harry tonight was an unspoken cue to your father’s men, who were posing as meal enjoyers in the main diner of the restaurant. Going your separate ways meant that you had everything you needed from Harry, that he was dispensable. It meant he would die right after your departure and the last words he ever heard would have been “Yes, Harry, we’re done.”

“We’ve arrived,” said the chauffeur’s flat voice through the intercom in the car.

You blinked, bringing yourself back to a reality you built, that you hated with all your heart. Discreetly, you wiped away the last tears you shed as your building came into view.

It was the time you’d been dreading all along, saying goodbye to the man who breathed life back into you. To the man who you didn’t think would be the other half you’d been missing. To the man who had taken you by complete surprise and proposed to you in the most beautiful, yet most heartbreaking, way.

How could a moment you had secretly longed for bring you so much joy and grief at the same time? Seeing him getting down to one knee had been the most exhilarating thing you’d ever witnessed. Harry had looked so handsome, his eyes so bright with excited anticipation, saying no to him broke you. It felt like swallowing a bunch of rusty needles, a betrayal to what your relationship could have been, but would never be.

You had to burn all bridges that connected you both. If you disappeared from his life, if you took his shareholders’ details to the grave, then he would be safe. From your father, your family, from you. You attacked his vulnerabilities to save him, sacrificing the love you both cherished for one another.

But it was the right thing to do, even though Harry would never know the truth. Even though he’d eventually grow to hate you and despise himself for trusting you. You could only hope that hate he’d harbor for you would keep him safe forever.

“I guess this is goodbye,” you whispered, a shaky hand grasping the handle.

Harry squirmed in his seat, his body still rejecting the idea of the breakup. His expression had dropped, his eyes darkened and his mouth fallen into a flat line. When you glanced at him, he even winced—as if your sole presence hurt him.

“So… there’s nothing I can do to fix this? Fix us?”

His last bid to salvage what could possibly remain between you two broke you even more. Your belly was burning with anguish, so were your lungs. You wanted to scream, to cry, to punch the car’s window and tell him the truth. But in doing so, you would be sentencing him to death.

“I just wished I loved you less than I do,” Harry’s defeated expression would haunt you in your nightmares. “I don’t know much about love, you’re right. But I do know it shouldn’t hurt this bad,” he paused, looking away from you. “I’m sorry for not being enough.”

“You’re right, love shouldn’t hurt, not this fucking much. You are enough, Harry. You always were, even before we met. I love you so much, I don’t think you understand I would do anything for you. Even breaking your heart, if it means you’re safe. You are everything to me and there’s nothing I want more than being your wife. Fuck this, fuck my family! Let’s run away together, far away from the lies I’ve told you. I’m so damn sorry. Take me back, please. I love you, Harry,” was what you really wanted to say, but instead dryly barked out:

“Goodbye, Mr. Castillo.”

After the door clicked open, you barely remembered how you got out of the limo and got to your apartment. Your ears were ringing loudly, and silent tears streamed down your face.

Finally, in the solitude of your home, you allowed yourself to loudly break down, to pour into the emptiness between these four walls the regrets you could never say to Harry. With your back pressed against the main door, you slowly slid down to the floor, thick tears clouding your gaze as you sobbed and hugged yourself on the cold tiles.

Reality hit you: it was over. Really over. You’d never see Harry again. How were you meant to continue with your life now that your chest had been cruelly ripped apart? How could you go on knowing he would hate you until your dying breath?

In the middle of your despair, your phone pinged. And for a brief second, you felt hopeful—what if Harry wouldn’t take no for an answer? What if he was texting to say that he was coming up to your apartment to talk this out?

Anxiously, you quickly grabbed your phone, but all hope soon vanished. It was a text from your father.

“So? Any luck? You’ve gone radio silent and I don’t appreciate that. I’m coming to get you, we gotta talk.”

You read the message again, a deep-rooted hatred boiling inside you. Until it came to the surface and with a lung-tearing scream, you threw the phone to the wall, breaking it into a million pieces.

But soon you realized what your father’s words meant. Talking was not his forte. You had to pack just the essentials and skip town before he found you.

Harry watched you leave, the car’s door slamming with a finality he felt deep in his bones. As you ran towards the building’s entrance, the answers to your questions slowly came back to him with every step you took away from him.

Burgundy.

Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette by Vincent van Gogh.

Popcorn.

Yosemite.

He knew all the answers, of course he did! Why did he doubt himself, why had his memory betrayed him?

Excitedly, thinking this could partially fix your relationship, Harry rolled down the window, ready to yell them all at you. Didn’t care if your neighbors thought he had gone mad, because he was completely crazy, irremediably in love with you. Everything you had said to him, all the cruel words… none of it mattered if he got you back.

“Burgundy!”

You didn’t even look back as the entrance’s door swinged open in front of you. Didn’t even acknowledge his existence, running inside your building as if he meant absolutely nothing to you.

That crushed him for good, slouching against the backrest as his throat clamped up and tears pricked his eyes.

The theatrics of love had fooled him—you had. Love was just a tale as old as time, something people invented to keep others by their side. It was just a mirage, a reflection of a society afraid to die alone. Just like he would.

Or perhaps it was real… and simply not meant for him. A cruelty he finally accepted as he signaled the chauffeur to drive away, leaving behind all the wrecked dreams of a life that would never be.

It’s been eleven days since you dropped Frankie off at the airport. He was supposed to be back six days ago. No phone calls, no texts, nothing. You’ve decided you won’t get truly concerned until tomorrow.

You can’t remember the number of times you went a week, sometimes two, without having contact with Frankie before he discharged from the military. This is an unsanctioned mission, but you still have an idea of what to expect from Frankie when he’s in it like this. 

You’re in bed, alone, staring up at the ceiling. Both the two-year-old and the five-month-old are (finally) fast asleep in their rooms. None of Frankie’s girls can ever seem to get good sleep when he’s gone.

It’s 11:47 PM when you finally put your phone on the charger and shut your eyes. It’s 11:49 when the distinctive ringtone you’ve been waiting to hear for the last six days finally sounds off in your quiet bedroom.

You accept the call and bring the phone to your ear.

“Frankie?” Your voice is soft and hopeful, and Frankie swears he can feel his heart twist.

“Hi, baby,” he sighs on the other end. “I’m sorry.”

You let the apology sit in the air for a moment before you ask where he is.

“Airport. Um, I’m about to call an Uber, but I wanted to let you know I’m coming,” he says softly.

You can imagine him sitting on a metal bench near baggage claim, his Standard Heating Oil hat in his hand, his phone in the other.

“I’ll come get you,” you decide, swinging your feet over the mattress.

Frankie shakes his head even though you can’t see him. 

“No, I’m sure the girls don’t want to get out of bed. I’ll call an Uber, be home within the hour, hopefully,” he says, the exhaustion in his voice evident.

“Frankie, I’m coming. I’ll see you in half an hour,” you say before hanging up the phone.

You grab the hoodie Frankie left on the chair in the corner and throw it over your tank top, the fabric so long and worn that it almost conceals your pajama shorts.

With soft footsteps, you head into the nursery first to grab the baby. You manage to pick her up from the crib without waking her, then walk to the garage and get her situated in her car seat.

Then you head to your oldest’s room, but she ends up waking up when you snake your hands beneath her body.

“Mama?” Her little voice is so tired.

“I’m here,” you murmur as you wrap your arms around your daughter and carry her to the garage, where you slip on some sneakers.

She doesn’t make another noise, having fallen right back asleep in your arms as you get her situated in the backseat with her sister.

The drive to the airport is silent. You’re bracing yourself to possibly see a battered version of your husband, definitely more withdrawn than before he left, hopefully a richer version to save you from the buckets of debt. 

The traumatic birth of your youngest, who came six weeks early, paired with her three-week-long NICU stay, not to mention the court bills that have come with Frankie getting busted for cocaine use and subsequently getting his pilot’s license suspended, have been the biggest hits.

As you pull into the arrivals line, you spot the back of him.

You text him, telling him to turn around, and he quickly finds your car. You put the vehicle in park and get out. He doesn’t need your help putting his duffel bag in the trunk, but he does need your arms around him, and you need the same from him.

He breathes in the scent of your shampoo and clutches the fabric of his hoodie on your body.

“Let me drive,” Frankie murmurs softly when you pull back.

“No, you’re tired. I got it,” you insist, gently pushing him toward the passenger side.

As you get back on the highway, Frankie lets out a deep sigh, prompting you to turn your head briefly, then do a double-take when you notice his face.

“You shaved.”

It’s thankfully the only visible change that occurred over the last week and a half. You’re sure his body aches, but he seems physically okay. 

He brings a hand up to scrub over the lower half of his face.

“Was in the jungle for God knows how long,” he says softly. “Got itchy.”

You glance one more time, then fix your eyes on the road. 

“It’ll grow back.”

“I know,” you mumble.

The rest of the drive is quiet. You know better than to ask what happened when it’s all so fresh, so you focus on driving.

Frankie keeps turning around in the passenger seat, stealing glances at the girls, like he needs reminding that they’re there, that he’s back with them. 

When you pull into the garage, Frankie opens and shuts the passenger door, immediately going for the oldest, then his duffel. He still worries about you lifting anything heavier than the baby, despite you being cleared by the doctor and being five months postpartum.

With the baby in your arms, you open the garage door and let Frankie step through, then shut it behind you.

He drops his duffel in the hallway, then heads into your oldest’s room and softly lowers her into her bed while you put the baby down in the nursery. 

Frankie stares at his beloved two-year-old for a moment, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath she takes. He missed her and her sister deeply while he was gone. Every move he made in South America was with them and their mother in mind. 

He finds you in your shared bedroom, already going through his bag and sorting things into the hamper.

“That can wait,” he says, coming up behind you and gently grabbing your wrists to stop your movement.

There is a feeling of anger at your husband for leaving you in the dark for a week and a half, but there’s also relief that he has his hands on you again. 

It’s never easy with Frankie, never black and white, not even when things are going great, but you couldn’t walk away even if you wanted to. You’ll never feel as safe anywhere in the world as you do in Frankie’s arms. 

You lean into his hold and let him wrap his arms across your front. Your eyes shut for a moment as you soak up the moment of relief with your husband home, safe and sound.

“You stink like the airport,” you murmur after a moment.

Frankie drops his arms and takes a step back before kissing your shoulder.

He steps into the bathroom, not bothering to shut the door all the way. You hear the shower turn on, the shucking of his clothes, and the shower curtain closing.

You venture down the hall to check on the girls one last time, finding them sleeping peacefully in their beds before returning to your bedroom, shutting the door behind you before you finish sorting the clothes in Frankie’s duffel.

After pulling Frankie’s hoodie over your head and dropping it in the hamper, too, the shower turns off. You hear him brush his teeth, and a few minutes later, he steps out, naked, skin damp, his hair dripping water down his back as he opens his side of the dresser to pull out some boxers.

He joins you in bed a minute later and pulls the covers up to your chins, then turns his body toward you and pulls you close, his front pressed against your back.

“I missed you. I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your hair.

It’s all so overwhelming. It isn’t like when he would come back from a deployment or one of the quicker missions. This was voluntary, and it obviously went bad, and he didn’t have Uncle Sam at the ready to pull him out if things went worse than bad.

You don’t know what to do other than follow your instincts, which are telling you to grab his hand. You take his hand and move it down, down, down to in between your legs.

Frankie cups your mound and sighs into your hair. He dips his fingers underneath the elastic of your shorts and finds your bare cunt. He slides his middle finger through your slit a few times before slipping the tip of his thick finger inside of you with a small whimper escaping from the back of his throat.

All he could think about on that mountain while he, Santiago, and Will waited for Benny to come back from the boat was you. All he wanted to do was hold his wife in his arms and show you how much he loves you.

So he tightens his arm around you, his right hand gently stroking your stomach where your tank top has ridden up. The stretch marks, some old, some new, some glossy and some more wrinkled with time, are soft against his fingertips. He loves them, loves that his babies put them there. You bear these marks the same way you bear everything else: with more grace than Frankie can fathom. 

He barely lasted those eleven days in the jungle without you. He isn’t totally sure he could have also taken care of the girls the way you did without him. You’re better than him in every way, and he’ll never be worthy. He can only hope to make you feel good in return for being so perfect.

He works his finger in and out of you for a moment before you turn over, his finger slipping out of your shorts.

“I need to feel you,” you plead with a whisper.

You pull his boxers down, and while he gets them off his body, you pull your tank top over your head, then kick your shorts off.

“You sure?” he asks softly as he positions himself on top of you, his hands planted by your head, holding up his body.

“Mhm.” You nod and pull him closer, his heavy cock brushing against your sensitive entrance.

Frankie leans down and kisses you as he pushes inside of you, swallowing your moans and the soft whimper from the tight pinch.

You pant beneath him, and he peppers your face in kisses.

“I love you. I’m never leaving you again,” he says, slightly out of breath. “Fuck, you’re perfect, and I’m an asshole.”

“No.” You moan softly as he rolls his hips against yours. “Not an asshole, baby.”

Frankie whimpers softly and kisses your chin.

“You took care of our girls all on your own. They’re healthy and happy, and I could never do that without you. You’re incredible,” he babbles, his brow furrowing.

Honestly, he’s in disbelief that he’s inside of you, in bed with you, and not being yelled at and kicked out. You’ve always been too good for him, and he’s just a grumpy coke addict who got lucky.

“I’m sorry I left you,” he whimpers.

You bring your hand up to cup his cheek, his stubble scratchy against your palm. “You’re here now. I love you. We’ll get through this, I promise.”

Frankie lets out a shaky sigh and buries his face in your neck as he starts thrusting into you at an even rhythm.

“I love you,” he repeats over and over in your ear.

He sinks down onto his elbows and snakes one hand between your bodies to rub your clit.

I love you. 

I love you. 

I love you. 

It’s spoken like a chant, and his voice breaks more and more with every admission of love.

You feel the tears well in your eyes just as Frankie’s own tears hit your shoulder.

“I love you,” he whispers. “Fuck, I’m gonna–”

“It’s okay,” you whimper in his ear.

You wrap your arms tightly around his back and kiss his neck. The let-down has started, and it smears against Frankie’s chest with every thrust of his hips in and out of you. He moans softly when he feels the warm liquid begin to stain his chest.

Frankie rubs your clit just that much harder to make sure you come before he does, which has you whimpering into his neck and digging your nails into his skin before he’s spilling inside of you, filling your cunt with his warm cum as he groans.

As the two of you come down from your highs, you let out a sniff and reach out to wipe Frankie’s tears.

“We’re gonna be okay,” you promise.

“I’m never gonna hurt you again,” Frankie vows. “Gonna be a better husband, a better father. I promise. Fuck, I love you and our girls so much. I’ll be better.”

You nod and rub your thumb back and forth across his cheekbone.

“I know,” you whisper, smiling softly. “I love you, baby.”

Frankie will tell you about Tom and the money tomorrow. For now, he’ll keep replaying you saying “I love you, baby” in his head as he drifts off to the best sleep he’s had in nearly two weeks.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

tags: @person-005 @upintheclouds95

He was knocking on the door, loudly and getting progressively louder, yammering on in disbelief, "Hey! Excuse me? Hello? Yeah I uh….I must've…I dunno, was there some kinda trip? I think there's been a mistake, I need my cell? Do you have my cell? Patricia is my new PA, I'm gonna need someone to call her….and uh…I dunno, I'm gonna need to know where the fuck I am!" 

This was how you knew that Nasca, whoever and whatever it was, worked in mysterious ways. There was literally no other way Dieter Fucking Bravo would've wound up in your funeral home, especially as he died in Vermont or some shit. 

You exhaled, talking to yourself and whoever Nasca was, "This is ridiculous, we don't have the capacity for this kinda thing." 

Before even going down to deal with him you ordered more velvet rope dividers and some outdoor carpet and signs so you could write wait times on it. You debated chairs. Your dad hovered, waiting to see if you needed help making decisions but you alone among his kids was into the business this intensely and you were running the place like you were much older than you were. Yelp reviews on funeral homes felt wrong but yours were positively glowing: Great, personable care. Honest pricing. Really listens.

That was all about to go away because you weren’t going to be able to get through someone like this easily. Rumors were your grandmother had had to deal with Elvis so maybe this was your cross to bear but dammit. You didn’t even like his movies, you thought Hunger Strike was horrifically overrated and if you were being super honest you thought that– if anyone deserved anything for it–  Edna VanDyme deserved the Oscar over him.

Dammit.

The first thing you had to do was calm him down. Nobody else could hear him but the house sounded like there was a windstorm outside, pounding tree branches against your siding. 

Confusion like this could cause hysteria which could lead to a lot of broken china and stemware. Dishes seemed oddly susceptible to the paranormal and your mom had expressly begged you keep all poltergeist-adjacent emotional blowouts to the bare minimum. 

You were in a robe and fuzzy bunny slippers when you saw Dieter, in some sorta Teddy Bear coat and boxers, wearing crocs with socks, looking frantic.

“HI! Hello!” He was twitching, “Are you the, um– whatever person? I need my phone and/or the ability to contact my assistant.”

Breathe. Try to be gentle. Do not hold his worst parts against him. Do not– do NOT– bring up the cameo on BiCoastal Awareness. Remember what you’re here to do. 

“I’m sorry that’s not how this works.” You hoped you hit the right tone.

He looked at you then your outfit and panicked, “Are you kidnapping me? Is this like Misery?” He sharply took in a breath, “Is this the sex slave trade? I mean…I get it, I’m great, but like come on consent is sexy. And I just really need to understand if there’s like…a pricetag? Can I reserve myself? I mean you’re very—” He eyed the bunny slippers, “provocative in a sorta…way. But what if we could just—”

“No, that’s not the situation you’re in. I need you to listen and be calm.”

Apparently those were triggering words for Deiter Bravo.

He started hammering on the walls with everything he had, “HELP! HELP I’VE BEEN TAKEN PROBABLY AGAINST MY WILL! HELP ME! CAN ANYONE HEAR ME? THIS IS DEITER BRAVO PLEASE CALL THE POLICE OR THE EMBASSY OR SOMETHING!”

“Will you please calm down for one mi–”

“HELPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!” He was shouting so loud it was shaking lightbulbs in their lamps, “I DON’T KNOW WHERE I AM!!!!!!!”

“Mr. Bravo, please–”

“So you know who I am? Come on! Help me out– all I know is one minute I was taking some really like, select, erm, um….medication–” He eyed you like he was trying to determine if you’d NARC on him, “And it must’ve just gone to my head because I’ve like– time traveled or really traveled or something. This is not my hotel room. How did I get here? Did we have sex?” He smiled widely, “And if we did, how wonderful was I?”

You were getting frustrated, “We did not and if you would just give me one moment to–”

“But like who are you? Did we uber? Did we meet at the hotel? Does Patricia know where I am? Where’s my phone? Was I tweeting? She told me not to tweet like this anymore.”

You slapped Dieter Bravo, right across the face and he immediately froze and eyed you with shock, "Hey!" 

"Calm down!" 

"I'm calm! Why'd you hit me for? Don't you know if you hit a guy whose on this much acid he could have a stroke? I can't lose half of my face. Or, like, I don't even know which half I could afford to lose. Like which side is the more Oscar Winning Actor side?" 

You took a breath. 

This fucking guy would never believe you. 

“There are no phones, Patricia knows where you are, I assume, and you can’t leave.” You started calmly, listing. Lists were soothing.

“Why?” He pouted, “This isn’t rehab again, is it?”

“You are dead.” You just said it, plainly, and hoped he didn’t freak out again.

He blinked at you, "Pardon?" 

"You're dead." 

He was really trying to wrap his head around it, which was preferable to the screaming, but you also had no idea if it was working.

Then he made a dash for a window and tried to open it but freaked himself out– his hands were shaking the glass, but the window itself wasn’t moving to open. 

In fact, his hands were going right through the glass.

“AHH!” He kept repeating and repeating and repeating the gesture. 

“Are you going through something?” You called out– you hadn’t moved to follow him, nobody liked feeling chased, but you could pretty much guess what was happening. 

“Physically or emotionally? Because yes.” 

You snorted a laugh, “I meant like– are you not doing the physics of the living world right?”

“What the fuck are you saying?”

You looked around for something to grab and settled on an umbrella by the door. You took it, walked up to him, and stabbed him with the pointy end.

“AHH!” He watched as the umbrella went in and out, out and in, and realized this didn’t hurt and he didn’t seem to be…there, “What the fuck?”

“You’re dead. I’m sorry. It can come as a bit of a shock.” 

He just stared at the umbrella that was stabbing-not-stabbing him and then walked around.He tried bashing his head against the wall. He tried pinching himself. He tried slamming a door. One time the door swished and he looked hopeful but you sighed, “You need a little more time in the inbetween. You’re too fresh right now, but if you work hard and stick around you’ll be able to move teacups.”

He looked up at you, “Like a lot?”

“Some ghosts get more oomph in the moving objects department than others.” You shrugged.

“Really? That seems like shit, why can’t I move things?”

“Listen, I appreciate you have questions but I don’t have all the answers,” You offered him two empty hands to emphasize that you had nothing, “I sorta learned on the job how to do this and I don’t exactly have the How To Manual.”

He got quiet, “Wait so what are you? Are you a demon?”

“I’m a Libra?”

He rolled his eyes, “Fucking figures. Judgy.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and you noticed he had tears forming in his eyes. The panic was starting to morph into other feelings, “Um so you’re just…”

“My family owns the funeral home.”

“And they can all talk to ghosts?” He was trying hard not to melt down again.

“No. Just me. And my grandmother, when she was alive.” You offered a small smile, “It’s ok, as things go. I mean some people are allergic to bread. Or trees. Imagine being allergic to like, sunlight? Or whatever. This is just a thing I have or, uh, do. And I like to help, so that feels nice.”

“Help? Because…”

“Ghosts are the dead who don’t cross over.” You confirmed and he nodded at you.

“You are just throwing around ghost and dead really casually.” He moped.

“Sorry, I have to remind myself it’s your first time.” You tried to giggle a little but it died in your throat. Humor always played weirdly at times like this. 

“Are there…rules? Like can I ask…questions?” Dieter was rubbing his temples a little.

“Yeah sure.”

“How did I…go? Are you allowed to say that?”

"Toxicology said fentanyl." 

"Shit….this is just utter bullshit, too, because I pay Dupree a premium to get unmolested shit." 

“I’m sorry.” Your voice was calm and even— you were sorry. Death was a funny sort of surprise to receive and you did feel bad for him. Even if you felt he was grossly overpaid.

He put his hands on his face and nodded as if he was hosting a whole silent conversation in his head and he was ticking through things. Finally he let out a breath, “So no phone….no offense but how did I wind up here? Like…”

He pointed to your wallpaper– correction, your mom’s wallpaper– and made a face that clearly communicated how hideous he found it.

You shrugged again, often you felt the press of not having answers, “You’re one of the ones that found their way here because they didn’t cross over. There’s some sorta system that handles that– if there’s a heaven or a hell that’s where it is. Someone pulling the strings to make sure you end up where I am so I can help you.”

“So that’s like your job?”

“Literally and figuratively.” You nodded, “I prep your body, host your viewing, attend to your wishes, and help your spirit cross.”

He looked at your bunny slippers again, “Wishes, hm?”

“Yeah actually let me grab the paperwork, I had a question about that—”

“But like, my wishes?” Dieter was chewing on the word like he was hoping it bought something.

“What are you getting at?” You eyed him suspiciously.

“You ever banged a ghost?”

“We are not remotely doing that, no.”

He pouted, “I believe wish granting was promised.”

“Go fuck Casper.” You offered, “I’m not offering.”

“That feels wrong, wasn’t he a kid? Don’t make me a weirdo now, I have never done that.”

You rolled your eyes and grabbed the book where you had all the intake forms and said, “Can we focus, if you have a minute? And feel you can?”

He gave a half-hearted sigh, “Sure. Whatever.”

“I just have a small….question about the—” You were scanning the form and then stopped, smothering the laugh, “It’s just that….I was wondering if this was an accurate last will and testament sort of thing….”

“Why? What’s it say? If Enrico fucked with it, I’ll haunt him.” Dieter seemed wary now that none of his wishes would be honored.

    Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh…..

"You requested….being buried as a tree?" 

"Are you laughing at me? This is unprofessional! How can you laugh at me?" 

"I'm sorry that's just the most California thing I've ever heard." You tried to hide your smile but couldn’t and said, “I just need you to confirm it so I can order the right things and prep it. That’s not my standard operating procedure.” 

Dieter turned his back to you and huffed, “I don’t think you’re being a really good wish-granter, I’d like to speak to the manager.”

“Well if there is one, it’s on the other side.” You giggled, “I’m sorry, I’m going to go get dressed. We can finish this up after coffee.”

______________________________________________________________

Dieter was staring at his body when you next saw him. He was using his fingers to push at the fleshy chin, the sagging cheeks, the poor color.

He was eerily quiet and you caught him sucking tears back into his throat as you said, “Are you ok?”

“Yeah.” His voice was an octave too high. 

You let the silence sit for a moment before gently asking, “Do you…wanna know anything?”

“Why do I look so….” He shook his head, “I mean, do I look like that?”

Be delicate. “How do you mean?”

Dieter licked his lips, “I just….I look…” He couldn’t find the word and he turned away and went to a window he couldn’t open, it had a coating on it so nobody could look in but you could look out and he let his head rest on it. He didn’t notice that this time he was allowed to lean, but you did. You had a feeling that the way the physics worked was largely emotional. He didn’t need to fail right now, he needed to be supported, “I…you know when I was younger I had cheekbones you could cut a lemon on. I was broke when I got into RISD and I used most of my scholarship money on art supplies and cocaine so I was eating cereal and rice and pasta. But like imagine me at twenty living on carbs layered on carbs and I was so skinny and like the cocaine helped but I was just—so skinny. And I mean I do…not…uh….” he gestured to his body, “I look so old and fat and bloated and I just…is a death thing? Or like….” He shivered, “Did I look like that?”

“Did you ever look in a mirror?” You realized after it came out of your mouth that this might’ve been a little harsh but he gave you a look that was more guilty than anything.

“Mirrors and I had an….awkward thing. So actually no.” He giggled, “It was the result of a lot of acid and it led to an accidental affair that sorta tanked my engagement so….”

You blinked, “Is this…what do you mean? Didn’t you fuck your trainer?”

“Well see I had already done that before with the mirror so it didn’t really–”

You held up your hand to stop him, “Excuse me, sorry….what?”

“I told you I took a lot of acid and I had sex with my mirror.” 

You paused to try and absorb that, “Ok….and the mirror….?”

“Was a workout mirror, so it was her. So we had had sex, which I mentioned when she came to the premier, and she was confused, and then we really had sex and that, apparently, is not like cool because of….” He saw you trying not to giggle again, “This isn’t funny, I had to pay a lot of money to Annika to keep some, uh, photos out of the press. You know. Scorned women and all.”

“What sorta pictures?” You were curious and he stared at the ceiling.

“Butt plugs. But like, fancy ones. They have accessories. My PR guy told me, without fucking around, that my career would not survive me in a tiger tail butt plug and I had to believe him.”

You smiled, “I mean, it wouldn’t have changed my opinion of you….was it a Tiger King thing?”

“It was, yeah…everyone was Tiger King-ing.” He looked off in the distance and sighed again, “Actually I think it was stuff like that more than the cheating that ended the engagement, I mean…she was from a little town, and she had never…like. They don’t have sex shops there and I had a sex-shop closet. I have a swing in two of my houses. This was just a totally different speed and she put up with it but was always trying to sort of….” He bit on his lip, “Comb my hair down straight.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Like when your mom over-combs your hair when you’re trying to style it? Like you wanna have some flair and she’s trying to make you look church appropriate?”

You didn’t know if Dieter Bravo had a “church appropriate” side but you pretended to understand and go along with with, “So she was trying to dim your light?”

“But in a nice way,” He hedged, “Like a well-intentioned way. She wanted me clean. She said …” He laughed, a hoarse, bark of a laugh, “She said I was going to die with a needle in my arm….She was really damn close.” 

He didn’t ask you if you thought Annika might come, but you could tell in how he flicked at the edges of his body’s table that it was on his mind, “Do I get to be displayed before the tree?”

“Yes, that was stated.” You confirmed, “Also…are….bejeweled Crocs a thing?”

He looked alarmed, “Were they not sent over? Please call Patricia if they aren’t here, I need them, they’re good luck. And my pants?”

“Crocodile print pants?” You wanted to be sure and he looked relieved.

“Oh thank god.”

“Lucky pants?”

He shook his head, “No, but they’re really comfortable. And…uh, I love them.” 

“Fair.” You put a hand on his shoulder, “Do you wanna watch me get you ready or are you going to go sit this one out?”

“Oh I love to watch and I need to be sure it’s all above board.” He eyed you a bit suspiciously, “No necrophilia.”

“Didn’t you offer to have sex with me?”

“Ghost me, not my body. Have some self respect.”

________________________________________________________________________

This was a day that always came and nobody was ready for.

Dieter was standing behind you, ducking down when people came by, but you were sort of invisible to them. You were there to moderate, mediate, and orchestrate and, granted, this being Dieter Bravo’s viewing that was a bit more work intensive than usual. The press had advertised it and the local police had had to shut down roads and put up barriers for the fans. Dieter had looked at it through an attic window. 

But now, with lots of people filing into the room, he was a little nervous looking.

He looked at his hands, "Can they see me?" 

You shook your head. 

He nodded, "Figured….what about hear me?”

You made a noncommittal gesture with your hands, “Even stevens. Sometimes they hear something but I wouldn’t go banking on it. They can feel cold but they’ll have trouble knowing it’s you.” 

He nodded glumly, looking around. 

You were getting the tingles that this was approaching The Task. The Assignment. The Thing. 

For a guy that never shut up Dieter Bravo got very quiet. 

Because he wasn’t talking to you, you were left looking around for something to hold your attention and it happened to be that the sign in front of his casket was among the least offensive of the photos. You had looked around the room at his pictures– you noticed that they were all celebrity shots.

No family ones.

But he had asked to be buried (in the tree) with his wallet which you had had to argue with the company about because technically he was supposed to go in naked.

“Why your wallet?”

“Why you so nosey?”

You had let it go. Now, in front of you, was a sign: Dieter Bravo will receive an environmentally friendly burial where he will become a tree. 

When there was a break you whispered to the wallpaper where he was, "Why a tree?" 

"Trees are useful. And they can be pretty. I asked to be a…uh. Not the pine ones. What's the kind that change colors?"

"Deciduous?" 

"That kind." He nodded, "Did they say what kind of seed or whatever?"

You slowly shook your head.

He considered the possibilities, "Syrup comes from trees right?" 

A gentle nod.

"Maybe I'll be a syrup tree….unless they cut the whole tree down. That's not how they do it, right?" 

“No? I think they stab it and it drains out.”

           "That sounds fucking terrible, why aren't the vegans doing something about this?" 

           "That is not how veganism works." 

           "You sure?" 

You weren’t and you had a lot of people to look after right now. Maybe on your lunch break you could check it out– your dad would come and relieve you soon.

__________________________________________________________________________

"Excuse me?" 

"Ah!" You jumped a foot in the air and put a hand over your chest, on the table behind you your phone was playing videos of people drawing maple syrup into buckets, boiling it, then gleefully tossing ladlefuls into the snow and chomping down on the candy. 

It was a florist. 

"We have an arrangement from….Nic Cage?" 

“You can go through the main doors and hook a left. They’ll let you by if I’m with you.” You threw out the bag from your lunch and got up to help.  

Behind you Dieter fumed. 

"Oh fuck that guy." Dieter's nostrils flared but he was mildly placated when he saw four grown men were required to bring it in: a lifesize topiary of Dieter himself with woven flowers as a shirt, “Well…whatever, he has good taste.”

You thought it was hideous, but you supposed that was neither here nor there.  

Dieter had been such a peacock in life, with his feathers all out squawking for attention all the time, and now he was going through the viewing mutely, looking at the gifts and displays– most which were at least as obnoxious as Nic Cage’s– and then, with a faux-casual air, craning his neck down the line to see who was there.

He tried to make like he wasn't scanning the crowd for someone. 

“You ok?”

Then he felt seen and started yammering on, "How dare Culkin show his pale ass here like he doesn't owe me a shit ton of money from poker….and what's Kohli doing here? He's supposed to be filming in Alaska, the time difference is going to suck. I mean. That's sweet. We just met at the SAGs. Good dude. Good dude….woah woah, why is Perez in here? Someone better make that basic bottom bitch write a glorious tribute…." 

Despite going out of his way to now point out every weird co-star, hook-up, etc that he saw it was clear that he was looking for someone. 

When you saw the blonde get ushered to the front by a protective crowd of friends you assumed it was her he was looking for.

He seemed guilty, looking at her with big, soft eyes, “Oh sweetheart…”

Annika was a mess, she was devastated and angry, half cursing him for being so stupid and wailing that she missed him.

He got very interested in his shoes, “You know…before we were together she never talked like that. It was all sunshine and roses and butterflies and she then got very…” Dieter’s eyes were red and watery as he looked at her, “She was thirty pounds heavier but so so soft and now she’s all hollowed out. And I did that. And I don’t think it can ever be undone.”

You wondered if this was The Thing but it didn’t feel like it, still– it could use some soothing, “Why did you?”

“Why don’t I wear designer shoes? Or have a nice car? It’s just…I don’t keep nice things nice for long. No matter how hard I try, no matter how much I want it to be good, I just worry it into a wreck and mess it up.” Dieter walked over and nuzzled Annika’s head but her hands flew up and she said she was dizzy. People got her water and had her sit and fussed over her.

He was solemn, “Do you know how the future will be?”

“Sorry.” You shook your head, “I just talk to dead people.”

“Shyamalan owes you money then.” 

“You ain’t kidding.” You stifled a smirk, mostly as nobody else could tell how clever this conversation was and a smirk was generally out of place in a viewing.

The viewing was a long affair– seven full, uninterrupted hours before he had to be packed up according to the specs of the burial company and sent for planting. 

You could tell he was getting antsy by about hour five, looking at the face of everyone in line, deflating a little, then moving to the next.

This was The Thing. You could tell.

"Anyone you're looking for?" 

"I dunno. I guess." 

         You didn’t push, he’d open up. People always wanted to talk about their Things.

"My dad…he uh," Dieter wiped his nose and shrugged, "It's nothing. I always buy him a ticket. He never comes." 

You reached out a hand and rubbed his back a little, hiding the motion behind a large floral arrangement, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok.” Dieter said in a way that clearly indicated he did not feel it was ok. Quietly he asked, "Can people who are gone come?" 

"Not if they crossed over." 

He sighed, "How would I know that?" 

"Well I mean…I dunno how it works. Most people go." 

He considered this and sighed, "She went, then." 

"Who?" 

"My mom." He ran a hand through his hair, “They split up, but mom was always there. I used to bring her on the carpet before she got sick. I…yeah. She was great. I forgot to thank her in my Oscar’s speech and I felt terrible. I like…donated ten grand to Habitat for Humanity after, for the karmic adjustment. I couldn’t believe I forgot about her. Her and my nana raised me. How did I forget, you know?”

“It’s ok–things like that happen. Mostly people are forgiving and understand.”

“You think she understood? Like….however it works? She knew I didn’t mean to forget her?”

“Yeah, I do.” You looked around at the photos, "Is there anyone else you wanted me to keep an eye out for? Your nana?"

"Oh my nana is long gone and deserves to be--she was raising babies from fifteen to ninety four, she deserves a fucking break. I hope she is crotch deep in Marlon Brando, I really do. I hope she's having all the fun she never had, I know she punched her ticket and all of ours but like…I just…was hoping. My dad would make it." 

There it was. 

The Thing.

“Is your dad….somewhere? Like I could call?”

“He’s not listed. He doesn’t have a phone, at least if he does I don’t have his number. He’s not exactly legal.” Dieter snorted, pinching his nose with his fingers, “Truth is, I think…I don’t think he really…um. Liked. Me.”

You felt your heart breaking, “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“No, I mean…he never comes. Never. I don’t know why I expected this to be diff–” Dieter was staring at a guy in the corner. He wasn't wearing black, so he seemed to be hiding in as remote a corner as he could so as not to bother anyone else. He had a hat that he was holding in both hands, keeping it in front of himself, nervously looking around. He waited until the line at Dieter’s display was thin and then he came up, looking at the sign in passing, and reached out for the body. 

He leaned his head down and let his forehead rest on the folded hands of a dead son. He took a picture out of his pocket and tucked it into the hands of Dieter Bravo.

Up close there was no mistaking it– the eyes, the nose, and what was left of the man’s hair were dead ringers.

Dieter hadn’t spoken and then he looked at the picture and over at the man.

“Dad?”

You knew what you had to do.

You put on your softest voice and put a hand on the man’s shoulder, “Mr. Bravo?”

The older man looked up startled, “Uhhh…”

You pointed to the picture, “You have a strong resemblance with your son….please, I hope I’m not being too forward, I just want to offer my condolences and see if you need anything.”

He looked uncomfortable, awkward, and then abruptly stuck his hand out, “Dario Bravo.”

He had been crying, the elder Bravo, and he shook your hand politely before pulling his back and wiping at his eyes, “I didn’t know Danny had friends like you, I, uh. Are you his friend?”

You nodded, “I got to know him just at the end.”

Dario shook his head, “He was a good boy, Danny. He was a very good boy.”

Dieter still hadn’t spoken and he was starting to cry.

Dario was clearly not comfortable in English, his words came slowly and thickly, like he had to process them twice. His clothes were work-worn and dirty.

“Did….” He couldn’t phrase it. Looked at you a little helplessly and you gave the most encouraging look you had.

“Yes?” You hoped your face said it all: take your time. Don’t worry. Nobody will judge you here.

"I don't think he knew that I loved him." The man admitted through a heavy accent, "I…did not think I was enough. For him. I did not know how to be a father to –" he gestured to the room, "this." 

You felt gutted to hear that and you couldn’t help but offer the man a hug. At first he didn’t know what to do and then he hugged you back with a surprising fierceness and when he pulled back he was really crying, “I worked so much…to be…useful. I just want to be useful for him not…hold him back.”

Dieter was now melting down, “You could’ve come! Why didn’t you come? I just wanted you to come and see me and show me and see that I was…I was sorry I wasn’t more…”

Dieter was shaking his head, “He works. With his hands. He works until they bleed and I won’t walk barefoot because it hurts my feet and I just don’t think he ever thought I was good at anything and I just….I wanted to be good at something that mattered. Like him. I just thought he…I didn’t think he….”

Dieter disappeared, but you sensed he wasn’t gone. 

He didn’t return to see the rest of the mourners or to count the flower arrangements. He was looking out of the attic window so he could see the long stretch of road. You noticed he watched as his father walked to a bus stop and got on the bus, invisible to the cameras and unknown to the world, face red with tears from crying. 

“He came.” Dieter whispered as you walked into the room.

“And he approved.”

Dieter didn’t say anything about that.

“You did work hard.”

 He swallowed, "Will I…will I make a good tree?" 

"Yeah….yeah I think you'll make a great tree." You held his hand, "A beautiful tree." 

After a minute you felt the sighing, the loss of a hand in your own. 

It was supposed to be a white blossoming tree. 

For a reason nobody quite ever figured, the blossoms always came up just a little purple.

_____________________________________________________

A/N: The guesses I saw before the drop were Frankie, Joel, or Din. Intriguing, but not correct.

Not Beta Read!

Please ask to be tagged, this is weird so I wont be using the normal tag lists. I'll tag people in the comments as well as here (as these have not been working)

The decision made, Marcus put the car into reverse and backed out of the parking space at the warehouse, heading for the highway. 

The drive went fast with almost no traffic, and when he pulled into his driveway, he barely gave himself time to unbuckle his seatbelt before he was opening the door and striding toward the cabin. 

But instead of going inside, Marcus rounded the small building and headed down the path and toward the dock behind it. 

It was late for him - almost 2 am - but he wasn’t tired, and so Marcus slipped off his shoes and socks after lowering himself onto the wooden planks. The water was cold, but it felt good after being on his feet all day, pacing back and forth between rooms of the large building. Before he picked up his phone, Marcus tilted his head back, gazing upward. 

The sky was much darker in Tahoe than it was in Virginia - especially near DC. And despite the fact that he was in the middle of a convoluted theft case that spanned four countries and three interconnected sets of thieves, Marcus was calm in a way that he hadn’t ever been before. 

He took in his surroundings, inhaling the scent of the tall pines and smiling briefly as he caught a whiff of someone’s campfire on the breeze, but he didn’t let himself delay making his call for too long. 

He unlocked the device and hit your contact from the list, bringing the phone up to his ear. Marcus fully expected it to go straight to voicemail - a signal that you still had it on Do Not Disturb and were sleeping comfortably in the bed at his townhouse. But it rang twice, the man’s eyes widening as you picked up - no trace of sleep in your voice. “Marcus? It’s late.” 

The sound sent a surge of warmth through him that the lingering late-summer air couldn’t even touch, and as he swiped a hand through his hair, Marcus closed his eyes, saying your name. “Why are you awake?” 

“Couldn’t sleep.” You cleared your throat, the sound quiet through the speaker. “It’s always harder when you’re traveling.” Sure is. “What about you? It’s what … 2 am?” 

“Close to it. We worked late tonight. There was a ton of stuff in the bust, and it’s going to take forever to catalog it. We only made it through a couple crates, and …” He trailed off, frowning. “You’re going to be exhausted at work today.” 

You laughed quietly, the sound ending as you cleared your throat. “It’s Saturday, Pike. I can take a nap later if I need to.” Saturday? For real? He raised his watch so that he could read the face and was shocked to see that it was in fact Saturday morning. “Did you forget what day it is?”

“I did. I didn’t even realize.” Closing his eyes, Marcus sighed. “Pulled a fourteen hour day today, and tomorrow will probably be the same.” 

“You’re the one that needs to sleep.” He didn’t disagree, his eyes back open and on the sky, the twinkling points of light bright against the inky background .”Are you driving?”

“No, I’m back at the cabin. Sitting on the dock.” Marcus wet his lips. “You’d be proud of me. I took my shoes off and have my feet in the water. I’m relaxing.” 

Your answering scoff made his chest ache, and for a split second, Marcus couldn’t breathe under the weight of missing you. Whoa, that’s … weird. “You? Relaxing? That water must be something else. Send me a picture. I’ve never been to Tahoe.” 

“Alright, give me a second.” Pulling the phone away from his ear, he opened the camera app and aimed it at the horizon ahead of him, his knees visible. He gave the camera a chance to focus and then snapped a picture, the automatic low light setting capturing much more detail than he thought it would. “Sending it now.” 

“Ok.” Murmuring the single word, you went quiet and then spoke again a few seconds later, surprise evident in your tone. “Oh, that’s gorgeous, Marcus. All those trees? Are those mountains in the -”

“Yeah.” He yawned, bringing his free hand up to cover his mouth. “All that’s out here are trees. And water, and -”

“And stars.” You hummed and he heard you yawn, too. “If that’s what it looks like on a camera, I can’t imagine what it looks like in person.” 

“We’ll come back.” He stood slowly, bending over to scoop up his socks and stuff them into the pocket of his pants. “I have a ton of vacation time, and I know you do too, so we’ll come back, and -”

“Ok.” There was no hesitation - something that he was still getting used to when it came to you agreeing with his suggestions. Everything’s different.

As he slipped his feet back into his shoes, Macus smiled through another yawn. “But you need to go to sleep, Marcus. Last thing I want to read is a headline that says something like “Art crimes agent extraordinaire falls asleep and topples into Lake Tahoe never to be heard from again.” 

It was his turn to laugh as he unlocked the back door, flipping the light switch on. “I’m inside, thank you very much. The only toppling I’m going to be doing is into bed for a few hours.” 

“Wish it was with me.” There was no pause - your words came almost as soon as he’d finished, and Marcus felt the same pang from earlier again, though that time it was softer and more centered. 

Of course the house would look the same. Of course it would bring everything back.

Joel kept the house in the divorce. It made sense. You were the one leaving Texas, chasing something new, something far enough away that it wouldn’t feel like this. You knew all of that. You told yourself you were prepared for it.

Still, standing outside, staring at it, the familiarity knocked the air from your chest.

And then you stepped inside, and whatever breath you had left disappeared completely.

Nothing had changed.

Maybe a different TV mounted above the mantle, but everything else was exactly as you remembered. The same couch. The same backsplash in the kitchen. The same wallpaper, the same carpet.

The same wedding photos.

They hung exactly where you had placed them, like time had decided to stop here and never move forward.

The memory hits you before you can brace for it.

The day you got the photos back from the photographer, you had been so happy you could barely sit still. You wanted them printed immediately, couldn’t stand the idea of them just living on a screen. Joel had insisted on making the frames himself, staying up late at the kitchen table, measuring twice, sanding the edges down until they were perfect.

You had loved them more because he made them.

Before you can stop yourself, your hand lifts, fingers brushing lightly over the glass. Over your faces. Over a version of you that doesn’t exist anymore.

As if touching it might bring it back.

It doesn’t.

You haven’t been that happy in years. And somewhere along the way, you stopped believing you ever would be again.

New York had been hard at first. Too loud, too fast, too unfamiliar. But eventually, that became the point. Life moved quickly enough that you could get lost in it. In the noise, in the people, in the work.

Especially the work.

You landed a job at an up-and-coming law firm not long after you moved. Women-run. Sharp. Driven. The kind of place where no one questioned whether you belonged in the room. The past three years had been good. Busy in the best way. The firm was growing, and so were you.

And Winnie made it easier.

Your boss, technically. But never really just that. She was the kind of person you could grab drinks with after work, the kind who called you out when you needed it and sat with you when things got heavy. She told you things you didn’t always want to hear, but probably needed to.

Like last week.

“You’re too buried in work,” she had said, sliding a drink across the table to you. “At some point, you have to let yourself live a little.”

You had laughed it off.

But she wasn’t wrong.

Ever since the divorce, nothing had felt the same. No one had felt the same.

You tried. God, you tried.

You even switched it up completely. Went out with a girl you met on Tinder, thinking maybe you had just been looking in the wrong place this whole time. But there was nothing there. No spark. No pull.

Then there was Eli.

Four months. Four months of trying to convince yourself that something would click eventually. That feelings could grow if you just gave them enough time.

He was perfect on paper. Smart, funny, great hair, an even better smile. The kind of green eyes people wrote poetry about. Stable job, good with money, kind in a way that didn’t feel performative.

He should have been everything.

But he wasn’t.

And you couldn’t fake it forever.

Winnie never understood that part. She couldn’t understand why you let him go, why you wouldn’t even let her set herself up with him after.

But you knew. He wasn’t for you. And you weren’t for him.

Maybe that was just it. Maybe you weren’t meant for anyone anymore.

The thought settles heavier than you expect.

You thought if you moved seventeen hundred miles away, the air would taste different. You thought if you traded the sound of cicadas for sirens, you’d finally be able to hear your own thoughts without his voice interrupting them.

And for five years, you lied to yourself. You told Winnie, you told Eli, you told the mirror every morning that you were ‘cured.’ That Joel was just a fever that had finally broken.

But then the phone rang. A Texas area code. And before the woman on the other end even says his name, your heart is already at the airport. It didn’t ask for permission. It didn’t remember the yelling, or the boots tracking mud, or... or Claire. It just knew its owner was in trouble.

The doctors call it retrograde amnesia. They say his brain has a hole in it where the last five years should be. He looks at me and he doesn’t see the woman who slammed the door and signed the papers. He sees the girl who promised to love him until the end of the world.

And God, that’s the knife, isn't it? Because he forgot how to stop loving you... but you never even learned how.

You’ve spent five years building a fortress in New York. Steel, glass, billable hours, and expensive gin. You thought you were strong. But you walk into this house, our house, and you see the frames he sanded by hand. You smell the cedar and the dust. And you realize you haven't been 'living' in New York. You’ve just been holding your breath.

You look at him in that hospital bed, and he calls you 'sweetheart,' and for a split second, the world stops shaking. The anger? It’s there. The betrayal? It’s screaming. But under all that rubble... it’s still him. It was always him.

That’s the real tragedy. Not the accident. Not the memory loss. It’s the fact that you could be anywhere in the world, with anyone else, and you’d still be waiting for a Texas area code to light up your screen.

You never left him. You just changed your address.

You move further into the house, and every floorboard that groans under your weight sounds like an accusation. Each step feels like you’re trespassing on a version of your life that died a long time ago. Or at least, it was supposed to be dead.

Because it isn’t yours. Not anymore.

Your life is six floors up in Manhattan, tucked into an apartment that smells like the burnt espresso from the shop downstairs. It’s a space defined by west-facing windows and the sunset bleeding over the skyline while you sit in your nook, anonymous and safe. That life is quiet. That life is earned.

This? This is a haunting.

You make your way to the bedroom, the door creaking with that same familiar, high-pitched hitch that Joel always promised to oil but never did. The bed is a time capsule, same frame, same comforter, the same dent in the mattress where he sleeps. It’s like the house itself refused to believe you were gone.

You don't let yourself look. You can't. Instead, you move with a clinical, frantic energy, grabbing a duffel bag and raking clothes out of drawers. You focus on the fabric, the tactile reality of denim and cotton, anything to keep your mind from drifting toward the scent of his detergent.

But then, you open the sock drawer.

The air in the room suddenly feels twice as heavy. There, resting against the dark wood like a silent heart, is a small velvet box. Your stomach drops before your hand even reaches for it. You know. You know what’s in there, but your fingers move on an instinct you thought you’d killed years ago.

You flip it open.

There it is. Joel’s heavy gold band, scratched and dull from years of work. And nestled right beside it, tucked into the same velvet slot as if it never left, is yours.

The breath leaves your lungs in a ragged rush.

You remember the exact spot you left that ring five years ago. You’d placed it on the kitchen counter next to the keys, a cold, silver period at the end of a very long sentence. You walked out and never looked back.

But he hadn't thrown it away. He hadn’t pawned it for a bottle of bourbon or hurled it into the brush. He’d brought it in here. He’d kept them together. Like they still had a promise to keep.

Your chest tightens so violently you have to press your palm against your sternum, trying to keep your heart from hammering its way out. The silence of the house is suddenly deafening, filled with the ghost of the woman who used to wear that ring.

If I’m his wife, the thought hits you with the force of a physical blow, I have to look the part.

Dr. Anders’s voice echoes in your head, clinical and detached: Treat things as normally as possible. Don’t contradict him. You are his anchor.

Your hand trembles as you reach for the ring. It’s cold against your skin, but as you slide it back onto your finger, it fits perfectly. Infuriatingly perfectly. It’s a weight you aren't ready to carry again, a gold shackle that tells the world a lie you’re starting to realize you never truly stopped believing.

The "Mrs. Miller" you left behind in Texas wasn't dead. She was just waiting for him to call her home.

Your fingers tremble as you reach into the box. You pluck the ring from the velvet, and the metal feels freezing against your skin, a sharp, cold reminder of a life you spent five years trying to outrun. For a second, you just stare at it sitting in your palm, a small circle of gold that used to mean everything and now feels like a threat.

You take a sharp breath, close your eyes, and slide it onto your left ring finger.

It slips on perfectly. It doesn’t snag or resist; it just settles into the groove it wore into your skin years ago. The weight of it is immediate and suffocating. It’s a physical shackle, a gold anchor dragging you right back into a role you thought you’d finally shed.

You drop Joel’s ring into the front pocket of your purse before you can overthink the intimacy of the gesture, zip up the duffel bag, and walk out of the bedroom without looking back.

The drive back to St. Luke’s is a blur of shimmering asphalt and a rising sense of dread. The Texas heat presses down on the roof of the rental car, thick and demanding, but you’re numb to it. The only thing you can actually feel is the metal band on your finger. It feels like it’s burning a hole through your skin, a brand marking you as a woman who hasn't lived in this state for half a decade.

When you push the door to room 412 open, the sterile air hits you like a wall. Tommy is leaning against the windowsill, his silhouette sharp against the bright afternoon light. He looks over as you walk in, his eyes dropping to the duffel bag slung over your shoulder, and then, inevitably, to your left hand.

His gaze catches on the gold and sparkle from the center diamond. He doesn’t say a word, but the subtle, heavy nod he gives you says everything. Thank you. He knew you’d do it, but he also knows exactly what this is costing you. He sees the New York version of you disappearing in real-time.

Joel’s head turns toward the door, and that same devastating, open smile spreads across his face.

“There she is,” Joel says. His voice drops into that warm, gravelly register that used to make your stomach flip, the one that still does, despite the screaming protest in your head.

You force a smile, the muscles in your face feeling brittle and tight. You drop the bag onto the small sofa near Tommy, desperate for the distance. “Brought your favorites. The gray sweatpants, a few clean shirts. I figured you wouldn't want to leave in a hospital gown.”

“You're an absolute lifesaver, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You step closer to the bed, the word sweetheart sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. It’s a label you haven't answered to in years. As you reach out to adjust his blanket, a nervous habit just to keep your hands busy, Joel’s hand comes up to catch your wrist.

His grip is gentle, but firm. It’s so familiar it aches in your bones. He tugs your hand down, pulling it to his chest, right over the steady rhythm of his heart.

His thumb automatically strokes across your knuckles. It’s a rhythmic, mindless habit, a language his body remembers even if his brain doesn't. Then, his thumb slides down to rest directly over the cold metal of your wedding band.

He sighs, a deep, contented sound that vibrates against your palm. He traces the edge of the diamond with his thumb, completely oblivious to the fact that your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“Missed you,” he says quietly, looking up at you with nothing but absolute, terrifying trust.

Tommy pushes off the windowsill, the faint scrape of his boots against the floor breaking the heavy silence. He clears his throat and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking anywhere but at your joined hands.

“Right, well,” Tommy mutters. “Now that the warden’s here to keep an eye on you, I’m gonna go track down Dr. Anders. See what kind of paperwork we need to sign to bust you out of here.”

Joel doesn’t look away from you. He just lifts his free hand in a lazy wave toward the door. “Bring the truck around to the front when you’re done. I ain’t walking across that parking lot in this cast with those annoying ass crutches.”

“Yeah, yeah. Princess treatment, I got it,” Tommy grumbles affectionately, slipping out the door and letting it click shut behind him.

The silence that settles over the room is immediate and heavy. It feels too intimate, too full of things you can’t say without breaking the fragile peace in his eyes.

Joel’s thumb is still resting over your wedding band. His skin is warm and calloused, a sharp contrast to the freezing metal digging into your finger. You try to subtly pull your hand back, a small, jerky movement, but his grip just tightens slightly, anchoring you in place.

“You’re shakin’,” he notes. His voice drops an octave, softening into that gentle, low timber that used to completely undo you.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly. Too quickly. You force your shoulders to drop, trying to mimic the posture of a wife who is simply relieved her husband is okay, rather than a woman playing a terrifying game of pretend. “It’s just… cold in here. Hospitals are always freezing.”

Joel’s brow furrows a fraction, his dark eyes scanning your face. He takes in the rigid line of your jaw, the way your gaze keeps darting to the monitor, the blanket, the window, anywhere but his eyes.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tugging your hand again until you’re forced to look at him. “I’m okay. I promise.”

Your breath hitches. He thinks you’re worried about him. “I know,” you manage to force out, the words tasting like ash. “The doctor said it was a mild fracture and a concussion. You just… scared me.”

Joel’s face softens into something so open and tender it makes your chest physically ache. He reaches up with his other hand, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek. You flinch, barely, just a microscopic stiffening of your spine, but he catches it.

For a second, a flicker of confusion crosses his face. But then he lets out a quiet, tired breath, brushing his thumb under your eye where the dark circles of a sleepless redeye flight have settled.

“I know you hate hospitals, darlin’,” he says gently, completely brushing off your distance. He rationalizes it instantly, packing your behavior into a neat little box that makes sense to him. “And I know you’ve probably been runnin’ yourself ragged on that big case you were talkin’ about last week. Add a midnight phone call about me fallin’ off a damn scaffold… I don’t blame you for being a little spooked.”

You swallow hard, your throat tight. That big case from last week. He’s pulling memories from five years ago. He’s placing you right in the middle of the hardest year of your marriage, but looking at you with a patience he lacked right before the end.

“Yeah,” you whisper, stepping back just enough that his hand falls from your cheek. You turn toward the duffel bag, desperate for a task. “I’m just exhausted. Let’s… let’s get you out of that gown. The sooner you’re dressed, the sooner we can get you home.”

“Bossin’ me around already,” Joel chuckles, a low, easy sound. He groans slightly as he shifts his weight, trying to sit up straighter against the pillows. “Guess that means you’re feeling a little better.”

You unzip the bag, pulling out the gray sweatpants and a soft, worn-out henley you found shoved in the back of his drawer. You keep your back to him for as long as possible, fighting the tremor in your hands.

“Do you need help?” you ask, finally turning around.

Joel is already working the snaps of his hospital gown, the fabric falling off one broad shoulder. He pauses, looking up at you with a smirk that is entirely too familiar. It’s the look he used to give you across the kitchen island.

“Well, unless you want me flashing the nurses when I try to get these sweatpants over this giant cast, I might need a hand, yeah.” He watches you hesitate, your feet glued to the floor. His smirk softens into an easy smile. “C’mon, sweetheart. Ain’t nothing you haven’t seen a thousand times before.”

The casual intimacy of the statement hits you like a freight train. You squeeze your eyes shut for a fraction of a second, battling the rising tide of panic, anger, and a grief so heavy it threatens to pull you under completely.

Just treat things normally.

You force your feet to move, stepping up to the edge of the bed. “Alright,” you say, your voice remarkably steady for how fast your heart is racing.

You step closer to the bed, your sneakers creating a soft squeak as you move. The air between you feels thick, suffocatingly so, as you reach out to help him with the remaining snaps of the hospital gown.

His hands drop to his lap, letting you take over. It’s an act of complete submission, of absolute trust, and it makes you feel violently sick.

"Arms up," you say. Your voice is strictly clinical. It's the voice of a lawyer who has detached from the emotion of a case, not a wife tending to her husband.

He complies with a soft grunt, the movement clearly pulling at the bruised muscles in his ribs and shoulder. The thin, faded fabric of the gown slips down, pooling at his waist, leaving his chest bare.

You freeze for a fraction of a second.

There are new scars you don't recognize. A small, jagged line near his collarbone. But the rest of him is exactly the same. The broad line of his shoulders, the dark smattering of hair across his chest, the warmth radiating off his skin. You used to fall asleep with your face pressed right over his heart.

You grab the gray henley, your movements jerky, a little too fast. "Here. Careful with your head."

You guide the collar over his thick hair, avoiding the white bandage at his temple. As he pushes his arms through the sleeves, his knuckles graze the side of your neck.

It’s a tiny, accidental touch, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight down your spine. You flinch, pulling back so quickly you almost trip over the leg of the chair behind you.

Joel pauses, his head emerging from the collar of the shirt. He doesn't pull the hem down right away. He just watches you, his dark eyes hooded and observant.

"You're jumpy," he notes softly.

"I just didn't want to hurt you," you lie smoothly, crossing your arms over your chest. A physical barrier. The wall going up. "Your head."

He doesn't look entirely convinced, but his brain is still too foggy to push the issue. He tugs the shirt down, wincing slightly as it settles over his torso. "Okay. Pants."

This is worse.

You swallow the lump in your throat and bend down near the edge of the bed. You grab the sweatpants, gathering the left leg so you can ease it over the bulky, gray cast.

"Lift," you instruct.

Joel leans back on his elbows, using his good leg to shift his weight as you carefully guide the fabric over the cast. You're so close to him now. The sterile smell of the hospital is fading, replaced by the faint, earthy scent that is just Joel. It’s a scent that has no right still being so familiar.

As you pull the waistband up past his knees, your hand accidentally brushes against his bare thigh.

You jerk your hand back like you've been burned.

Joel lets out a soft sigh. Before you can stand up, his hand reaches down, his warm fingers wrapping gently around your wrist.

"Look at me," he says.

It’s not a command; it’s a plea, quiet and rough. You keep your head down for a second too long, staring at the gray fabric of his sweatpants, at the way your hand looks against his skin. The gold ring catches the harsh overhead light, a bright, lying glint that makes you feel sick.

Slowly, you lift your gaze.

Joel is leaning back on his elbows, his chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy rhythm. The shadows under his eyes make him look older, but the way he’s watching you, with that focused, unwavering intensity, is exactly how he used to look at you before everything turned into a battlefield.

"You’re acting like I’m made of glass," he states, his thumb brushing the pulse point on the inside of your wrist. He can feel it. He can feel your heart racing, a frantic beat that contradicts every clinical word you’ve spoken. "Or like you’re scared to touch me."

"I told you," you say, your voice sounding thin and reedy in the quiet room. "You had a head injury, Joel. I’m just trying to be careful."

"It's more than that," he says, his grip tightening just a fraction. He searches your face, his eyes tracking the tension in your mouth, the way you’re holding your breath. "You’ve been... quiet. Ever since I woke up. Like you’re standing ten feet away even when you’re right in front of me."

He lets out a short, frustrated breath and shakes his head, the movement causing him to wince. "I know things have been rough lately. I know the work... the hours... I know I haven't been the easiest man to live with this past year. I've been angry, and I've been loud, and I've said things I shouldn't have."

You freeze. He’s apologizing. He’s apologizing for the version of him that existed five years ago, the one that was tracking dirt through the house and picking fights about your career. He’s trying to fix the cracks in a marriage that has already been shattered for half a decade.

"Joel, don't," you whisper.

"No, I need to say it," he insists, his voice growing thicker. "Wakin' up today... it was like a reset button got hit. All that noise, all that bickering... it doesn't matter. Not when I almost lost the chance to see you again. I'm sorry, darlin'. For all of it. I’m gonna make it up to you. I promise."

The irony is a physical weight in your lungs. He’s finally giving you the apology you would have died for five years ago, and it’s arriving five years too late, addressed to a woman who isn't there anymore.

You want to scream. You want to tell him that he did make it up to you back then, and then he broke it again, and then he ended it in a bar with your best friend in his lap. You want to pull your hand away and run until you hit the state line.

But then he pulls your hand up to his face, resting his cheek against your palm. He closes his eyes, a long, shaky exhale escaping him.

"Just be here with me," he breathes against your skin. "I just need to know we're okay."

He doesn't mean the divorce. He means the fight you had "last night" in his head. He means the tension that was brewing before the accident.

You stand there, bent over the edge of the hospital bed, your hand trapped against the stubble of his jaw. You don't say anything. You can't. You just let him hold you, a silent participant in a story that’s already over for you, but is just beginning again for him.

The door handle turns, the sharp click of the latch cutting through the tension like a blade.

Dr. Anders walks in, carrying a clipboard, followed closely by a nurse pushing a wheelchair. Joel takes one look at the chair and lets out a heavy sigh, his jaw setting stubbornly.

"I can walk," Joel grumbles, adjusting the hem of his henley.

"Hospital policy, Mr. Miller," Dr. Anders says smoothly, unfazed by the glare Joel shoots him. "Before we get you out of here, I just need to take a final look at that laceration."

The doctor steps to the side of the bed, and you instinctively move back, trying to reclaim some of the air in the room. But Joel’s eyes track you instantly, his gaze anchoring you to the spot, making sure the distance between you doesn't grow too wide.

"Let's get this bandage off," Dr. Anders murmurs.

You watch as the doctor’s gloved fingers work at the edge of the thick white tape. The adhesive makes a sharp, tearing sound against Joel’s skin. Joel winces, a low hiss of breath escaping through his teeth, and his hand twitches on the bedsheet as if he wants to reach up and stop the sting.

Without thinking, your own hand rises, a phantom jolt of sympathy shooting through your chest.

Don’t, you tell yourself, the thought cold and firm. You force your arm back down to your side, your fingers curling into a fist. Do not touch him.

Dr. Anders peels the gauze away. The skin beneath is a bruised, mottled map of purple and black, the center held together by a neat, ugly row of dark stitches. It looks raw. It looks painful. The reality of the impact, the height of that scaffold, the concrete floor, hits you in a sudden, sickening wave. For all the anger you’ve carried for five years, seeing him broken like this still makes your stomach turn.

"Healing nicely," Dr. Anders observes. He leans in with a small penlight, the clinical click of the switch echoing in the quiet. He checks Joel’s pupils one last time, his movements practiced and detached. "No signs of infection. I’m going to put a lighter dressing over it just to keep it clean, but you need to keep the site dry."

The doctor turns his attention toward you, shifting the weight of the medical chart.

"Mrs. Miller," he says. The title still feels like a bucket of ice water down your back. "I’m sending him home with a prescription for pain management and an anti-inflammatory. He needs to take them exactly as directed. I also need you to wake him up every few hours tonight, just to check his responsiveness. Standard concussion protocol."

Joel scoffs lightly, though the sound is tight with the pain in his head. "You’re gonna make her set an alarm to bother me all night? She’s already exhausted, Doc."

"I’m going to make her ensure you don't slip into a coma, yes," Dr. Anders replies dryly. He slaps a fresh, smaller bandage over the stitches with a crisp efficiency. He hands you a stack of discharge papers, thick, white sheets filled with instructions for caring for your ex. "Keep an eye on his mood, his balance, and any extreme spikes in confusion. And remember what we discussed in the hall."

The subtext hangs in the air, heavy and invisible. Don’t push his memories. Keep him stable. Keep up the lie.

You take the papers, the edges of the staples digging into your palm. You don't look at Tommy, and you certainly don't look at Joel. You just nod once, a silent agreement to the terms of your surrender.

"I understand," you say, your voice as clinical as the room.

"Good," the doctor says, already turning toward the door. "Then let’s get him into that wheelchair and out of here."

Ten minutes later, the nurse is wheeling Joel out of the room. He looks utterly defeated by the chair, his jaw set in a line of deep annoyance as the small wheels click against the floor. You follow a few paces behind, the duffel bag heavy on your shoulder.

Tommy is waiting at the curb, his truck idling and sending plumes of exhaust into the shimmering Texas heat.

"Look at you, riding in style," Tommy teases the second the automatic doors hiss open. 

Joel lets out a curt chuckle, flashing Tommy the bird without looking up. "Shut up and help me get into this damn thing," he snaps, though the bite is gone, replaced by a weary edge that makes him sound older than he should.

It takes both of you to maneuver him. You have to get close, closer than you can probably handle, hyper-aware of the placement of your hands: one on his waist to steady him, the other bracing his back as he hoists the dead weight of the gray cast into the passenger seat. The second he’s settled, you recoil, stepping away so quickly you almost stumble off the curb.

"I'll take the back," you mutter, practically diving into the cramped backseat of the extended cab before either of them can protest. You just need the distance. You need a barrier.

Tommy catches your eye in the rearview mirror once he’s in the driver’s seat. He doesn’t say anything, but the look is heavy with understanding. He knows exactly what you’re doing, building a fortress, brick by brick, just trying to survive.

The drive is agonizingly quiet. The low hum of the AC struggles against the heat, and the muffled static of the radio barely masks the tension vibrating in the cab. From your spot in the back, you have a perfect view of the back of Joel’s head. You can see the rigid line of his shoulders and the way his hand rests heavily on his thigh. From this angle, the changes you missed are undeniable. There’s more gray lacing through his dark curls now, and the scruff along his jaw is thicker, grittier. He looks tired, not just from the accident, but in a way that suggests the last five years haven't been kind to him either.

Halfway there, Joel reaches back. His hand moves blindly, feeling for the empty space of the center console, searching for yours.

You press yourself harder against the door, pulling your knees tight together and staring fixedly out the window at the passing highway. You use the blur of the trees as an excuse not to see him, not to reach back. You let his hand grasp at empty air until, with a heavy, resigned sigh, he pulls it back to his lap.

When Tommy finally turns down the familiar oak-lined street, your pulse starts thudding in your ears. The tires crunch over the gravel driveway, rolling to a stop in front of the house. Joel looks out the window at the front porch, at the hanging ferns that somehow survived the summer and the peeling paint on the railing he’d always promised to fix. A soft, grounded smile touches his lips.

"God, it's good to be home," he murmurs, and the sheer weight of his relief hits you right in the center of your chest.

He pushes his door open, bracing his good leg against the running board. Tommy is out of the truck in a flash, grabbing the crutches from the bed. You sit frozen in the backseat for three seconds, your heart doing a strange, frantic double-tap against your ribs. It’s not just the urge to run anymore; it’s the terrifying pull to stay. Your emotions are being tugged in both directions.

Then Joel looks back at you through the open truck door. His dark eyes are tired, clouded with pain, but they settle on you with a quiet certainty.

"Comin', darlin’?" he asks softly.

The "darlin’" catches you by surprise, pulling you from your thoughts, familiar and sharp. You nod stiffly, swallowing the lump of uncertainty as you step out into the stifling heat. 

You follow them toward the front porch, the wood creaking under your feet, a sound you haven't heard in five years.

Tommy unlocks the door, pushing it open with his shoulder while keeping a firm grip on Joel’s right side. You step inside behind them, and the air immediately knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s the scent, cedarwood, old leather, and that faint, lingering spice of his cologne. It’s a sensory tidal wave, making the last five years feel less like a new life and more like a very long, very cold intermission.

For a second, you aren't a lawyer from New York. You’re just home.

The heavy, awkward thud of Joel’s crutches against the hardwood snaps you back to reality.

“Easy, easy,” Tommy mutters, guiding him toward the living room. “Don’t put any weight on it, you stubborn ass.”

Joel grunts, his jaw tight as he maneuvers across the rug. “I got it, Tommy. Stop hovering.”

You hang back by the entryway, your hands white-knuckled around the straps of the duffel bag. Your eyes dart around the space, searching for your own reflection in the house. When you were here just a few hours ago, you were moving too fast to notice, but now the silence of the walls is deafening.

Five years ago, your heels would have been kicked off by the door. Your favorite coat would be hanging on the rack, smelling like the perfume he used to say he could find you by in a crowd. There would be a bowl for your keys and a stack of mail with your name on it.

But the entryway is stripped bare of you. It’s a museum of a man living alone.

You brace yourself, your pulse thudding in your fingertips. You wait for him to look around, to ask why your coats are gone, why the entryway table is empty, why the house feels like half of it was removed. You have the lies ready, tucked behind your teeth, but you find yourself almost wanting him to notice, to prove that your absence left a mark, even to this version of him.

He doesn’t.

In fact, his dark eyes slide right past the empty coat rack without a flicker of doubt. It’s as if his brain is simply filling in the blanks, projecting the version of the house he remembers over the reality of the one he’s standing in. He isn't looking for your things because, to him, you are already right where you belong.

“Just get me to the sofa,” Joel breathes out, a heavy sheen of sweat on his forehead from the exertion.

Tommy helps him pivot, and Joel sinks into the cushions with a long, pained groan. His casted leg stays propped up stiffly on the oak coffee table, the one you’d picked out together at a flea market three lifetimes ago. He leans his head back against the leather, squeezing his eyes shut as he rides out a wave of pain.

You stand there in the hallway, the duffel bag feeling heavier by the second. You realize that the house doesn't feel like the prison or trap that you originally thought it would. It feels like a memory that won't let you go. And as you watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, you realize the most dangerous part of the lie isn't that he believes it.

It’s how easily you could let yourself believe it, too.

“You good?” Tommy asks, hovering near the armrest.

Joel swallows hard, keeping his eyes shut against the thrumming in his skull. “Yeah. Just… spins a little if I move too fast.”

“Alright.” Tommy claps his hands on his thighs, taking a reluctant step back. “Well, I got you delivered in one piece. I gotta get back to Maria before she sends out a search party. You got the meds?” He looks over his shoulder at you.

You move into the living room, setting the duffel bag down on a nearby chair with a practiced, steady hand. “Yes. I have them. Go on, Tommy. We’ve got it from here.”

“Good.” Tommy walks toward the door, but pauses, looking back at his brother. A flicker of something complicated passes over his face—a mix of relief and a heavy, lingering guilt—before his eyes shift to you. “Call me if you need anything. Seriously. Anything.”

“I will,” you say quietly.

The front door clicks shut a moment later, the sound echoing through the house like a final seal.

And then, it is just the two of you.

The silence isn't the cold, empty kind you expected. It’s thick, and layered. Filled with tension of things you can’t say. You stand rooted to the spot, feeling less like a stranger and more like a ghost who accidentally stepped back into her own life.

Joel finally opens his eyes. He looks at you standing there, clutching your purse, and for a split second, a shadow passes over his face. It’s a flash of profound, ancient sorrow, the look of a man who has spent a long time memorizing the way a room feels when it's empty.

But then he blinks, and the shadow vanishes, replaced instantly by that soft, lopsided smile.

“You look like you’re waitin’ for me to go blank in the mind, sweetheart,” he says, his voice a low, teasing rumble. “Relax. I’m not gonna break again.”

“I’m just thinking about the schedule,” you deflect, dropping your purse onto the chair to free your hands. “The pills, the check-ins... I need to get you some water for your first round of meds.”

“Before you go play nurse,” Joel interrupts softly, gesturing toward the TV. “Can you turn that on? The quiet in here is making my head echo.”

You nod, grateful for the task. You walk over to the media console, your fingers finding the remote exactly where it used to live. You point it at the screen, and the low, familiar murmur of a sports broadcast fills the room, grounding the space in something mundane.

When you turn around, Joel isn’t looking at the TV.

He’s looking at you.

His head is tilted back against the leather, his dark eyes tracking you with a quiet, hungry intensity. It’s not the look of a man who saw you this morning; it’s the look of someone who has finally found his way back to the only thing that makes sense.

“What?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

Joel’s jaw tightens. For a second, the air between you pulls taut, but then he exhales, letting his head loll to the side to look at the screen.

“Nothing,” he murmurs, his tone shifting effortlessly back to easy. “Just... love you.”

The words hit you like a physical weight, simple and devastating. You escape to the kitchen under the pretense of getting his water, your chest heaving the second you’re out of his sight. The kitchen is a time capsule, but the signs of his solitude are everywhere. One coffee mug. One plate. No magnets on the fridge. It’s the kitchen of a man who stopped expecting anyone else for dinner a long time ago.

You turn the faucet on, letting the water run cold as you pop two pills from the bottle. You can do this. You just have to keep the rhythm. Helpful. Distant.

Then, you hear it.

Thump. Squeak. Drag. 

The rhythmic, metallic strike of the aluminum crutches hitting the hardwood floor makes your blood run cold. You shut off the faucet, spinning around just as Joel’s large frame fills the kitchen doorway. He’s leaning heavily into the supports, his broad shoulders hunched as he navigates the tight space. He looks exhausted, his face pale beneath the stubble, but his eyes are locked onto yours with a startling, quiet intensity.

"What are you doing?" The panic rises in your throat, sharp and instinctive. You drop the pills onto the counter and move toward him, hands raised as if you could catch him. "Joel, the doctor said to stay off that leg. You’re going to fall and hurt yourself."

"I’m fine, darlin’," he mutters, his voice a low, raspy drawl that vibrates in the small room. He swings himself forward another step, the rubber tips squeaking against the tile.

"Then why are you up?" you demand, backing up until your hips hit the edge of the kitchen island.

He stops just inches from you. He’s so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body, the scent of the hospital fading under the familiar, earthy musk of his skin. Even injured, he has a way of making the room feel incredibly small, crowding the distance you've tried to maintain.

Joel shifts his weight, leaning into the right crutch so he can free his left hand. He reaches out, his rough fingers wrapping loosely around the edge of the granite counter, effectively trapping you between his body and the island. A slow, tired smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"I've been stuck in that bed lookin' at beige walls and Tommy’s ugly face for the past three days," he says, his voice dropping to a soft, gravelly murmur. "I finally get to come home to my wife, and you run off to the kitchen. Didn't wanna sit in there by myself."

Your breath hitches.

It’s such a simple, reasonable request from a man with a broken body and a foggy brain. He just wants to be near you. But since you know the reality of the last five years, the words carry a suffocating weight. He hasn't just been lonely for three days; he's been sitting in this quiet, empty house for half a decade. And now that you're finally standing in his kitchen again, he physically cannot bear to let you out of his sight.

"I was just getting your water," you say softly, desperately trying to keep your voice level. You reach blindly behind you, grabbing the glass. "You need to take your pain meds."

Joel glances down at the water glass in your trembling hand, then back up at your face. He doesn't move back. He just stays there, soaking in the proximity, his dark eyes tracing the line of your jaw with a hunger that makes your skin prickle.

"I know," he says quietly, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. "Just missed lookin' at you, is all. That a crime?"

The sheer, unbroken devotion in his tone feels like a slow-turning knife.

"Here," you whisper, holding out the pills. Your voice is stripped of its sharp edge, leaving only a raw, shaky vulnerability. "Take these. And then I'm helping you back to the couch before you fall and I have to call Tommy to scrape you off the floor."

Joel lets out a soft, genuine chuckle. He takes the pills from your palm, his calloused fingers deliberately brushing against yours, sending a jolt of heat straight up your arm.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmurs obediently.

You watch his throat work as he swallows, draining the glass. He hands it back, his fingers lingering against yours for just a heartbeat too long before he grips the handles of his crutches again.

“Alright,” he sighs, his shoulders slumping as the exertion finally starts to catch up with him. “Take me back. Before I actually do hit the floor.”

You set the glass down and step up beside his uninjured side, sliding your arm around his waist. He’s heavy, solid, and incredibly warm. Instinctively, he shifts his weight, dropping his free arm heavily over your shoulders. He tucks you right into his side, a puzzle piece fitting perfectly back into a place that shouldn't exist anymore.

The walk back to the living room is slow. Every step is agonizingly close. You can feel the steady thud of his heartbeat against your shoulder and the way his fingers curl loosely against your collarbone. When you finally reach the couch, you help him ease down, holding your breath as he straightens his casted leg with a tight wince.

He lets his head fall back against the cushions, eyes slipping shut as the medicine begins to take hold.

“You should go unpack,” he murmurs, his voice thick with fatigue.

You freeze. How does he know you need to unpack?

“Whatever work trip you were on… ya’ must be exhausted,” he continues blindly, his eyes still closed, completely unaware of the ice forming in your veins. “Go put your stuff away. Take a shower. I’m just gonna… rest my eyes for a minute.”

Your stuff. In the bedroom.

“Right,” you choke out, your voice sounding thin and hollow. “I’ll go do that.”

You back away from the couch and practically sprint toward the entryway to grab your purse and the small carry-on bag you brought from New York. When you step into the master bedroom and softly click the door shut behind you, the silence of the house finally turns into a scream.

You drop your bag onto the floor and stare at your side of the dresser. It’s scarred and bare. The nightstand where your lamp used to sit is an empty island of dust. You look at the closet door, knowing with a sick certainty that it is filled only with his flannels and work boots.

How the hell are you going to hide this?

You unzip your suitcase with trembling hands. You pull out the few things you packed, like two blouses, a pair of jeans, a pair of pajamas, and a makeup bag. You slide open the top drawer of the dresser, which is the one that used to hold your lace and silk.

It is completely empty. Wiped clean.

You dump your folded clothes into the hollow space and shut the drawer. It is a fragile illusion. If he opens the closet or looks in the bathroom cabinet for your shampoo, the lie will unravel in seconds. You make a mental note to get to a Target the second Tommy can take over, just to buy enough fake clutter to make it look like a woman still lives here.

By the time you walk back out, the sun has completely set. The living room is cast in thick, heavy shadows. Only the blue flicker of the muted television illuminates the space.

Joel is fast asleep on the couch.

His head is tilted to the side, and his chest rises and falls in a deep, even rhythm. The harsh lines of pain and exhaustion have smoothed out. He looks devastatingly peaceful. He looks exactly like the man you fell in love with before everything went to shit.

You glance at the clock. Wake him up every few hours, Dr. Anders had said. Check his responsiveness.

You swallow hard and step quietly around the coffee table. You kneel on the rug right beside his chest. The plush fibers dig into your bare knees.

For a long moment, you just look at him. Without his dark eyes tracking you and without the weight of his expectations pinning you down, you let the mask slip. God, you are so tired. You are tired of the anger, tired of the distance, and mostly you are tired of how much it hurts to be this close to him.

You reach out, and your hand hovers over his chest.

"Joel," you whisper.

He doesn’t stir. You press your hand gently to his shoulder and give him a small shake. The warmth of his skin seeps right through the thin cotton of the henley. It grounds you in a way you are not ready for.

"Joel," you say, louder this time. "Wake up."

With a sharp inhale, his eyes snap open.

For a split second, he looks completely disoriented. His pupils are blown wide in the dim light. He blinks hard, and his body tenses defensively before his gaze focuses and lands on you kneeling there. The tension instantly drains from his muscles. It is replaced by a soft, sleepy recognition.

"Hey," he breathes out. His voice is a gravelly, sleep-heavy rasp that sends a shiver straight down your spine. He shifts, turning his face toward you. "What time is it?"

"Just past nine," you say softly. You keep your voice level. "The doctor said I have to wake you up, remember? Ask you some questions. Just to make sure you are okay."

Joel lets out a quiet, huffing laugh. He turns his body slightly so he is facing you. He reaches out, and his large, warm hand finds the side of your neck. His thumb rests right against your pulse point. He can probably feel how fast your heart is going.

"Alright, Doc," he murmurs. His voice is deeper in the quiet. His eyes are locked onto yours, and they are heavy with an intimate, sleepy heat. "Interrogate me."

You clear your throat and desperately try to ignore the warmth of his thumb. You force your voice into a calm tone.

"What is your name?"

Joel huffs a quiet, amused breath. "Joel Miller."

"Do you know where you are?"

His dark eyes soften. They drop to your lips for a heartbeat before drifting back up. "I am in my living room. In our house. With my wife."

The words land like stones in your stomach. They are heavy and sinking, but you force yourself to press on.

"What’s your favorite football team?"

"The Cowboys," he answers without missing a beat. A faint, sleepy smirk pulls at his mouth. "Even when they are playing like absolute shit and ruin my Sunday."

You nod slowly, and your eyes drop to the rug. 

It hits you then with a sharp and terrifying clarity just how much of him still lives in your head. Five years in New York. Five years of new restaurants and new cases and new people. Yet you still know exactly how he takes his coffee. You know he hates the smell of lavender but loves the smell of rain on asphalt. You know his favorite team and his worst habits and the exact way his jaw ticks when he’s trying not to get angry.

All this time apart, and you still know him down to his bones.

"Okay," you whisper. You gently reach up to pull his hand away from your neck. You place it carefully back on his chest to break the contact before it completely undoes you. "You pass. Your brain is intact. But you can’t sleep down here. It’s gonna ruin your back, and we need to elevate that leg properly."

Joel groans softly as you stand up and the reality of his injuries settles back in. "I thought you were supposed to be the nice nurse."

"I am the practical one," you correct. You grab his crutches from where they rested against the coffee table. "Come on. Up we go."

Getting him off the couch is an ordeal, but getting him toward the stairs is worse. The heavy plaster cast throws off his entire center of gravity. After just a few steps toward the staircase, his breathing is ragged. A fine sheen of sweat breaks out over his brow.

"Screw the crutches," he mutters. He leans heavily against the banister at the bottom of the stairs. "I can’t balance with ‘em on the steps."

"Okay," you say. Your heart picks up a frantic rhythm as you step up next to him. "Put your arm around me."

He doesn’t hesitate, wrapping his heavy and muscular arm around your shoulders. He tucks you flush against his side. You snake your arm around his waist, and your hand rests flat against the heat of his lower back.

"Take it slow," you instruct. Your voice trembles slightly at the sheer proximity.

The climb up the stairs is agonizingly slow. Every step requires him to shift nearly all of his weight onto you as he hops his good foot up to the next tread and drags the casted leg behind him. You bear it silently. You feel the powerful flex of his back muscles under your palm and the warmth of his chest pressing into your shoulder. His breath ghosts over your temple. It is ragged and warm, and it smells of mint and the lingering scent of the hospital.

It takes nearly five minutes to reach the top landing. By the time you navigate down the hallway and through the door of the master bedroom, you are both out of breath. You guide him to the edge of the mattress, and he sinks onto the comforter with a heavy and relieved sigh.

"Jesus," he breathes out. He runs a hand through his messy dark hair. "I feel like a helpless old man."

"You did good," you say softly. You step back carefully, putting a safe three feet of distance between you and the bed. You grab an extra pillow from the armchair and tuck it under his cast to elevate it.

Joel watches you. The fatigue in his eyes battles with something much deeper. He reaches out and grabs the edge of the comforter to pull it back. He is making room on your side of the bed. The side that has been empty since you left.

"Come here," he murmurs. His voice is a low and thick rumble. "I’m exhausted. Let's just go to sleep."

Your feet remain glued to the floor. Your heart is hammering so hard it physically hurts your ribs.

"I’m actually going to sleep in the guest room," you say. Your eyes cast downward to avoid his gaze.

Joel freezes. His hand stops moving on the comforter. He looks up at you with genuine confusion. A sharp spike of hurt flashes across his features.

"Why?" he asks. His voice cracks slightly. "We have a perfectly good bed right here."

You wrap your arms around your stomach as a defensive shield against the raw vulnerability in his eyes. "You’re injured, Joel. You have a concussion and a broken leg. I toss and turn in my sleep. If I accidentally kick your cast in the middle of the night or elbow your head..."

"You are not going to hurt me," he argues immediately. He shakes his head. He reaches his hand out toward you with his palm up in an open plea. "You’ve never hurt me. Come on, sweetheart. Don’t go across the hall. I just want you next to me. I-I sleep better when you’re next to me. Please."

The plea nearly shatters you. It takes every ounce of willpower you possess not to cross the room and crawl into that bed. You want to bury your face in his chest and pretend the last five years were just a terrible nightmare.

But you know the truth. The lie is already suffocating you. Lying next to him in the dark will only make the inevitable reality hurt worse when it finally crashes down. When he finally remembers everything, and it all goes back to the way it was.

"I’ll be right across the hall," you whisper. Your voice is thick with unshed tears. "If you need anything… just call for me. I’ll leave the doors open."

Before he can argue again and before he can hit you with another look of devastating betrayal, you turn on your heel and walk out of the room. 

You step into the dark guest bedroom and pull the door mostly shut. You sink down against the wall and bury your face in your hands as the first silent sob finally rips through your chest.

You laugh before you can stop yourself. It comes out wrong, thin, disbelieving.

“That-that can’t be right,” you say. “I’m his ex-wife.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“I see,” the woman says gently. “Well, he was brought in earlier today after an accident at work. He’s stable. But he’s experiencing some memory loss, and-”

Your hand curls into the edge of the counter, gripping onto it a little harder than necessary, almost as if you’re hoping it’ll keep you grounded for what's to come next.

“What kind of memory loss?”

“We believe it’s retrograde amnesia. The doctors are still running tests, but from what we can tell… his most recent memories don’t extend past about five years ago.”

Five years.

The word echoes. Hollow. Loud.

“That would place his last clear memories at…” the woman hesitates, checking something, “…just before your divorce.”

The microwave beeps.

You don’t move to turn it off.

You picture Joel as he was then, scruffy, tired, still wearing his wedding ring even when you’d stopped wearing yours. You picture the way he used to lean in doorways, arms crossed, watching you like you were something he might lose if he blinked.

“Has he… has he asked for me?” you ask.

“Yes,” she says. “He woke up about an hour ago. He was confused. When we asked if there was someone he trusted, someone who would know him well, he said your name.”

Your chest aches in a way you thought you’d outgrown.

“He thinks you’re still married,” she adds quietly. “And we didn’t want to contradict him without support present… You see, the brain is a tricky thing, but the doctor can explain everything once you get here.”

Support.

You look around your apartment, your clean lines, your carefully chosen furniture, the life you built brick by brick to get as far away from Texas as possible, to start fresh.

“I live in New York,” you supply.

“That’s okay,” the woman replies. “We just needed to notify you. But… he keeps asking when you’re coming.”

You close your eyes, and your left hand comes up to rub at your eyelids, probably more harshly than you should. It brings black dots swimming over your vision, and all of a sudden, you have a thumping headache sitting right in your temples.

Five years ago, you left with a suitcase and a certainty that you would never go back. Now, the past is calling, and it frustrates you to no end that you even picked up the phone.

“When do you need me there?” you ask.

And that's how you found yourself on the first redeye to Texas. Your seat was stiff, close to the back of the plane, and the crick in your neck would not go away, no matter what you did. You asked yourself over and over why you were even doing this, why you were putting in the effort, why you even cared… but it hit you square in the chest. It was Joel; you were always going to care, no matter what happened five years ago.

The entire flight, you just stared ahead, thoughts racing through your mind. Maybe when you landed, there would be voicemails saying he remembered, that the amnesia was gone, and you could just go home.

But luck was never really on your side.

You powered your phone back on when you landed, and nothing. No messages, no voicemails, just emails relating to work. Thankfully, your boss hadn’t hesitated. Family emergency, you’d said, and she told you to go, no questions, no guilt. You were a hard worker, after all, and even though you insisted you could work remotely on the cases you were actively handling, she still told you to take the time you needed. They could find someone to fill your shoes for the time being.

You hadn’t corrected yourself about it being a family emergency. It was just easier than explaining everything that had happened, and the history was better left buried.

Because Joel wasn’t family anymore.

At least not on paper.

Not since your shaky hand signed those goddamn divorce papers. Not since you last looked Joel in the eyes as you left your lawyer’s office, searching for any ounce of sorrow… but his gaze wouldn’t meet yours.

Good, you had thought then. He doesn’t get the satisfaction.

But your body didn’t seem to know that Joel wasn’t family anymore.

Your heart had been thrumming since the phone call, and those old butterfly feelings were back. Whether it was nervousness or anger, you didn’t know, but you fucking hated it. How could you even let that brooding man have such an effect on you after what he did? How could you still feel anything other than strict hatred after he cheated on you?

And with your best friend at that.

It was honestly one of the worst moments of your life.

You and Joel had already been on the rocks at the time. You were going to couples counseling to try to fix things, but it just wasn’t working. Joel was always mad about how focused and busy you were with work, and you were always picking fights with him over his nightly bar visits. Or maybe it was something small—him tracking dirt through the house with his boots, or you forgetting to clean your hair out of the sink.

It just wasn’t working.

At first, you thought it was just normal bickering, but then it got mean. And one night, things were said that couldn’t be taken back. That pushed Joel to leave with a slam of the door, and left you sitting on the couch crying.

How productive.

Really, you hadn’t meant for it to come to that. It had just been a long day at work, your boss yelling at you for what felt like the eightieth time that week, not getting the case you wanted, and that promotion to partner at the law firm seeming further and further out of reach.

So coming home to an absolute mess of a kitchen, and Joel’s attitude, was what finally sent everything over the edge.

You slipped out of your heels as you closed the door, glancing toward the living room where Joel sat in front of the TV watching the pregame announcers talking about the Cowboys game. It was late, and you had gotten home much later than you’d originally planned. Even from where you were standing, you could tell Joel was pissed. He’d expected you home two hours ago, and the dinner he’d made was sitting on the kitchen counter, cold.

You took a deep breath and made your way over to the couch, plopping down beside him.

“I’m sorry that I’m la—”

“Don’t.”

He cut you off. You bit down on your lower lip, trying to compose yourself before responding.

“Baby, I really am sorry.”

“Really, darlin’? How many times can you be sorry before I actually see a change? What’s the excuse tonight? Some bullshit about your boss again?”

He snapped with a scoff as he rose from the couch, grabbing his plate and carrying it into the kitchen.

“For all I know, you’re probably fucking the guy with how bad you want this promotion,” he added over his shoulder.

You scoffed and followed him.

“Really, Joel? Fuckin’ really?” you threw back, standing on the opposite side of the island as he had his back to you, taking deep breaths.

“You think I’m fucking Larry?” you start, voice already rising, heat already finding its way to your cheeks as you felt the anger creep in. “He’s fuckin’ in his 70s for christs sake, and about to retire. I’m working my ass off to be the one who gets to step up and fill his position. Lord knows we could use the money-”

“Use the money on what? You’re never here to use the money on anything anyway!” he shouted back in his deep southern drawl as he spun around to look at you, letting out a sharp, dry laugh. It came out venomous, like he was ready to attack if you pressed the right buttons, and damn did you want to.

 “You’re always workin’, I don’t even see you anymore. I wake up, go to work, come home, and you’re not here. Most nights I go to bed alone, because you would rather be in that fucking office, slaving away for a guy who just wants to get into your fuckin’ pants,” he added on, placing his hands on his hips as his angry eyes found yours.

“Oh, you’re disgusting, Joel. How can you be this insecure to think that I would sleep with someone in their fuckin elder years? Huh?” You crossed your arms, feeling your nails dig into your biceps slightly as you tried to hold on to the little reserve you had left.

“Me? Insecure? You’re fuckin’ delusional,” he scoffed, walking from the kitchen to the bedroom, where you followed closely behind.

“Delusional? Yeah, maybe, but at least I know I actually have a career worth something, rather than trying to start a fuckin’ company with my deadbeat brother who needs to be bailed out of jail every other night.”

Joel turned around so fast that you almost ran straight into his chest, “That's rich coming from a girl who would do anything to get her Daddy’s attention, and, again, practically fucked her way to the top-”

Crack.

The sound echoed through the bedroom, sharp and violent in the quiet house. Your palm stung instantly, heat blooming across your skin as your hand lingered in the air between you, fingers slightly curled like your body hadn’t quite caught up to what you’d just done.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Joel’s head had turned slightly with the impact, his jaw tightening as a red mark began to bloom across his cheek. Slowly, almost carefully, he turned his face back toward you. Not angry. Not shocked. Just… tired.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand across his jaw as if testing whether it actually hurt.

Your chest rose and fell too fast as the adrenaline rushed through you. Your fingers trembled slightly as you lowered your hand to your side.

“You don’t get to say that to me,” you said, though most of the bite had drained from your voice. “You don’t get to talk about me like that.”

Joel stared at you for a long moment, his eyes dark and unreadable, something heavy shifting behind them.

“You wanna know the truth?” he said quietly.

You should have walked away then. You knew you should have. But your feet stayed planted where they were, like the floor had nailed you in place.

“The truth is,” he continued, his voice low and steady, “I haven’t had a wife for a long damn time. You stopped being here years ago. You just didn’t notice.”

The words hit harder than the slap.

Your throat tightened instantly. “That’s not fair.”

“Fair?” Joel let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head as he dragged a hand through his hair. “Fair would’ve been my wife giving a shit about this marriage.”

“I do give a shit!” you snapped, the words rushing out before you could stop them. You felt crazy, screaming at the man you once loved more than anything in the world, the same man who now only seemed capable of filling you with shaking rage.

“Do you?” he shot back immediately. “Because from where I’m standing, you gave more of a damn about becoming partner than you ever did about being my wife.”

The accusation landed square in your chest like a physical blow. The anger surged back, hot and familiar.

“You think I work this hard for fun?” you said, your voice trembling with the effort to hold yourself together, tears threatening to spill. “I’m doing it for us, Joel. For our future.”

Joel’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

“What future?”

The question hung in the air between you like a crack running through glass.

He exhaled sharply and ran both hands through his hair before pacing across the room, the worn wood floors creaking under his dirt-caked boots.

“You’re never here,” he continued, his voice quieter now but heavier. “We don’t talk anymore. We don’t eat together. Hell, half the time we don’t even sleep in the same bed.”

Your stomach twisted.

“That’s not because of me,” you said, though the words felt weak the moment they left your mouth.

Joel stopped pacing and slowly turned back toward you, his eyes locking onto yours.

“No?” he said. “Then whose fault is it?”

You swallowed, your throat dry, but the anger pushed forward again. If he could hurt you, you could hurt him too.

“At least I’m trying to build something,” you shot back, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “What are you doing, Joel? Drinking every night with your brother and pretending that stupid company of yours is ever going to take off?”

His expression hardened instantly, the muscles in his jaw tightening.

“You know what?” he said quietly. “At least when I’m at the bar, someone actually wants to talk to me.”

The words landed deep.

“That’s pathetic,” you said, though your voice lacked the confidence you wanted it to have.

Joel shrugged slightly, his shoulders lifting before falling again. “Maybe,” he said. “But at least they look at me like I matter.”

Silence fell between you, heavy, ugly, the kind that made the room feel smaller.

Joel rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor before lifting again.

“I don’t think you’ve loved me for a long time.”

The words knocked the air out of your lungs.

“You’re wrong,” you whispered, your eyes burning.

Joel shook his head slowly, the movement tired and resigned. “No,” he said quietly. “I think I just admitted it before you did.”

He grabbed his coat from the closet and shrugged it on quickly before heading for the door. The slam echoed through the house as he left.

Three hours later, you were still sitting there, the silence of the house pressing in on you. The silence nearly suffocating. The fridges hum, the clock ticking on the wall, the lull of commentary from the Cowboys game that Joel was watching… Waiting had started to feel pathetic.

So, fuck it.

If Joel wasn’t coming home, you knew exactly where he’d be.

The Bison.

You didn’t bother changing. You just slipped on a pair of dirty sneakers, grabbed your keys, and headed out. The drive was quiet, the kind that let your thoughts get too loud. You rehearsed what you were going to say in your head, even muttering pieces of it out loud to make sure it didn’t come out wrong. The last thing you wanted was to sound like an idiot, or worse, a complete dick.

The time alone had helped you calm down. The anger had burned itself out somewhere between pacing the living room and staring at the clock for the better part of three hours. Now you could actually think.

Maybe you had overreacted a little.

You were tired. That was the truth of it. Tired of the stress, tired of the long days, tired of feeling like everything in your life was constantly hanging by a thread. And if you were being honest with yourself, you missed Joel. You missed what things used to feel like between the two of you.

Things didn’t have to stay like this.

Cutting back on your hours would help. You could step away from the office more, actually be home for dinner again, and spend time together like you used to. Hell, maybe you could even start talking seriously about the family you’d both been dancing around for the last year.

It hadn’t always been like this.

Just a year ago, the two of you had been good. Happy, even. But the pressure of money started creeping in, and the hours at work kept piling up. One late night turned into two, then three, then suddenly you were barely home at all. Somewhere along the way, you’d turned into someone you didn’t even recognize anymore.

Getting the promotion at the firm would be nice.

But saving your marriage was better.

And why it took you this long to realize that, you didn’t know. But better now than never.

The Bison’s parking lot was already packed when you pulled in. Of course it was. The fucking Cowboys were playing.

When you stepped out of the car, you could already hear the roar of the crowd spilling out through the bar’s front doors. Cheers, shouting, the muffled echo of the game blasting from the televisions inside.

You made your way toward the entrance.

The second you opened the door, the noise hit you.

The Bison smelled like cheap beer, fried food, and too many sweaty bodies packed into one place. Every TV in the bar was tuned to the game, the crowd erupting in cheers as the Cowboys pushed down the field. Glasses clinked, someone whooped near the bar, and the bartender shouted something you couldn’t make out over the noise.

You hesitated just inside the doorway, letting your eyes adjust to the dim lighting as you scanned the room.

Joel had to be here; he was always here on game nights.

You pushed your way through the crowd, squeezing past groups of guys in jerseys and women perched on barstools. Someone bumped into your shoulder, sloshing beer onto the floor.

“Watch it,” someone muttered.

You ignored it, craning your neck to see over the crowd.

Then a voice came from your left.

“Well damn,” a guy slurred from a high-top table. “Did someone get lost?”

His friends laughed.

You kept walking.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he called after you again, louder this time. “Cowboys are playin’, come sit on my lap and make me a cowboy!”

You didn’t even bother looking at him. Your eyes were still scanning the room, searching past the bar, past the dart boards, toward the booths lining the back wall.

Joel usually sat back there. At least you both used to on late nights after a date or just a hard day at work.

Your heart started beating faster the closer you got.

Maybe he’d cooled off. Maybe he’d be sitting there with a beer, sulking like he always did when the two of you fought. Maybe you’d slide into the booth across from him and say what you’d practiced in the car. Maybe the two of you would finally talk. Maybe things could still be fixed.

You slowed as you reached the back of the bar, your eyes drifting across the booths.

One booth held a group of college kids yelling at the TV.

Another had two older men arguing over a play.

Then the corner booth.

At first, you only noticed the boots. Joel’s boots.

You knew them instantly, scuffed leather, the same pair he wore nearly every day.

Relief rushed through you so fast it almost made you dizzy.

See? you thought. Of course, he’s here. You’re being dramatic.

You took a step closer, and that’s when you saw her.

She was half in his lap, her hand tangled in the back of his hair as she leaned across the booth. Joel’s hand was on her waist, pulling her in as their mouths pressed together like they had nothing else to do in the world.

For a second, your brain refused to process what you were looking at. The noise of the bar faded into a dull roar in your ears, then the girl shifted slightly, and her face came into full view.

Familiar, too familiar, your stomach dropped, because you knew her.

For a moment, your brain refused to place the face, as if it were trying to spare yourself the answer. But then the girl shifted slightly, brushing Joel’s cheek as she leaned back just enough to laugh at something he’d said.

And there it was.

Claire.

Your best friend. The girl who took you to the bars on nights when you were studying too hard. The girl who cried on your shoulder after her first real heartbreak. The girl you have known since middle school. The girl who was now holding the knife she just used to stab you in the back.

The noise of the bar faded into a dull roar in your ears. The televisions were still blaring, people still shouting at the game, glasses clinking somewhere behind you, but it all sounded distant, like you were hearing it from underwater.

Joel noticed you first.

His eyes flicked up over Claire’s shoulder, and the moment he saw you standing there, they widened. His body went rigid beneath her.

Claire didn’t notice right away. She was still half draped across him, one hand tangled loosely in the back of his hair, the other resting against his chest, lips still roaming along his jaw.

“Joel?” you said.

Your voice came out quieter than you expected, almost swallowed by the noise around you.

Claire turned, and the smile on her face disappeared the moment she saw you.

For a second, none of you moved.

Joel’s hand slipped quickly from her waist like he’d just realized it was there. His eyes were dark and heavy, like he’d almost been here before. Had this happened before? Had he fucked her already?

“Hey-” he started, already pushing himself up from the booth. “This isn’t-”

You let out a short laugh, not amused, not angry.

Just… disbelieving.

“Really?” you said flatly.

Joel ran a hand through his hair, panic flashing across his face as he stepped out of the booth. “She-she came onto me, I didn’t-”

You scoffed softly and shook your head.

“Right.”

Your eyes slid to Claire, lingering on her for a long moment. She didn’t say anything, just watched you with wide eyes like she was the one who’d been caught in the middle of something terrible. You gave a small, incredulous shake of your head.

“Really?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

You turned and pushed your way out of the bar, the cold night air hitting your face as soon as the door swung open. Your hands were already shaking as you crossed the parking lot, digging your keys from your pocket and fumbling with them as you reached your car.

Behind you, the bar door burst open again.

“Hey, wait!”

Claire.

Of course.

You turned just as she hurried across the lot toward you, her heels clicking against the pavement. She slowed when she reached you, reaching out gently to grab your arm.

“Please just listen for a second,” she said softly.

You looked down at her hand on your arm before meeting her eyes. Your best friend. The girl who had cried on your couch over bad boyfriends. The girl who had stood beside you at your wedding, holding your bouquet while you fixed your veil.

“What?” you said, cold, wanting to get out of there, and also wanting to slap the taste out of her mouth. The rage from earlier was slowly creeping back in.

Claire’s grip loosened slightly. She glanced back toward the bar door, then back at you again. “I didn’t want you to find out like that,” she said with a coy smirk.

Your stomach twisted, “What are you talking about?”

Claire hesitated just long enough to make it look like the words were hard to say, then she sighed.

“Joel and I… this wasn’t the first time.”

The words landed slowly, like they needed a second to sink in.

“We’ve been fooling around for a while,” she continued, her voice overly smooth. “I kept telling him we needed to tell you, but he didn’t want to hurt you.”

She shook her head slightly, almost tauntingly as she sucked her teeth, “I guess he was never going to.”

Something inside your chest cracked. You didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. Didn’t even argue. You just nodded once, like everything suddenly made sense.

“Okay,” you said quietly.

Claire’s expression stayed hardened, like she expected you to fall apart. “I’m really sorry,” she added, a sly smirk making her way to her lips as she shrugged.

But you were already opening your car door.

You slid into the driver’s seat and slammed it shut before she could say anything else. Your hands were still shaking as you started the engine.

Behind you, the bar door burst open again.

Joel.

You saw him in the rearview mirror as he ran out into the parking lot, scanning the rows of cars until his eyes landed on yours.

He started toward you immediately.

“Wait!” he shouted.

Your foot hit the gas.

The tires crunched against gravel as you pulled out of the lot. In the rearview mirror, Joel slowed to a stop in the glow of the neon bar sign, one hand dragging through his hair as he shouted something you couldn’t hear.

He got smaller.

And smaller.

Until he disappeared completely.

Sometimes it still felt like you could see him in the rearview mirror like that, even now as you drove toward the hospital.

The ride had been silent. No radio, no podcasts, just you and the steady hum of the road beneath the tires while your thoughts circled endlessly.

You hadn’t seen Joel since the day you signed the papers and left for New York.

Would he look different now?

Would there be grey threaded through his dark hair? Would the Texas sun have left his skin tanner, rougher? Maybe he’d gotten leaner. Harder. Maybe time had carved new lines into his face the way it had yours.

And his voice…

Would it still sound the same? That southern drawl that had always been the perfect mix of rough and smooth, the one that used to make your stomach flip the first time he said your name.

Or would it be different now? Deeper somehow. Sharper. Filled with anger and years of things left unsaid.

You pulled into the hospital parking lot almost on autopilot, barely registering that you had arrived until the engine clicked softly as you turned it off. For a moment, you just sat there, picking at your nails while you worked up the courage to go inside.

Eventually, you opened the car door.

Heat pressed in immediately, heavy and familiar in a way that made your chest tighten. Texas didn’t ease into you the way New York did; it announced itself. The air smelled faintly of asphalt and something green, maybe fresh-cut grass, and for a second, you just stood there with your keys dangling loosely from your fingers, letting the reality of where you were sink in.

You shut the door and turned toward the building.

The hospital rose in front of you, all glass and pale stone, the early morning sun glaring off the windows so brightly you had to squint. It looked clean. Neutral. Like nothing bad could ever happen inside it.

Like it wasn’t holding someone who once knew you better than anyone else.

The automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss, and the blast of air-conditioning hit you hard enough to make you shiver.

The smell came first—sterile and sharp, tinged with something faintly metallic that clung to the back of your throat. Your shoes squeaked softly against the polished floor as you stepped into the lobby, the sound embarrassingly loud in the open space.

People moved around you with purpose. A nurse hurried past, her ponytail swinging behind her. A man in scrubs laughed quietly into his phone. A couple sat close together near the wall, their heads bowed toward each other.

Everyone looked like they belonged here.

You didn’t.

You paused just inside the entrance, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you glanced down at your phone out of habit, hoping that there would be a phone call or a text saying that this was all some cruel joke. Still nothing.

You shoved it back into your bag before you could check again.

Information Desk, a sign read, with an arrow pointing left.

You follow the sign, your legs carrying you forward before your mind has fully caught up. The lobby feels larger the farther you move into it, the ceiling high and echoing with the muted shuffle of footsteps and the low murmur of voices. When you reach the information desk, the woman behind the counter glances up from her computer. Her smile is the kind that feels practiced but sincere, the quiet professionalism of someone who spends her days guiding people through moments they’d rather not be having.

“Hi,” she says gently. “Can I help you?”

Your throat tightens before the words can reach it.

“Yes,” you manage after a moment. “I’m here to see someone. Joel Miller.”

His name feels strange leaving your mouth after all this time. Too personal. Too familiar. As if saying it out loud exposes something you’d meant to keep buried.

The woman’s fingers move across the keyboard, her nails tapping softly against the keys. The sound fills the brief silence between you, each second stretching longer than it should.

“Date of birth?”

You answer immediately. The numbers come easily, instinctively, something you’ve written down on forms and paperwork so many times they exist somewhere in muscle memory. Your voice remains steady despite the weight of it.

“And your relationship?”

The question lands heavier.

It’s simple. Routine. Something she probably asks a hundred times a day.

Still, your mouth opens and then stalls.

“I’m his-”

The sentence falters. The word ex presses against the back of your teeth, precise and painful in its accuracy. You swallow hard, forcing it down.

“…wife,” you say instead.

The lie sits between you.

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t question it. Just nods once, as though it fits neatly into whatever quiet category she’s placed you in.

“He’s on the fourth floor,” she says, her voice warm but efficient. “Room 412. Visiting hours are open right now. The elevators are just past the gift shop.”

“Thank you,” you murmur.

You turn away before she can say anything else, afraid that if you linger, she might offer something sympathetic—something gentle enough to break whatever fragile composure you’ve managed to hold together.

The gift shop sits just off the corridor, spilling the faint scent of coffee and artificial lilies into the hallway. Shelves of stuffed animals, greeting cards, and overly cheerful balloons blur together as you pass, but you don’t slow down long enough to actually see any of it. The elevator doors glide open as you approach, and you step inside without company.

The ride upward unfolds in silence, broken only by the low mechanical hum of the elevator cables working somewhere above you. You watch the digital numbers illuminate one by one, each floor punctuating the climb with a soft chime.

Two.

Three.

Four.

The doors slide apart.

The hallway on the fourth floor feels quieter than the lobby below, the lighting softer and dimmer, casting everything in a muted yellow glow. The air here carries the same sterile sharpness, but heavier somehow, thick with the steady rhythm of machines beeping behind closed doors and the faint murmur of a television somewhere farther down the corridor.

You move slowly down the hall, your eyes tracing the numbers beside each door as you pass. Your footsteps fall carefully against the polished tile, measured and deliberate, like you’re trying not to disturb the quiet that hangs over the floor.

410

411

Your breath catches in your chest.

412

You stop in front of the door.

Your hand lifts, hovering just short of the doorframe. Your pulse pounds so loudly in your ears you’re half convinced it must be echoing down the corridor. Five years. This is the closest you’ve been to him in five years.

You draw in a slow breath, steadying yourself, then push the door open before you can talk yourself out of it.

The room is brighter than the hallway outside, sunlight filtering through a narrow window and spilling across the floor in pale, slanted bands. The quiet hum of hospital equipment fills the space, machines breathing softly beside the bed while a monitor ticks along in steady rhythm, as though keeping time for him. The air smells aggressively clean, that sharp antiseptic scent that seems determined to erase whatever happened here.

Joel is sitting upright in the bed.

At first, he doesn’t notice you.

His gaze is fixed on his hands resting in his lap, turning them slowly beneath the light as though he’s trying to decipher something written in the creases of his palms. A thick bandage wraps around his head, stark white against his dark hair, and a bruise spreads along his temple, yellowing at the edges where it’s beginning to fade. He looks thinner than you remember. Not fragile, exactly, just worn down, like something inside him has been rattled loose.

Then he lifts his head. His eyes land on you. And everything inside your chest collapses inward.

There’s no hesitation in his expression. No flicker of confusion. He doesn’t study your face the way a stranger might, searching for recognition.

It finds him instantly. Easily. Devastatingly.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says softly.

The words land somewhere deep in your chest, stirring memories you thought you’d buried years ago. It’s the same way he used to say it when you came home late from work, when you’d step through the front door, and he’d glance up from wherever he was sitting, looking at you like he’d been waiting without realizing it.

Your breath falters.

Sweetheart.

You hadn’t heard that word in years… Hadn’t been called it in years.

Across the room, Joel’s entire posture loosens. His shoulders sink as though some invisible tension has finally slipped from them, like the strings cut from a puppet, relief spreading openly across his face. It’s warm. Immediate. Unmistakable.

“You’re here,” he says.

The simple statement lands harder than you expect.

Without meaning to, you take a step farther into the room, your body moving before your thoughts can catch up with it.

“Yeah,” you manage after a moment. “I’m here.”

His gaze follows you carefully, tracking every small movement as if he’s afraid you might disappear if he looks away. There’s something disarmingly soft in his expression, a tenderness that makes your chest tighten, like he’s committing you to memory all over again.

“I knew you would,” he says with quiet certainty, as though your presence had never once been in doubt.

Your fingers curl slowly into your palm.

“They kept askin’ if there was anyone else they should call,” he continues, his voice still easy, still calm. “I told ’em no. Just you.”

You nod automatically, even as the truth presses painfully against your ribs.

His smile deepens, reassured by the gesture.

“Didn’t like the idea of wakin’ up without you.”

The words land square in your chest, knocking the air from your lungs. He doesn’t notice the way your shoulders stiffen or the careful effort it takes to keep your expression composed. Joel only looks relieved, anchored, somehow steadied by the simple fact that you’re standing there.

“Yeah…” you let out a soft chuckle, “Sorry, it was a long flight…”

Joel nods while he shifts slightly against the pillows, a faint wince crossing his face as he lifts a hand toward the bandage wrapped around his head before letting it fall back to the sheets.

“Tommy’s been here most of the night,” he says casually, like the detail barely matters. “Wouldn’t leave. Guess he finally stepped out to get coffee.” One corner of his mouth lifts in a tired half-smile. “Said the stuff here tastes like burnt dirt.”

That sounds exactly like Tommy.

“Oh,” you say quietly. “Okay.”

“He knows you were comin’, though,” Joel adds, glancing back at you. “Seemed real relieved when I told him.”

You nod again, though you aren’t entirely sure what you’re nodding to. The words settle heavily in your chest, another quiet weight you’re not prepared to carry.

“He okay?” you ask after a moment, choosing your words carefully. “Tommy, I mean.”

Joel lets out a soft huff of amusement. “Yeah. Just… hoverin’. Kept actin’ like I was gonna forget my own name.”

If only he knew.

Joel’s gaze drifts back to you then, more thoughtful this time. A faint crease forms between his brows as he studies your face, something quietly uncertain flickering behind his eyes.

“You said long flight,” he says slowly.

Your stomach tightens.

“Yeah.”

He frowns, not with suspicion, but with the mild confusion of someone trying to piece together something that doesn’t quite make sense.

“Why’d you fly?”

The question is gentle. It still lands like a bruise. Well fuck, how were you going to get out of this?

“What do you mean?” you ask slowly.

“Well…” His gaze drifts briefly toward the window, hand rubbing at his stubble, like the answer might be waiting somewhere outside. “You would’ve just driven. It’s only like thirty minutes.”

Your hands tighten together in your lap.

“I thought you were at the house,” he continues, his voice quieter now, softer in a way that makes your chest ache. “Figured you’d walk in complainin’ about traffic, ask if I ate yet.” A chuckle breaks free from his chest, his eyes squinting as he tries to solve the puzzle in his head.

The image forms instantly in your mind, so ordinary, so familiar it almost steals the air from your lungs.

“I didn’t realize you were that far, whe-” he murmurs, pausing himself as he looks around confused, “Where were you?” the thought still sounding like it arrived only halfway formed. “How long were you on the plane?”

“About four hours.”

Joel goes very still.

Four hours is too long to brush aside, too long to tuck neatly into the explanation he’s been building in his head.

“That… doesn’t make sense,” he says quietly, the words drifting out more to himself than to you. “You hate flyin’. Only do it if you absolutely have to.”

Of course he remembers that.

His gaze lifts again, settling on your face with a new kind of focus, not suspicious, not accusing, just searching, like he’s trying to assemble a picture with pieces that refuse to cooperate.

“Where were you comin’ from?” he pushes gently after you don’t answer right away.

Before you can muster up an answer, find some form of excuse to spill,  the door swings open.

“Alright,” Tommy’s voice cuts through the room, gravelly and familiar. “I swear they make this shit by runnin’ it through a sock.”

He stops short when he sees you.

For a brief moment, the entire room seems to pause, the quiet hum of machines suddenly louder in the silence.

Then recognition settles over his face, followed by something softer, relief, maybe, though it carries a heavier weight behind it.

“Hey,” Tommy says, his voice dropping as you both exchange a look.

“Hey,” you answer.

Joel glances between the two of you, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Took you long enough,” he tells his brother. “She just got here.”

Tommy nods slowly as he steps farther into the room, the paper coffee cup still warm in his hand.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

But his eyes never leave yours.

There’s something in them, steady, apologetic, burdened with a knowledge Joel no longer carries.

And standing there, caught between the man who looks at you like nothing in the world ever broke between you and the one who remembers exactly how it did, you realize something with a slow, sinking clarity.

Joel has no idea you ever left.

You aren’t the only one holding the truth anymore.

The door opens again, this time with a softer, more clinical presence. A man in a white coat steps inside, a clipboard tucked beneath his arm as his eyes move quickly around the room before settling on Joel.

“Mr. Miller?” he asks.

Joel straightens immediately, shoulders tightening. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“I’m Dr. Anders,” the man says, voice calm and measured. “I understand you sustained a concussion at work today. First, I want to reassure you, you’re stable. There’s no internal bleeding and no life-threatening injuries.” He gestures briefly toward the bed. “The head trauma caused a concussion, and you’ve got a mild fracture in your left tibia. We’ve already set it and placed a cast. Orthopedics will take another look before you’re discharged and set up a physical therapy schedule for you.”

Joel glances down, like he’s just now remembering his body belongs to him. The blanket shifts slightly, revealing the thick gray cast extending from just below his knee to his ankle.

“Huh,” he mutters, flexing his fingers against the sheets. “That explains why it feels like someone took a golf club to it.”

Dr.Anders nods once, keeping his attention on Joel. “Because of the concussion, you’re also experiencing retrograde amnesia. That means your memory of the time leading up to the accident, and possibly a longer period before that, may be temporarily lost.” The doctors voice is calm, almost like he’s approaching a startled horse, not wanting to spook it further.

Joel’s brow furrows, his hand twitching toward the bandage wrapped around his head, moving downwards to rub at his eyes, like he’s trying to put a puzzle together that only he can see. “How long? How much did I… lose?”

“That’s difficult to predict,” Dr. Anders says carefully. “Memories may return gradually, all at once, or, in some cases, not fully. What’s most important right now is that you don’t try to force them. Straining to remember can actually make the condition worse.”

Joel shifts slightly, then winces as his casted leg moves beneath the blanket.

“I… I want to know,” he says. “I need to know what I missed. Everything. Did anything happen? Did anyone… anyone important… pass? Ma? Pa?”

“No, no,” Tommy assures gently, “Ma and Pa are still good, just maybe a lil’ older than you remember,” he lets out with a forced chuckle as he rubs at the scruff on his face.

Joel shifts slightly in the bed, adjusting his weight without thinking. The movement is small, but the second his injured leg moves beneath the blanket, his face tightens.

“Jesus-”

He exhales sharply through his teeth and glances down, like he’s just remembered something is wrong with his body. The blanket has slipped just enough to reveal the thick gray cast running from below his knee to his ankle. Joel stares at it for a moment.

Tommy snorts quietly from where he’s leaning against the wall. “You fell off a scaffold, man. You should feel hella lucky right now.”

Joel glances between the two of you, still trying to piece together the edges of his reality. His hand moves carefully toward the cast, fingers brushing along the hard plaster like he’s checking to see if it’s real.

“Scaffold,” he repeats slowly.

Dr. Anders nods, “About ten to twelve feet, from what your coworkers told us. You were unconscious for a short period of time, which is likely what caused the concussion.”

Joel leans back against the pillows again, staring up at the ceiling for a moment as he processes everything.

“Head’s foggy,” Joel admits, rubbing absently at the edge of the bandage on the side of his temple again.

“That’s normal,” Dr. Anders replies evenly. “You’ll likely experience headaches, fatigue, and confusion for a few days. The most important thing right now is rest.”

Joel nods, though his attention has already drifted elsewhere. His gaze finds you again, lingering in a way that makes your chest tighten.

There’s something unsettling about it to you, the way he looks at you like you’re the only stable thing left in a world that suddenly stopped making sense.

Dr. Anders notices it too.

His eyes flick briefly between the two of you before he clears his throat and straightens slightly.

“Joel, I want you to focus on resting for the next few days, alright?” he says gently. “I’m going to step out into the hallway with your family for a moment and go over the details of your recovery plan with them. We’ll make sure everything is set up so you have the help you need while you’re healing.”

Joel glances between you and Tommy, then gives a small, tired nod.

“Alright.”

Dr. Anders opens the door and gestures politely toward the hall.

“If you two wouldn’t mind.”

You push yourself out of the chair, Tommy following a step behind as the three of you slip into the quiet corridor. The door closes softly behind you, the muffled hum of Joel’s monitors fading as the fluorescent lights overhead take their place.

Dr. Anders exhales quietly, leaning back against the wall for a moment as if organizing his thoughts.

“We need to be mindful that Joel is dealing with both a concussion and retrograde amnesia,” he begins carefully. “His brain is essentially trying to rebuild connections. If we push too hard—or introduce emotionally distressing information too quickly, it can interfere with that process. In some cases, it can delay the return of memories for months, maybe years.”

He pauses, choosing his next words with care before looking directly at you.

“For example… his relationship with you.”

Your stomach twists.

“Joel currently believes you’re still married,” Dr. Anders continues. “For the time being, it would be best not to challenge that assumption. Speak to him as his wife. Treat things as normally as possible.”

Your stomach drops.

“Wait,” you say slowly. “You’re telling me to lie to him? Pretend we’re married?”

“Yes,” Dr. Anders replies, calm but unwavering. “For the time being. Joel trusts you, and right now that trust is incredibly important. It gives him a sense of stability. If he’s suddenly confronted with information that contradicts what he believes, especially something emotionally significant, it could create stress that interferes with his recovery.”

Your jaw tightens.

“So it’s all on me,” you murmur, staring down at the polished hospital floor. “I’m the one keeping him stable… by pretending to still be his wife.”

Dr. Anders doesn’t argue.

“I understand how unfair that sounds,” he says gently. “But in the state he’s in, you are the most familiar and emotionally grounding presence he has. Right now, you’re his anchor, even if he doesn’t fully realize it.”

He glances briefly toward Joel’s room before continuing.

“There’s also the matter of his leg. The fracture means he’ll be on crutches for several weeks, possibly longer, depending on how the bone heals. Combined with the concussion, he shouldn’t be living alone or moving around without help for a while. Someone will need to assist him at home, getting around, monitoring symptoms, making sure he doesn’t push himself too quickly.”

Tommy exhales slowly beside you.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “And that someone sure as hell ain’t me.”

Dr. Anders turns toward him.

Tommy rubs the back of his neck, already looking apologetic. “My wife’s eight months pregnant. She’d kill me if I disappeared for a few weeks to babysit my stubborn older brother.”

Your chest tightens.

“So that leaves…” Tommy gestures vaguely between the two of you.

You.

A bitter breath escapes before you can stop it.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter.

Five years. Five years spent building something separate from Joel. A different city, a different routine, a different life entirely. You had finally learned how to exist without him in it. And now you’re supposed to step right back into the role you fought so hard to leave behind. As if none of those years ever happened. As if you never signed the papers and walked away.

Just… step back in and pretend. Just for him.

Tommy gives you a small, sympathetic nod, but it does nothing to quiet the storm inside your chest.

You’re not fine. You shouldn’t have to be fine.

But if you walk away… he could get worse.

And somehow, after everything, you still care enough not to let that happen.

You straighten slowly, shoulders squaring as you force your hands to unclench.

“Fine,” you say at last, your voice low and tight with restraint. “I’ll do it. But don’t pretend that makes this okay.”

Dr. Anders nods once, solemn.

“I don’t expect it to feel fair,” he says. “But you’re doing the best thing for Joel right now. The most important thing is patience. Let his memories return naturally. Don’t push him to remember, and don’t overwhelm him with information. His brain needs time.”

Tommy shifts beside you, his voice softer now.

“We’ll get through this,” he says quietly. “Just… take it one day at a time.”

He pauses, then adds with a small, almost apologetic shrug, “It’s good to have you back. Even if the circumstances are pretty damn terrible.”

You give him a stiff nod, then turn back toward Joel’s room.

Your chest feels heavy as you walk down the hallway, every step pulling you closer to a life you thought you’d buried years ago.

A lie. That’s what this is now. A carefully maintained illusion for the man who once shattered everything you had together. And the worst part, the part you don’t dare say out loud, is that beneath the anger, beneath the resentment, beneath the years of distance…

A small, stubborn part of you still wants to be there for him.

Even if pretending doesn’t just break your heart. Even if it slowly kills you to do it.

You push the door open, the soft click of the latch announcing your return. Joel’s head lifts, dark eyes tracking you immediately, alert but not tense.

“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer.

Joel props himself up slightly, a small wince escaping his mouth, a forced crooked grin tugging at his lips. “There she is. What’d he say?”

“I… talked to the doctor,” you say carefully, “He wants you to rest, but… I’m gonna go home and grab some things for you. Stuff you might need when you’re ready to leave.”

Joel quirks an eyebrow, still grinning. “Stuff, huh? You packing my royal necessities?” His tone is teasing, light, like he’s trying to make the hospital feel a little less serious.

“Yes,” you say softly, a gentle chuckle and smile forcing its way out. “The essentials for surviving with Joel Miller…”

“Right,” he mutters, shaking his head, amused. Then he leans back slightly, eyes narrowing playfully. “But before you go… can I get a kiss?”

You freeze. Your chest tightens, stomach coiling. A kiss. Here. Now. With him like this.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you say. It’s a lame excuse, but god, you’re hoping it works. Twenty-four hours ago, you wouldn’t have imagined being in the same state as Joel, and now, here you were, trying to get out of kissing him.

“Hurt me? C’mon, I hit my head, didn’t break my neck.”

And damn, if that wasn’t a good argument.

Joel watches you patiently, that familiar spark in his eyes making it impossible to resist. After a long beat, you lean in and give him a tiny, careful peck.

He blinks, a mischievous glint in his eye, and quips, “That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna give me?” He asks, going to grab your wrist to pull you back in.

You bite back a nervous laugh as you evade his grip, “That’s… enough,” you murmur, cheeks warming, lips still tingling from where the other man’s were moments ago.

Joel shakes his head, grinning wider now, clearly enjoying himself. “Damn. You’ve gone stingy on me,” he teases. “I know you’re more generous than that. Is it the bandage? Is it a turnoff?”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes, despite the tension in your chest. Even pretending, he still has that way of drawing you in.

“No, it’s not the bandage… Just get some rest, I’ll be back before you know it.”

Joel settles back against the pillows, surrendering to the fight,  hands behind his head, eyes following you. “Okay, go then. But don’t take too long. You know I get bored when I’m stuck somewhere with nothing to do.” He winks, light and playful, like he’s still your Joel, the same man you remember.

“I’ll miss you,” he added, and just like that, the air from your lungs was gone.

You nod, turning towards the door slowly,  gripping your purse strap. One last glance at him, grinning softly in that rugged, familiar way, and you step out of the room, heart tight, chest heavy, but knowing this little spark of playfulness makes the lie a little easier to bear… for now.

The door closes softly behind you.

Inside the room, Joel watches the door for a long moment after you leave, and the smile fades slowly from his face.

divider cred: @/dividers-are-us

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