To Love a Monster

Minutes dissolved before she finally moved. One bare foot eased toward the door, the old boards creaking beneath each step. At the threshold she paused, hand hovering over the knob, then slowly pulled it open.

The hallway yawned back at her—empty, indifferent.

She crept toward the living room, hand trailing cool plaster. At the corner she pressed herself against the wall, squeezed her eyes shut for one useless second, then looked.

Nothing.

No mocking smile. No whisper of smoke.

The windows stared back, still shut and latched. The front door sat in its frame—deadbolt thrown, exactly as she'd left it.

Jack was gone.

She stood there, waiting for something to resolve. But the room held its shape around her, ordinary and quiet, save for the gentle hum of the refrigerator.

The world should have stopped. The walls should have crumbled. But the refrigerator hummed on, steady and indifferent, while dust motes drifted through the morning light as if her soul hadn't just been razed to the ground.

​She was alone. She had won.

​But relief didn't come.

As she stepped farther into the living room, her eyes caught on the coffee table—and something inside her dropped clean through the floor.

The Tupperware container sat askew on the wood. A few lonely muffin crumbs scattered across the surface like debris from a wreck. Beside it, the mug—his mug—sat there with a mouthful of coffee still left at the bottom.

​He was just here.

The man who had aimed a gun at her heart—and the man who had sat on her best friend’s sofa eating muffins.

The man who had ruined her life—and the one who had held her through the night like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

​She walked toward the couch, her legs feeling disconnected from her body, and sank into the cushions.

​The fabric was still warm.

​Alina made a wrecked, breathless sound, her forehead dropping into her hands.

​She hated him. Hated him with a purity that burned in her veins. She had meant every word she'd hurled at him—she wanted him to bleed, to stay gone, to suffer for what he’d done to her.

​And yet her hand reached out anyway.

Her fingertips brushed the rim of the mug, and the way her heart clenched made her want to hurl it across the room.

She should have scrubbed the table raw. Torn the cushions apart. Purged every trace of him from the apartment before Emma came home.

But instead, she stared at the stupid crumbs he'd left behind and felt something inside her cave in completely.

Because some devastating, humiliating part of her wanted to gather them up like relics. Wanted to press the lingering warmth he left back into her chest and keep it there.

“God, I hate you,” she choked out into the silence.

​But the air didn't answer.

The empty room just watched her—watched her sit there in her underwear, grieving a monster, losing her mind in the space between I’m free and please come back.

She'd finally cut the tether—had finally said everything she’d ever dreamed of saying to him.

Now, she was just floating in the dark, waiting for the oxygen to run out.

---

After a long while, she finally moved. Slowly, mechanically, she pushed herself off the floor and began erasing him.

She washed the mug first. Emma’s chipped little coffee mug with the fading Golden Girls decal. She scrubbed it too hard, fingers trembling around the sponge as near-scalding water ran over her knuckles.

She didn’t notice.

Then the Tupperware. The crumbs. The untouched half of the blueberry muffin—she swept it all straight into the trash bag, tying the plastic knot with tight, jerking motions as if she could strangle the memory of him inside it.

She righted the pillows. Folded the blanket.

As if restoring the apartment to its proper shape might somehow restore her too.

Rain started to whisper against the windows as she dragged herself toward the bathroom.

She brushed her teeth without looking in the mirror.

Couldn’t bear to.

Couldn’t stand the thought of seeing her own face and recognizing the woman staring back.

The shower was quick. Mechanical. Barely warm.

She washed herself with frantic hands, scrubbing at skin he’d barely touched this time, though her body still felt marked by him somehow—like fingerprints pressed beneath flesh instead of on top of it.

When she stepped out, steam curled weakly through the cramped bathroom. She wrapped a towel around herself and stared resolutely at the sink instead of the mirror.

After dressing in her room, she crossed the hall back into Emma’s bedroom to retrieve her phone from the dresser where she’d abandoned it yesterday.

But as she scanned for it, her eyes met something else first.

The comb.

Resting exactly where he’d set it down after dragging it through his damp curls with that infuriating, casual ease.

Alina froze—then picked it up without thinking.

Her thumb brushed the spine absently as her eyes drifted to the teeth—

A strand.

Dirty blond, catching sickly green when the light hit it just right, still faintly curled from dampness.

Jack’s.

Something sharp twisted low in her stomach.

For a second, she just stared at it. Then slowly—carefully—she plucked it free. The strand clung briefly to her fingertips.

So stupid.

So tiny.

And somehow it hurt more than the crumbs had.

More than the mug.

Her fingers curled instinctively.

For one horrifying second, she almost kept it.

Pressed between pages. Tucked into a drawer.

The realization made nausea rise hot in her throat.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered shakily.

Then dropped it into the wastebasket beside the nightstand like it had burned her.

That’s when her foot brushed against something soft.

The pillow.

The one she’d hurled into his chest.

The one he’d slept against the night before.

She bent automatically and picked it up. And the second she hugged it against herself—she smelled him.

Smoke.

Rain.

That deep masculine warmth beneath everything else.

Jack.

Her composure shattered instantly.

A broken sound tore from her throat as her knees gave out beneath her.

She slid down beside the bed, back hitting the mattress hard enough to jolt the frame. The pillow stayed crushed against her chest as if it were a part of her.

Then the sobs came.

Ugly, gasping sobs that shook her shoulders raw as she buried her face in the pillow and inhaled him like something starving.

Because he was gone. Because she had told him to go. Because she meant it. Because some ruined part of her still wanted to run after him anyway...

She cried until her throat burned. Until her head pounded. Until the pillow beneath her face turned damp and cold.

Her breathing hitched weakly in the aftermath as she sat limp against the bed, hollowed out and aching.

Then she opened her eyes.

And saw a trail of white dust across the floorboards.

Her gaze lifted—tracking upward—to the source.

A small crack split the plaster just above shoulder height, jagged and fresh. Flecks of paint still clung to the edges like peeling bark.

And down below, slumped crooked against the baseboard, lay the brush.

Emma's brush.

The one she had thrown across the room with everything in her. She hadn’t even looked to see where it landed—but clearly, it had hit the wall hard enough to leave a mark. Now it sat there, wooden handle dull against the floor.

And then she saw it all: The cracked picture frame. The shattered candle jar. Glass scattered like ice across the rug.

Panic surged like a wave.

She didn’t think—just moved.

She stood and grabbed the first thing she could—a towel slung over the edge of the bed—and dropped to her knees, frantically pushing it across the floor, trying to gather the mess.

“God,” she whispered. “Shit—fuck—”

She darted into the hallway closet, flung the door open, yanked out the broom.

Glass scraped as she swept. She collected the shards of the frame, the shattered candle. Her hands trembled with every movement.

She looked back up at the wall.

The crack in the plaster was worse than she thought. A hairline vein spread downward, like a wound beneath the paint.

How the hell was she going to explain this to Emma?

She stood frozen, chest heaving, both hands tangled in her scalp—pulling so hard it hurt. Sharp little jolts like needles piercing behind her eyes. But she didn’t relent. Didn’t even notice the pain until the pressure gave way to a sudden, sick stillness.

And then—

Movement by the windows.

Not much. A tremor. A breath through Emma's white, gossamer curtains.

Alina watched as the fabric lifted, slow and ghostlike against the still room. Cool air brushed her skin—damp with the lingering breath of the storm.

She blinked.

The storm.

Her breath snagged high in her throat.

The storm!

Perhaps... she’d left the windows open without thinking. The wind had been wild, slamming through the city like a tidal wave.

A candle could have fallen.

A picture frame could have shattered.

Glass could have scattered across the floor.

Her pulse quickened.

She could feel the idea forming like a thread thrown across a chasm—thin, trembling, but just strong enough to hold onto. It explained almost everything.

​Everything but the crack in the plaster—but maybe, maybe if she—

She spun and ran.

The hallway blurred. She dropped to her knees in her room, heart thrashing like a trapped bird, and flung open the cardboard box she’d unearthed yesterday. Shoved aside old sketchbooks, broken pastels, fossilized tubes of paint.

Too slow. Too slow.

Charcoal tin—empty. Ragged apron. Brushes stiff with oil.

Then—

Titanium white.

The cracked cap barely held, paint crusted like dried bone at the edges. But it was still pliable. It would do.

It had to.

She grabbed it. Then ultramarine blue. Alizarin crimson. Yellow ochre. Raw umber. Her fingers knew the rhythm—cool to balance warmth, dark to hush the light.

She scraped up her old palette from beneath a nest of old rags and bolted back to Emma’s room.

Dropped to her knees, breath coming in short, frantic bursts.

Her supplies fanned out in a messy arc around her—brushes, palette knife, tubes.

She snatched the palette and crushed it against her lap like a shield, trembling as she squeezed out color after color in quick, uneven bursts. Her thighs ached, toes curling hard against the floorboards.

Up close, the damage felt louder. The crack wasn’t huge—but it was unmistakable. A jagged vein just above waist height, the plaster bruised beneath the paint.

Her throat tightened.

God.

She squeezed a line of white onto the palette. Added the faintest touches of the others—mixing with quick, precise strokes. Her eyes flicked constantly between palette and wall.

Back and forth. Back and forth—

Too light.

She added umber. Still wrong. Too brown. Panic flared again, hot and breathless.

She forced herself to slow.

Then—blue. Just a touch.

The color shifted. Cooler, quieter. Her chest eased, just a little.

She dipped a brush and stood, then dabbed it over the crack with surgical care, each stroke like stitching skin. Softening the edges. Muting the violence of it. The paint clung fast, clotting over the evidence. It dulled the contrast. Quieted the eye.

But it didn’t erase it.

By the time she stepped back, the wall looked… passable. Ordinary. The kind of imperfection no one would notice—

Unless they were really looking.

Alina squinted her eyes. The light caught the edge just so, casting the faintest shadow.

Like a memory that refused to fade.

---

She didn’t remember crawling into bed.

Only the moment the adrenaline gave out—when her knees buckled and her body simply obeyed gravity, surrendering without argument.

She didn’t undress. Didn’t brush her teeth. Didn’t turn off the lights.

She just folded.

Face‑down onto Emma's mattress, the scent of plaster dust and paint still clinging to her hair, her clothes, her skin—like evidence she couldn’t wash away.

When she woke, it was with a sharp inhale and a wince, the pale morning light pouring through the tall windows like a personal offense.

Sunday.

The word landed heavy in her chest.

Emma would be home tonight. Around four.

The thought made Alina’s stomach twist—tight and sick, a pulse of nerves that had nothing to do with not wanting to see her friend. She wanted to hear about everything. The baby. The train ride. Every small, ordinary detail.

What made her feel ill was the lies she knew she'd have to tell. Because she already knew that the guilt would be unbearable.

But there was no way she would ever tell Emma what had happened. No way.

Not about the break‑in.

Not about the tears.

Definitely not about the sick, disorienting relief she'd felt when she realized it was him—

How he’d held her so carefully.

How he hadn’t taken. Hadn’t forced.

God.

She wouldn't say a word about the muffins—how he’d insulted them like it was nothing.

How he'd used the shower—probably even Emma's special lavender shampoo.

How he’d stood in this very room like he belonged here, casually running Emma's comb through his disheveled curls.

And never about the rage.

The sudden, unhinged fury that had ripped through her at his entitlement. After what he’d done. After everything.

The way she’d hurled Emma’s things at him like daggers—like she needed to draw blood just to stay standing.

And never—never—about the way he’d looked at her when he finally understood she wasn’t going with him.

That look.

Like something inside him had cracked open and bled.

But most of all—she would never tell Emma how much it had hurt. How every part of her had to fight the instinct to give in.

To fold.

To let him take her again—anywhere, anywhere—just to make the ache stop.

The guilt sat in her chest, dense and barely breathing—quiet, patient, waiting for her to look directly at it.

She turned her face into the pillow instead.

---

After finally wrenching herself out of bed, Alina went through the motions of getting ready for the day like a condemned soul walking toward the block.

Up.

Brush teeth.

Shower.

Moisturize.

Don’t look in the mirror.

Don’t think—

Eat.

Milk. Cereal. Tasteless.

Silence.

Everything felt thick. Slowed. Like walking through molasses.

Just get through the next minute.

Then the next.

Then the next.

Because if she let herself think—

His face. Unguarded. Cracked open. Devastated.

And if she let herself feel—

His hands wiping away her tears. Strong arms around her, warm enough to make her forget—for one terrible second—all the reasons she shouldn’t want them.

The ache that opened in her chest when he whispered, I just want you.

Fuck.

That was the worst part.

The way he'd said it. So bare. So sincere.

The one thing she'd always wanted, even before she'd known it.

Because it was everything she had once ached for—

Said too late, by the wrong mouth—in the wrong life.

---

She cleaned up fast after breakfast—moving blindly, desperate to stay ahead of her own head.

She stripped Emma’s bed first, ripping the sheets from the mattress like she could tear the memory of their bodies out with them. She made up the bed with clean linens, shoved the cleaning supplies back into the closet, and did one final sweep of the bedroom floor for phantom glass.

After she was finished, she stood broom in hand, surveying the job she'd done, trying to steady her breath.

It looked ordinary. Still.

She pressed her palms briefly to her eyes, grounding herself by force.

Okay.

Okay.

Storm. Wind. Window left open. Candle knocked over. Frame fell.

She rehearsed it silently, shaping the lie until it almost sounded plausible.

Almost.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She startled hard enough that her shoulders jerked.

A text. She went to Emma's bedside and picked it up, a knot already tightening low in her gut.

Emma: Train’s pulling in early. Be home in about twenty.

Alina went cold.

Twenty minutes.

She looked around the room one last time—the swept floor, the bare space where the frame had been—and the patched up crack in the plaster.

Still there.

Still watching.

“Please,” she murmured under her breath.

“Please just… don’t look too hard.”

---

The sound of the deadbolt sliding open twenty minutes later felt like a starter pistol.

​Alina stood in the center of the living room, her hands smoothed flat against her thighs, her spine rigid. She had spent the last ten minutes pacing, changing her positioning, trying to find the exact spot to stand that looked the most natural. The most ordinary. But the moment the key turned, every posture felt like an admission of guilt.

The door nudged open an inch, sticking against the frame.

​“Alina? Ugh, these bags weigh a ton—can you grab the door?”

​Emma’s voice broke through the suffocating quiet of the apartment like a splash of cold water. Loud. Bright. Utterly grounded in the real world. A world of train delays, heavy luggage, and family gossip.

“Yep, I got it,” Alina called out. Her voice sounded brittle to her own ears, a paper-thin shield, but she forced her legs to move.

​She hurried to the threshold, swinging the door wide just as Emma was about to hoist a massive, bulging duffel bag over the welcome mat. Emma’s curls were wild from the train ride, her cheeks flushed pink from the damp Gotham air.

​“Oof, thank you,” Emma gasped, letting the bag drop to the floorboards with a heavy thud. She immediately threw her arms around Alina’s neck, hugging her tight. She smelled like wet pavement, cheap train station coffee, and the familiar, comforting scent of her lavender laundry detergent. “God, it feels like I’ve been gone for a month. I missed you so much. How are you holding up? Did you sleep okay while the storm was passing through?”

​Alina stiffened for a fraction of a second before forcing her muscles to go soft, returning the embrace.

The comforting warmth of her friend felt like a trap. Images flashed behind her eyelids—Jack standing at the foot of her bed, damp curls clinging to his forehead, the casual way he’d invaded this sanctuary like he belonged there.

​“I missed you too,” Alina murmured into Emma’s shoulder, pulling back with a practiced, fragile smile. “I'm... I'm okay. A little tired, but alright. Let me help you with the rest.”

​“Don't worry about it, that's everything,” Emma said, kicking the door shut behind her and immediately shedding her wet coat. She began unlacing her boots, talking at a mile a minute. “The baby is absolutely beautiful, Alina. She has these tiny little fingers, and she smells so sweet, and my brother is just a total sap now. He cried like three times while I was there. I took a million pictures, I can't wait to show you! But tell me about you. Did the police call again? Did anyone bother you?”

​“No,” Alina lied smoothly, her throat tight. “No calls. It was... really quiet here.”

​“Good. Thank god.” Emma picked up her duffel bag, lifting it with a small groan. “I'm just going to toss this on my bed and change into some sweats, and then I want a full breakdown of your weekend. Did you actually eat the food I left?”

​“Emma, wait—” The words popped out of Alina's mouth a little too fast.

Emma paused, the heavy bag slung half-over her shoulder, looking at Alina with a slight, curious lift of her eyebrows. “What's wrong?”

​Alina swallowed the lump of glass in her throat. She forced her hands into her pockets so Emma wouldn't see them shaking. This was it. The thread across the chasm.

“I’m so sorry, Em. The storm the other night... it got really bad while you were gone,” Alina started. “I stupidly left the window in your room open because it was so hot before the rain started. The wind was insane—it blew over the candle jar on your nightstand, and when it fell, it knocked into the framed photo of your parents.”

​Emma’s face softened into immediate sympathy, her eyes widening. “Oh no! Is the frame broken?”

​“It shattered,” Alina said, her heart hammering against her ribs like a fist against a door. “The glass went everywhere. I swept it up, and threw the broken frame out so you wouldn't step on anything. I feel terrible, Em. I'll replace the frame, I promise.”

​“Oh, sweetie, don't worry about that at all,” Emma sighed, setting the duffel bag down on the sofa instead and stepping closer to rub Alina’s arm. “It was just an old cheap frame anyway. The photo itself is okay, right?”

“Yeah. The picture is fine. I put it on the kitchen counter,” Alina answered.

​“See? No big deal. It was just a storm,” Emma said with a warm, dismissing wave of her hand. She picked up the duffel bag again, turning toward the hallway. “I'm just glad you didn't get cut trying to clean it up. Let me just drop this off—”

​“I can take it in for you,” Alina offered quickly, reaching for the handle of the bag.

​“Alina, stop, you're treating me like a guest in my own house,” Emma laughed, a genuine, easy sound that made Alina’s stomach violently churn with guilt. “I've got it. I'll be right out.”

​Alina stood frozen in the living room, listening to Emma's footsteps disappear down the hallway.

She counted the seconds.

One.

Two.

Three.

She waited for the sharp intake of breath. For the pause that would mean Emma had caught it—the faint chemical smell of paint still clinging to the air, the slightly indented patch of plaster just above waist height...

“Hey, Alina?”

​Every muscle in her body tensed—toes curling into the floorboards exactly as they had when she was mixing the paint.

​“Yeah?” Alina called back, her voice barely a whisper. She cleared her throat, louder this time. “Yeah, Em?”

​“Where did you put the broom?” Emma asked, her footsteps muffled as she walked back toward the doorway. “I think I see a little bit of glass under the dresser, I just want to sweep it up before it tracks somewhere.”

​Alina let out the breath she’d been holding, the relief so intense it made her feel faint. Emma hadn't noticed the wall. She hadn't seen the scar.

​“It's in the hallway closet,” Alina said, her voice suddenly bright. “I'll get it for you.”

​“No need,” Emma said, stepping out of the room. She had already changed into an oversized fleece sweatshirt, her red curls pulled back into a messy bun. But as she walked past Alina, she paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked down at Alina’s bare legs.

​“What's that on your leg?“ Emma asked, frowning as she pointed toward Alina's upper thigh, just below the hem of her shorts.

​Alina's heart stopped. She looked down. In her frantic, panicked rush to paint over the crack in the wall, she hadn't realized that a tiny, jagged smear of Titanium White and Raw Umber had rubbed off her palette and onto her skin. To anyone else, it looked like a smudge of craft paint.

​But to Alina, it looked exactly like the color of a bruised wall. It looked like the color of a lie.

​“Oh,” Alina stammered, her mind racing, searching for another thread, another cover-up. “I... I dug out some of my old art supplies yesterday. While you were gone. I was trying to paint to pass the time, and I guess I got a little messy.”

​Emma looked at the smear, then up at Alina's pale, drawn face. There was a long, agonizing beat of silence where Emma’s eyes didn't just look—they searched.

​“You were painting?” Emma asked softly, her tone shifting from casual roommate to the protective, worried friend who had pulled Alina out of a media circus. She stepped closer, her eyes dropping to the faint, purple-green shadow of a thumbprint-sized bruise on Alina's wrist—a remnant of Jack's grip from the day before. “Alina... did something happen while I was gone? Truly?”

​The kitchen refrigerator hummed. The evening light shifted, casting a long, cold shadow across the floorboards between them.

​Alina stood on the edge of the chasm, the weight of the secrets—the crumbs, the tears, the phantom heat still lingering in her skin—threatening to pull her under.

​She forced a breathless, self-deprecating laugh, pulling her leg back slightly.

​“No, Em. I swear,” Alina said, her voice steadier than her racing pulse. She lifted her hand—carefully keeping her sleeve down to cover the faint bruise on her wrist—and gestured vaguely toward her bedroom. “I told you, I dug out some old paints. I... I had a bad night. The storm, the news... everything just got so loud inside my head. I started painting like a manic person just to keep distracted. I guess I just made a mess of myself.”

​Emma’s eyes didn’t leave Alina’s face. ​“Lina,” she repeated softly, her brow furrowing as she stepped a fraction closer. “You’re white as a sheet. And you’re shaking.”

​“Because I barely slept, Em,” Alina countered, adding a sharp, desperate edge to the truth. She let her shoulders drop, let the exhaustion show—that part wasn't a lie, at least. “The storm was so loud. Every time the thunder cracked I thought—” She swallowed. “I kept thinking I heard someone in the room. That he'd come back.“

​Emma’s expression broke. The suspicion melted entirely into deep, aching guilt.

“Oh, God. I shouldn’t have left you,” Emma whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. “I knew it was too soon. I knew being here alone would trigger something. Alina, I am so sorry.”

​“Don’t,” Alina said, the guilt slicing through her gut like a razor.

It was too easy.

Manipulating Emma’s kindness felt monstrous. But she had to do it. If Emma knew Jack had been in this apartment—if she knew he had slept in her bed, eaten her food, sat on her couch with damp hair and a crooked grin—

Alina couldn’t bear to imagine what would happen.

To protect Emma, she had to let her believe she was falling apart.

​“It’s not your fault,” Alina murmured, forcing herself to cross the small distance between them and rest a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “I wanted you to go. I’m glad you went. I just... I need to clean up my mess, and I need to wash this paint off, and then I just want to hear about the baby. Please.”

​Emma swallowed hard, looking at Alina’s hand on her shoulder, then up into her eyes. Slowly, she nodded.

​“Okay,” Emma whispered, rubbing a hand over her tired face. “Okay. Go wash up. I’ll... I’ll sweep up the rest of this glass, and then I’ll bring the pictures into the kitchen and make some tea for us.”

​“Thank you,” Alina said.

​She turned and walked down the hallway, every step a calculated effort to remain upright. When she reached the bathroom, she shut the door, locked it, and leaned her back against the wood.

​The silence of the room closed in on her, heavy and absolute.

​---

The kitchen was too quiet.

​Even with the kettle beginning to mutter on the stove and the glossy baby photos spread out on the formica table, the silence between them felt brittle, like a thin pane of ice waiting for a heavy boot.

Emma was trying—God, she was trying so hard—to chatter about her niece’s tiny socks and her brother’s ridiculous new dad tears, but her eyes kept darting to the hallway, then to the rain-streaked window, then back to Alina’s pale face.

​“It's just too quiet in here,” Emma muttered, rubbing the back of her neck. “It feels like we're hiding in a bunker. Let's just... let's put on some white noise. A cooking show or something. Just so I don't feel like I'm whispering in a church.”

​She reached for the little under-cabinet black-and-white TV tucked near the toaster, flicking the plastic dial.

​The screen crackled through a wash of static before sharpening into the harsh, high contrast image of Gotham Evening Pundit.

​Alina’s breath hitched.

It wasn't a cooking show.

​Three talking heads sat behind a curved glass desk, but the center seat belonged to a man whose navy suit looked crisp, his hair perfectly shellacked into place, completely recovered from the sweating, trembling wreck he'd been just days ago.

​Kip Farthington.

​The graphic beneath his face read: LIVE CALL AFTERMATH: JOURNALISTIC BRAVERY OR CRIMINAL OBSESSION?

​Alina went cold.

Emma muttered, “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” reaching for the dial again—

But Kip started talking.

And something in Alina froze.

“Now,” Kip continued smoothly, fingers steepled beneath his chin, “before the outrage brigade begins sending letters, let me make something very clear: Miss Vale is, first and foremost, a victim.”

A breath.

“But…”

There it was.

That awful little pause he loved.

The one that made people lean in.

“One has to acknowledge the unprecedented nature of this case. Gotham has seen hostages before. Survivors before. But this?” He smiled faintly. “This is different.”

One of the female panelists shifted uncomfortably.

“Kip, I think we need to be careful not to speculate about a traumatized wom—”

“Oh, I agree,” Kip interrupted instantly, all practiced concern. “Completely. Which is precisely why people deserve honest discussion instead of sanitized PR statements.”

He turned slightly toward the camera.

“We are talking about a woman held in isolation with the Joker for nearly four months.”

Alina’s stomach tightened.

“She returns home…” Kip continued, voice measured, “and he risks exposure to call into a live broadcast the moment she appears distressed.”

Another pause.

“Not angry. Distressed.”

Emma’s hand slowly lowered from the television dial.

Kip leaned back in his chair.

“That is not the behavior of a man protecting an asset. It’s the behavior of someone emotionally invested.”

A woman on the panel frowned. “Or obsessive.”

Kip gave a thin smile.

“Well, obsession and attachment often overlap in psychologically distorted individuals.”

The panel gave uneasy little chuckles.

Alina felt sick.

“And frankly,” Kip said, smoothing his cuff, “the public is asking questions law enforcement seems unwilling to.”

His eyes sharpened slightly.

“What exactly happened down there?”

Emma whispered, horrified, “Oh my God…”

Kip spread his hands in false innocence.

“No, really. We’re expected to believe the Joker—arguably the most sadistic criminal Gotham has ever produced—kept a beautiful young woman hidden away for months and simply… played cards with her?”

A few nervous laughs from the panel.

Alina’s face burned.

“He called her doll on live television,” Kip continued. “Not ‘hostage.’ Not ‘Miss Vale.’ Doll. A term of intimacy. Possession, arguably affection.” He tilted his head. “And unless we’re all willing to suspend reality entirely… there are implications there.”

One panelist cut in quickly, visibly uncomfortable. “Kip, I really think implying sexual coercion on national television when the woman herself has not disclosed—”

“I’m not implying anything,” Kip said smoothly. “I’m saying the dynamics here are… complicated.”

His gaze slid toward the camera again.

“And frankly, some of Miss Vale’s responses during the interview raised questions.”

Alina stopped breathing.

The blood drained from Emma's face.

Kip’s voice softened into that faux-sympathetic cadence.

“The way she reacted to his voice. The emotional response. The visible attachment.” A tiny shrug. “Trauma bonding is real. Dependency is real. We have to ask whether Miss Vale is entirely reliable regarding her captor.”

The kitchen seemed to tilt.

“She may very well still be psychologically under his influence.”

Emma snapped, “I'm turning this shit off—”

But then Kip said the one thing he should never have said.

The thing that crossed from invasive into unforgivable.

“Because at a certain point,” he said thoughtfully, “one has to wonder whether Miss Vale is frightened of the Joker…”

He smiled faintly.

“…or frightened of how much she misses him.”

Silence.

Even the panel looked stunned.

One woman immediately said, “Okay, no. That’s deeply inappropriate—”

But Kip kept going, riding the momentum now, too intoxicated by his own insight to stop.

“I’m serious. Watch the footage. The tears, the body language, the way she responded to his attention.” He leaned forward. “People don’t want to say it because it’s uncomfortable, but emotional dependency between captor and captive is well documented. And frankly?”

Another tiny smile.

“I think Gotham deserves to know whether the Joker’s favorite hostage came home missing him more than fearing him.”

Emma lunged for the television.

The set clicked off hard enough to rattle the cabinet.

The kitchen dropped into dead silence.

Emma stared at the blank screen in disbelief.

“That smug, disgusting piece of shit,” she whispered, her voice cracking with protective fury as she turned toward Alina. “We’re suing the network. I'm going to ruin that bastard. Alina, don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know anything.”

Alina didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Barely breathed.

Because somewhere beneath the horror, beneath the shame, beneath the sick violation of hearing her private devastation dissected on live-television like gossip—she couldn't ignore the truth.

Kip’s words weren’t a lie.

They were an autopsy.

He had reached through the screen, peeled back her skin, and pointed directly at the rot.

And now she had to live knowing everyone else could see it too.

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

A/N:

I’m so sorry for the long wait. This chapter took forever for reasons that were part real life and part writer paralysis. No idea why the Emma-coming-home scene was the thing I kept procrastinating on, but apparently it had to fight me personally.

But I’m still here. This story is still alive. Alina and Jack are still haunting me daily. 😭

Thank you so much for waiting, reading, commenting, and caring about this story even through the long gaps. It means more to me than I can properly say!

I’ve got the next two chapters mapped out, and I absolutely CANNOT WAIT to write them. I’m so incredibly grateful to you all for keeping me motivated. No matter what happens, I WILL FINISH THIS.

I’m still completely and utterly obsessed with these two, as you can probably tell by the drawing I started. Like, do I have a child, a marriage, a life, goals, responsibilities, and approximately forty-seven other things I should be doing? Yeah. Am I going to sit for hours and draw a fictional clown and his even more fictional lady love instead? Hell yeah. 🖤

See you guys in the next one, which will hopefully be WAY sooner than four months. 💜💚🖤

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Taglist: 💚 (please let me know if you'd like to be added)

@furisodespirit @blackholeofcreativity @readingafterdarkness @captivatinqg

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Okay. Apparently it has been four months.

First of all, I am so, so sorry for disappearing. A lot of things were happening in my personal life. Everything is completely okay now, life just has a way of getting a little out of hand sometimes.

I was also procrastinating aggressively out of fear of messing things up. Shout out to my fellow perfectionists 🫠

I have good news though! The next chapter will be posted on Monday. And even better, I've got the following two chapters mapped out as well.

I am genuinely, ridiculously excited about where this story is headed. Some of the scenes coming up have been living rent-free in my brain since 2024, and I cannot wait to finally share them with you.

To everyone who's still here after my accidental vanishing act—thank you!!! Thank you for the comments, the hearts, the asks, the reblogs, and for continuing to care about these two chaotic disasters as much as I do. It means more than I can properly put into words.

And for anyone worried:

Yes, this story will have an ending. I know how it ends! The challenge is figuring out how to get from point A to point B without writing another 200,000 words along the way. 😭 But I'm going to do it, dammit. I don't care how long it takes. 

Thank you for sticking with me. I love you all very much, and I hope you enjoy this little sketch. It's still a work in progress, and this is only a zoomed-in peek, but I couldn't resist sharing.

Can't wait to show you more. 🖤💚💜 

— Jesterfairy

Her fingers clenched in the blanket at her chest.

Not to pull it away.

Not to push him back.

Just to hold on.

His gaze stayed on her face now—watching. Reading. As if the answer he wanted wasn’t in her mouth, but in the way her throat worked, the way her pulse jumped beneath her skin.

“You’re shaking, sweetheart” he said quietly.

Not an accusation.

An observation.

Her body betrayed her again, a faint tremor running through her limbs like a fault line giving way. She hated that he noticed. Hated that he always did.

“What are you doing here,” she managed, the words barely scraping out.

Something unreadable crossed his face—too fast to name. Shame, maybe. Or something darker.

“I wanted to see you,” he said.

So simple.

So bare.

So infuriating.

The words landed like a blow—because of course he said it like that. Like it was obvious. Like wanting her now erased every way he’d ripped her apart to force her away.

Her chest burned. Her throat thickened.

You wanted to see me?

Then why did you aim a gun at my heart?

Why did you tell me to run?

Why did you watch me drown?

Her fingers curled tighter in the blanket.

“Don't,” she whispered, choking on the heat in her chest. “You can’t just... say that.“

He looked away, jaw tight—like her words had brushed a nerve he thought he'd ripped out long ago. Then he leaned back just enough to give her space—an inch, maybe two. Not retreat. Just allowance. And still, everything in the room leaned toward him.

Outside, lightning flashed—white‑hot and brief—catching his face in stark relief: the sharp line of his cheekbone, the hollow beneath it, the rain beading on his lashes… and the scars, raised and jagged, catching light like something raw and unfinished.

When darkness slid back in, he was still there.

Unchanged.

Unmoved.

He let the quiet settle—slow and heavy—like ash after a fire.

Then finally, low:

“I know what an asshole I sound like. Believe me.”

He exhaled hard through his nose, almost a scoff—at himself, maybe. At the sheer stupidity of it all.

“I tried to leave things where I dropped them,” he said. “Walk away. Don’t look back. That’s usually the trick.”

A small shrug.

“Didn't take.”

“Then I saw you on my TV...”

His voice went quieter, not softer.

“And staying gone stopped being an option.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, fingers knotting in the blanket until her knuckles went white.

Something warm slipped past her lip—she only realized she was crying when she tasted salt.

No sobbing. No sound. Just a few tears she hadn’t meant to give him.

Jack went very still. He didn’t smile. Didn’t mock. He only watched her quietly come apart, like he knew he had no right to touch it.

Then, slowly—as if approaching something wild, something fragile—he shifted closer.

The mattress dipped. His coat brushed her knee.

“Don't,” she whispered hoarsely. “Just... don't.”

He stilled instantly.

Her breath hitched hard, shuddering loose in her chest.

“You don’t get to do this,” she whispered. “You don’t get to just… show up… and say things like that—after everything you did.”

Lightning split the sky. Thunder devoured the next second.

Her voice sharpened.

“You made me beg. You broke me on purpose. You walked me out like I was a problem to dispose of.”

A shaky breath.

“And then you just—you watched Gotham tear me apart like I was some goddamn joke on a talk show. And now you come here? You come here like—like I should just… absorb it. Like I should be glad you remembered I exist.”

It hit in waves.

Anger. Grief. Heat.

Her voice cracked. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Silence. Heavy. Relentless.

Then he swallowed—hard—and when he finally spoke, there was nothing in his voice to hide behind.

“I know.”

Two small words. So painfully unornamented.

No trick or excuse—

Just acceptance. Like a verdict he’d already sentenced himself with.

Her breath shook. “That’s not enough.”

“I know,” he said again, softer.

Her jaw clenched. Her shoulders trembled.

“Then why are you here?” she demanded. “Why didn’t you just stay gone?”

His gaze skated away, posture tightening like he wanted to shrug it off, make it a joke, turn it into something easier than it was.

He didn’t.

His fingers curled into the sheets instead, knuckles stark. His thumb pressed down into the mattress—slow, deliberate—as if he had to brace to say it.

“I tried, doll.”

Bare.

Human.

And the softness of it hurt more than anything cruel he’d ever said.

He looked back at her—really looked—and her chest caved beneath the weight of it.

“I really thought I could,” he said quietly. “Thought if I cut you loose, I’d remember who I was—that things would… settle.”

Thunder rolled slow and heavy outside, further off now than before.

“But they didn’t,” he finished, voice rough.

“Everything just got... worse.”

Silence spread between them, tender like a wound.

“I dreamt about you,” he said. “Every damn night. Woke up pissed because you weren’t there. Spent the day convincing myself it didn’t matter and—”

A humorless breath.

“—that didn’t take either.”

He swallowed, jaw tight.

“I’m used to life being empty. Always have been—”

A pause.

“But without you?”

His eyes didn’t blink.

“It didn’t feel empty anymore. It felt—unlivable.”

The words seeped into her. Slow. Inevitable. Like water finding every fracture she’d tried to seal shut.

Something inside her pulled tight—then tore open.

Her throat burned. Her vision blurred. Heat flooded her face and there was no stopping it—no discipline strong enough, no willpower vicious enough to hold it back.

Because he wasn’t apologizing. Wasn’t promising better. Wasn’t pretending he deserved her.

He was just telling the truth.

And somehow—that hurt worse.

Her breath stuttered out of her, sharp and shamed. Tears spilled fast, before she could stop them—silent and furious—tracking hot down her cheeks.

She pressed her hands over her face, as if she could stuff it all back in.

It didn’t matter.

Her body folded. Not toward him. Not reaching. Just… collapsing. Shoulders curling inward, spine caving as if something vital had finally given out.

Jack didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t dare.

If he’d smiled, she would have hit him. If he’d mocked, she would have screamed. If he’d said anything glib or playful or Joker—

She almost wished he would.

Instead he only watched—quiet, steady—as if even he understood there was nothing to laugh at here.

No victory. No power. Just ruin.

His fingers twitched in the sheets.

Slowly—carefully—he leaned in just a fraction.

Close enough that she could feel the warmth of him again.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Not quite comforting. Not quite coaxing.

Just… helpless.

She saw it in his eyes. Felt it in the air. That terrible, aching urge in him to do something—to wipe tears, to steady her, to take back every bruise he’d ever carved into her.

His fingers twitched again, then went still, like even his hands didn’t trust themselves.

He stayed where he was.

Not because he didn’t want to close the space.

But because he finally seemed to understand he had no right to.

And somehow, God, that broke her worse than anything else had.

Her shoulders trembled harder. A wet, broken sound slipped against her palms before she could swallow it back. She tried to steady herself, to pull everything in again, to be small, contained, untouched—

It didn’t hold.

“I hate you,” she gasped into her hands, voice tearing raw through her throat. “I hate you so much.”

A truth and a lie—twisted together so tightly she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

“I know,” he murmured.

Not offended.

Not wounded.

Just… accepting it like another scar he’d earned.

Lightning flickered again, gentler now. Rain softened against the glass. The storm outside was moving on.

The one inside her wasn't.

She dragged in a shaky breath, trying to force herself back together and failing—tears still sliding between her fingers no matter how tightly she pressed them there.

And finally—

finally—

that terrible stillness he’d been clinging to broke.

Jack leaned forward.

Slowly. Carefully.

His hand lifted—hovering beside her cheek like a question.

He hesitated—

And for one suspended heartbeat, she had a choice.

—

But she didn't push him away.

And when his fingers finally met her skin—knuckles gliding gently down her jaw, his thumb catching a tear he had no right to—

Something inside her buckled.

She leaned into it.

Into him.

He exhaled like it hurt.

Then he drew her in.

Not aggressively. Not possessively.

Carefully.

Like the most dangerous thing in the room wasn’t him.

It was her.

Her forehead hit his chest. A quiet, broken sound escaped her before she could smother it.

His coat was cold. His shirt was damp. He smelled like rain and smoke and something painfully familiar.

His arms wrapped more fully around her—tentative at first. Then tighter. He tucked his chin into her hair like a man who didn’t trust his voice.

And they stayed like that for a while—the softening thunder breathing for both of them when they couldn’t.

Eventually, he shifted. Slow. Careful.

“Lie down,” he whispered—tentative, as if he wasn’t sure he deserved to ask.

She didn’t have the strength to argue.

He leaned back slowly, taking her with him—not by force. Just a quiet insistence that left no room for thought.

She went.

Because she was so tired. Because her bones hurt. Because some pathetic, treacherous part of her had missed the way her body fit against his like memory.

She turned onto her side without thinking.

He followed.

An arm slipped beneath her neck.

Another settled at her waist.

He curved around her like he’d always been meant to live there.

No conquest. No claim.

Just quiet closeness. Just breath. Just warmth.

The storm was quieter now, gentled—rain softened to a lulling hush against the glass, thunder fading into distant grumbles like the sky had finally worn itself out.

Her body betrayed her in increments.

Her breathing slowed first. Then her pulse. Her muscles softened against him—each beat of calm a cruel contradiction.

Because the man who let her drown was now the one holding her above water.

And worse—she didn't have the strength to care.

He shifted—barely.

Just enough for his chest to press more fully to her back.

Just enough for his breath to brush her ear—gentle as a ghost, warm where he used to kiss her.

That old current hummed awake beneath her skin before she could even think—a deep, warm ache unfurling where she had sworn she would never feel him again.

Her hips tensed in reflexive denial, even as heat pulsed low—stubborn and alive.

No.

God, no.

Not this.

Not now.

Not him.

Her eyes squeezed shut, breath catching as fury tangled helplessly with need—self-loathing and longing clawing against each other inside her ribs.

Her thighs pressed together on instinct, desperate and ashamed, as if she could cage the feeling there—crush it before it owned her.

She hated it.

Hated how easily her body gave him this.

Hated that some deep, ungovernable part of her still recognized him as safety. As gravity. As something dangerously close to home.

She swallowed—tight and trembling.

And then she felt it—

The unmistakable press of him against her lower back.

Hard.

Undeniable.

Her heart lurched.

Oh God she thought, humiliation flooding hot beneath her skin.

She felt him go still.

Utterly.

Like an animal catching scent.

Like restraint tightening around bone.

He didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound. Didn’t take.

He simply… stilled.

Understanding her.

Feeling her.

And for once—choosing not to touch what he clearly wanted.

It should have helped. It almost did—

But fear rarely listens to logic.

“Please,” she whispered, voice wrecked. “Please don’t… do anything.”

There was a beat of silence, thick enough to drown in.

Then his voice—low, steady, almost careful—for once not something sharp enough to bleed on.

“I won’t.”

His arm tightened around her—not dragging closer. Not grinding in.

Just anchoring.

His breath shook once against her hair.

But he did nothing.

Nothing but hold her.

Nothing but stay.

Thunder rolled far away. Rain softened. The heat relented, slipping away like a fever breaking in the dark.

Eventually, her breathing slowed, syncing with the steady rhythm against her spine.

She hated him.

She needed him.

She didn’t know how to survive either truth.

But for the first time since he left—

She slept.

And he didn’t let go.

Not once.

---

She woke alone.

Sheets warm, tangled. The air still heavy with storm-scent and sleep. Her pulse was slow, sluggish. For a moment, she didn’t move—barely breathed—afraid it would all vanish if she did.

Her hand reached instinctively behind her.

Nothing.

Just cotton. Just empty space.

Her chest pulled tight.

She rolled slowly to her back, blinked up at the ceiling, the faint murmur of the rain now little more than background noise.

Her heart sank with each second that passed.

Of course, she thought.

Of course he was gone.

A dry, humorless sound scraped up her throat and died before it could become a laugh—that hollow ache returning like punishment.

This was what he did.

He came with storms and left with silence.

Cracked her open. Softened the parts she’d fought like hell to harden.

Made her forget how to protect herself.

And then he vanished.

Again.

Her chest didn’t break this time. It just… folded.

God, how could she be this fucking stupid.

How many times did he have to do this?

How many times would she let him?

She dragged her hands over her face, pressing until her vision pricked, as if sheer force could cage the grief before it found a way out.

But it did.

It always did.

She swallowed hard against the burn in her throat, ashamed at how deep it went.

Unless—

Her breath caught.

Her gaze flicked to the corner of the room.

What if…

What if he hadn’t been here at all?

What if none of it had happened?

No restraint.

No warmth.

No breath against her hair.

No arms around her in the dark.

What if the one night since he left that she hadn’t felt alone—

—had been nothing but her brain lying to her so she could survive a little longer?

Her heart jolted, sharp and violent, like someone had reached inside her chest and twisted.

Because that—

That hurt worse.

Worse than betrayal—

Worse than abandonment—

Worse than him leaving was the idea that he hadn’t come at all.

That the comfort had been conjured.

That the tenderness had been imagined.

That there wasn’t a version of him who’d stayed, even for a single night.

Heat stung the back of her eyes. Her throat burned.

God.

What kind of pathetic creature grieved harder over losing a dream than losing the real man who ruined her?

She pressed trembling fingers to her mouth, swallowing down a sob that didn’t make it past her chest.

It shouldn’t hurt like this.

It shouldn’t hurt more.

But it did.

Because at least if he’d held her and left… it meant it had existed.

At least then the tenderness had been real before it shattered.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Stupid. Stupid. STOP.

Her breath came sharp. Uneven.

She forced herself upright, hands trembling against the mattress. The room swayed in the quiet after-storm hush, heat still clinging to the air like breath on glass.

She dragged a shaky hand through her hair—

And froze.

There.

On the floor.

A dark shape.

Crumpled. Heavy.

Hem soaked through.

Rain-wet.

His coat.

Her pulse stuttered like the world had shifted under her feet.

It hadn’t been a dream.

He’d been here.

He’d touched her.

He’d held her.

A sound broke the silence.

A soft clink—metal brushing ceramic. And beneath it… the low murmur of a television.

She blinked, heart thudding, suddenly breathless for an entirely different reason.

He was still here.

---

She crept toward the door, barefoot, heart hammering.

Every step felt fragile. Breakable. Like the floor might fall out from beneath her at any second.

Fingers trembling, she turned the knob.

The door gave with a soft creak.

She slipped into the hallway, breath shallow, pulse hammering as she crept toward the living room.

Turned the corner.

And—

There he was.

Sprawled sideways across the couch like it was a throne.

Legs kicked up over the armrest, boots on. Hair still damp from a shower. Shirtless. Just a pair of dark jeans—wrinkled, half-buttoned—as if he’d gotten bored halfway through the act of dressing.

Scars mapped his chest in sharp, unapologetic lines, catching the morning light. One hand dug absently through the Tupperware container of Emma’s leftover muffins. The other cradled a mug, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling.

The television played quietly in front of him.

An old cartoon. Black-and-white. A little character with big eyes running in frantic circles while the background looped endlessly.

Alina stood frozen in the doorway.

He didn’t look at her.

He just picked a crumb from his lip, then tilted the muffin container toward her like an offering.

“Blueberry’s decent,” he said around a mouthful. “Banana nut’s kinda shit.”

She said nothing.

Couldn’t.

Her brain short-circuited trying to make it make sense. The storm. The warmth. The solid weight of his chest pressed to her spine. The way he stayed.

And now—this.

The Joker. In her living room. Watching cartoons and eating muffins like it was Saturday fucking morning.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he added after a beat, glancing at her over his shoulder with an infuriating, lazy grin. “You sleep okay?”

Her mouth opened. Closed. Rage bloomed hot behind her ribs.

She stalked forward and clicked off the TV.

He blinked at her. “I was watching that...”

Alina stared at him, vibrating with disbelief.

“You break into my apartment—terrify me—turn my life inside out,“ she said slowly, voice shaking with the sheer absurdity of it. “And now you’re just… eating muffins and watching cartoons?”

He nodded once, solemn. “I like cartoons.”

She stared at him.

For a heartbeat, there weren’t even words—just disbelief and fury flooding her veins in one unbearable rush.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she hissed.

“Define wrong,” he said, licking a bit of muffin from his thumb. “In the moral sense, or more of a psychiatric framework?”

She stared.

He stared back.

Then—shrugged.

“I was hungry. Thought you wouldn’t mind.”

Alina’s jaw clenched.

“I’m not talking about the fucking muffins!”

He blinked. Tilted his head. “You’re not?”

“No!” Her voice cracked. “I’m talking about you—being here! Sitting there like nothing ever happened. Like we’re just… like we’re—”

She couldn’t say it.

She didn’t even know what she was trying to say.

He waited.

Patient.

Silent.

Then slowly, almost gently:

“Yeah.” Something flickered across his face— amusement, maybe. Or something darker. “That’s the bit you’re stuck on, huh?”

Silence stretched. He set the mug down with a quiet, deliberate clink.

Then—calm as if discussing the weather—

“Well. You’d better pack a bag.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

He rose from the couch like he had all the time in the world. Unbothered. Certain. Dangerous in that quiet, maddening way that made the air feel too thin.

He tossed the muffin container onto the coffee table and stretched—long, slow, unhurried. Muscle rolled beneath pale skin in fluid, powerful lines; not posing—just existing.

Which somehow made it worse.

That maddening calm never left his eyes—like he owned the room.

Like he owned her.

Her gaze dropped—traitorous—to the sharp line of his stomach, where his jeans clung low over his hips.

The stark cut of hip bone.

That arrowed groove disappearing beneath denim—a path she knew too well.

Heat flickered through her as her mind filled in the rest from memory—shamefully, vividly—before she could choke it down.

He smirked.

Fuck. He’d seen her look.

Her heart skipped—

Because he knew.

He stepped toward her.

One slow stride. Then another.

Not touching her.

He didn’t need to. The air between them was already electric.

She hated how her pulse stumbled. How her body reacted like it remembered him better than she wanted to admit.

Then, he leaned in—just enough to make her lungs forget how to work. His voice dropped low.

“Why would you go anywhere with me?” he repeated her question back to her, like a joke.

Then, with that quiet, predatory confidence that made the room feel smaller:

“Because I came back for you.”

A pause. His gaze dipped to her mouth. Then back up to her eyes.

“And you never stopped wanting me to.”

---

His eyes held hers for a beat longer.

Then they dragged down her body—slow, deliberate.

No shame. No hurry.

Like an artist studying a ruined canvas he still found beautiful.

When his gaze returned to hers, something dark flickered there. Not quite a smirk.

Just that same terrifying certainty.

And then—

He turned.

No parting glance.

No explanation.

Just an ending, like her voice had never mattered.

His footsteps receded down the hall, slow and maddeningly calm.

For a stretched, unbearable moment, Alina didn’t move. She only stared at the hollow he left behind, rage and confusion twisting tight inside her… tangled with something she refused to name.

Then she followed.

Bare feet whispering over the floor.

Pulled by fury.

Pulled by gravity.

She reached Emma's bedroom and stopped in doorway.

He was already there—like he belonged.

He stood in front of Emma’s dresser, shrugging lazily into his black shirt as if this were his room and this were his morning. He buttoned it one-handed with obscene ease, the collar left open, that pale line of throat and collarbone unapologetically visible.

Like this wasn’t madness.

Like she wasn’t burning.

Then—Emma’s comb.

He picked it up without pause, without thought.

Drew it through his damp curls in languid, practiced strokes. A tiny frown of concentration tugged at his brow as he smoothed back a rebellious strand. He looked absurdly domestic. Infuriatingly casual.

Violently intrusive.

Like he had a right to touch things here—

A right to anything.

To take breath.

To take space.

To take her.

Her fingers curled into fists.

She stood there in the doorway, still in nothing but her bralette and underwear, pulse hammering, limbs rigid with fury.

He caught her reflection casually in the mirror.

Glanced at her.

Unfazed.

“Better put something on, sweetheart,” he drawled, casual as if he were stating something that had been decided hours ago. “Can’t exactly take you home dressed like that.”

That did it.

Not visibly.

Not dramatically.

But something deep and buried and exhausted snapped inside her.

She stepped into the room.

Slow

Controlled.

Each step quiet but filled to the brim.

He didn’t move or turn.

Just watched her from the mirror as she stopped behind him, fury simmering in her eyes like heat off asphalt.

“You really must think I’m pathetic,” she said softly.

Calm.

Precise.

The comb paused mid-stroke.

He met her gaze in the mirror again—eyes darker now,

Alert...

Interested.

“Hmm,” he hummed softly, lowering the comb with deliberate slowness, setting it gently back on the dresser.

He turned to face her. No smirk. No mask. Just that quiet, coiled focus that always meant something was coming.

One step.

Then another.

Measured.

Soundless.

Like a man walking toward something he already owned.

Alina's bare shoulders rose and fell with the effort of holding herself together, but she didn’t move. Didn’t back away.

Her spine stayed straight. Chin high.

"You think I’m pathetic,” she repeated—low, but stronger now. “Because I let you come back. Because I let you touch me. Because I didn’t throw you out. Because I—”

Her voice cracked.

She swallowed hard.

“Because every time you rip my life apart and leave me bleeding, I still… I still want—”

She couldn’t finish.

The truth lodged in her throat like glass.

She turned her face away, as if not facing him might undo it. As if silence could cauterize the wound.

But his gaze didn’t waver. She felt it—anchored, merciless.

“And after everything—” she whispered.

She looked up. Met his eyes.

“After you broke me. Aimed a gun at my chest. Told me I was just another game. Threw me away like trash...”

Her hands curled into fists. Her voice grew louder.

“After months of silence. After I had to crawl my way back into something like a life.”

Her brow furrowed. Her tone sharpened.

“After you humiliated me on live TV. Called in like you still had any right to speak to me.”

A breath. Trembling. Controlled.

“And then you show up here. Eat muffins. Watch cartoons. Stand in my best friend’s bedroom, combing your hair like you live here. Like I’m yours. Like you didn’t walk away and let me drown and only came back when it suited you again.”

Her jaw clenched.

“And you honestly—honestly—think I’d just… go with you?”

Her chest rose and fell like she’d run a mile.

He watched her.

Still.

Quiet.

Unbothered.

Like she was weather. Something to stand in. Something that would pass—if he just waited.

Then he did the worst possible thing.

He smiled.

Soft. Confident. Certain.

Like he already knew how this ended.

“Yeah,” he said simply.

No hesitation.

No doubt.

Just certainty.

Because in his world, she would come. Because she always had. Because gravity didn’t ask permission—it pulled.

Something broke.

Not like before.

Not collapse. Not sobbing. Not begging.

Something detonated.

Her breath shuddered—

Then she screamed.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

Her hand grabbed the nearest thing—Emma’s brush—and she hurled it across the room. It hit the wall, splintered plaster raining.

His brows flicked up, not in fear.

In interest.

She was already moving.

“YOU DON’T GET TO DO THIS!” she shouted, voice cracking open into something raw and feral.

“You don’t get to tear me apart and LEAVE—and then come back and act like none of it mattered—like my feelings mean NOTHING.”

A frame on the dresser went next. Then a candle. Then a pillow she slammed into his chest hard enough that he actually staggered a half-step back.

He didn’t laugh.

Didn’t mock.

Just looked at her.

Like she was fury made flesh.

Like he’d waited his whole goddamn life for this moment—her voice sharp with fire, eyes wild, chest heaving with the weight of her own defiance.

He looked at her like a man seeing God.

And she hated it.

Hated the way his gaze shimmered with awe and something sick and tender. Like her rage was beautiful. Like it turned him on. Like it made her his all over again.

And worse—worse—was the way her pulse kicked under her skin.

The way her spine buzzed with the twisted thrill of being seen like that.

Wanted like that.

Worshipped like that.

Her fists clenched. She wanted to scream. To claw the look off his face.

Because it made her feel powerful—

and powerless—

All at once.

His scars shifted with the faint curl of his mouth, eyes dragging over her like a tide pulling at the shore—like he couldn’t stop even if he tried.

“Jesus doll,” he said. Quiet. Like it was a compliment.

His pupils blew wide, swallowing the color of his eyes.

She stared, breath caught in her chest.

“I love you like this,” he murmured. “When you quit pretending. When you stop being good.”

A breath.

“When it finally breaks through… all that fire you keep bolted down.”

Something inside her recoiled.

Because he wasn’t joking.

He wasn’t trying to be cruel.

He meant it.

“You don’t know what you look like right now,” he whispered. “Shaking. Burning. Ready to tear the world apart.”

He swallowed hard, like he could taste her fury on the air—like it fed him.

“You’re—God—you’re beautiful when you lose control.”

And that was it.

The moment the final thread tore loose.

Her hand moved before she could think.

—without planning, without mercy—

She slapped him hard across his face.

It landed with a sound like splitting wood—raw and final.

His head snapped to the side. His eyes went wide—not angry.

Shocked.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just stood there. Breathing hard. Like the contact had rewired him.

Then—Goddammit—there it was.

That slow, crooked, reverent almost-smile trying to claw its way onto his face.

Admiring her.

Worshipping her.

But she didn’t flinch.

Didn’t regret it.

“You think this is hot?” she hissed.

“You think I'm doing this for you?”

He touched his cheek. That near-smirk hovered there, but faint now. Unsure.

“This isn’t foreplay,” she said. “I’m not awakening for you. I am not coming alive. I’m just trying to fucking breathe—and you—” her voice broke, then sharpened, “you think that’s sexy?”

He stared at her.

The smile finally died, his face went blank.

“I am not your entertainment,” she said.

Something shifted behind his eyes.

Not fear. Not anger.

Maybe shame.

Maybe.

“You think you can just snap your fingers and I'll just follow you like some loyal pet?”

His jaw twitched.

A flicker of expression—maybe regret—but he didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t deny it.

She shook her head, breath leaving her in a tremor she couldn’t mask. God, she was so tired. Tired of bleeding for him. Tired of wanting something that didn’t know how to stay. Tired of feeling like property around him instead of a person.

She stepped closer.

Close enough to see the exact point where his breath caught.

Close enough that if he reached for her, she wasn’t sure she’d survive it.

“Don’t you get it?” she whispered

Her chest rose hard once. Then again. Tears burned and held—suspended—refusing to fall because if they did, she wouldn’t stop.

“I’m not yours anymore,” she said.

It wasn’t a declaration.

It was grief.

A burial.

Something fragile and precious laid down and left to die between them.

Silence.

The room seemed to pause with her, as if even the air understood what it cost to say it—

and then his gaze lowered.

Just for a heartbeat.

Down.

To the place above her hipbone.

Where his mark still lingered.

Her stomach twisted. She braced for it—for the smirk, the cruel retort she knew he was capable of.

If you’re not mine… why is my name still on your skin?

But nothing came.

He didn’t grin.

Didn’t speak.

He just looked at her.

Not amused.

Not Joker.

Just Jack.

And for a suspended, fragile heartbeat…

he looked wrecked.

Jaw tight. Breath unsteady. Like the world had tilted and he hadn’t caught his balance yet.

Then it vanished.

All of it.

The tenderness. The hurt. The crack in the armor.

His face closed. His gaze emptied.

Clean. Efficient.

The way a light goes out.

He stepped forward.

Slow. Controlled.

And when he spoke, it wasn’t a whisper. It was something lower.

Raw. Certain. Unshakable.

“Yes,” he said.

No hesitation. No mercy.

“You are.”

He reached for her wrist.

“Come on—we're going home.”

She yanked away like he’d burned her.

“NO!”

Then she lunged.

Shoved him—hard. So hard he actually stumbled.

He caught himself against the wall.

Stared at her.

Like she was a bomb.

Because she was.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. “Don’t you fucking touch me!”

They stood there—

Him, like she was the only thing in the world that could hurt him.

Her, like he was the only thing she’d ever wanted to erase from existence.

The air between them crackled.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then—

His expression shifted.

Twisted.

Like this was the moment he realized he might actually lose her.

Like he felt it.

Like he knew he couldn’t stop it.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet—almost desperate.

“You think I don’t know what I’ve done?”

The words scraped out of him, rough and splitting at the edges.

“You think I like this part?”

He took a step forward—but it wasn’t calculated.

It was helpless.

A hand lifted, then dropped.

“I came back for you. I didn’t know what else to do.”

A breath. A tremor. His eyes searched hers like they might offer a way back.

“I came back, Alina. I—fuck. I couldn't stop thinking about you.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

He swallowed hard.

Then murmured—almost to himself:

“You said I broke you.”

He nodded once, slow.

“Fine. Maybe I did.”

His jaw clenched.

“But you broke me too, doll.”

She stared at him.

Her heart didn’t soften.

It splintered.

And then—it ignited.

“No.” 

Her voice came low—terribly calm, like something that had burned past screaming and found something colder.

No tremor.

Not fear.

A rage distilled down to something lethal.

“Don’t you dare try to make this romantic.”

“It’s not romantic,” he growled. “It’s a curse. You live in me. You’ve infected me. I came back because not having you was killing me.”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” she whispered.

Soft. Precise. Final.

And somehow the whisper landed worse than shouting.

“Don’t you dare.”

He blinked—stunned, like for a moment he’d glimpsed himself through her eyes and didn’t recognize the thing he saw.

She stepped toward him, fists heavy at her sides.

“You don’t get to come back now,” she snarled.

“You don’t get to crawl into my life again because you were lonely. Because your head got loud. Because your bed felt cold. Because—suddenly—you decided you couldn’t live without me.”

Her hands shook.

Her entire body shook.

Not with fear.

With rage.

With grief.

With power.

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. “Alright, you’re mad—”

“Mad?” She laughed—sharp, breathless, broken.

"You destroyed me in that courtyard, Jack. You told me I was nothing. Pathetic. A joke.”

His eyes flickered—sharp, involuntary—like she’d dragged him straight back there.

“You aimed a gun at me and said it was all fake. That you used me. And I believed it. I still see it when I close my eyes.”

“I was lying Alina...just trying to get you to—”

“No, see, that’s the lie,” she hissed, stepping toward him now. “The lie is that you let me go for me. Like you were doing me some goddamn favor.”

Her voice broke—then came back stronger.

“But it wasn’t mercy, was it?”

He went still.

“It was cowardice.”

He said nothing. Just stood there, like the words had stripped him bare.

“You were going to kill me,” she whispered. “Don’t fucking lie.”

“Alina—”

“Don’t,” she snapped. “You aimed that gun at me with full intention. But you couldn’t pull the trigger, not because you cared—but because it would make you feel something.”

He looked away, jaw flexing.

“You couldn’t live with that. With feeling something human for once. So you ran from it. Like a fucking coward.”

“Doll—”

“No. Don’t try to rewrite it. You ran. Like you always do. The minute something cuts deeper than you planned, you vanish.”

She saw it—just once. A glimmer of something ugly and wounded crossing his expression. As if her words had drawn to the surface the very thing he'd tried so hard to drown.

He moved toward her.

She flinched—recoiled. Like the air between them had turned toxic. Like letting him near would split her open all over again.

He stopped mid step. Fists clenched, then flexed—as if he didn’t know whether he needed to hit something or fall apart.

His voice came fast. Unsteady. Like the words had been building in his chest too long and finally broke loose.

“I know I fucked up. Jesus, doll, I know.”

She stared.

He dragged a hand down his face.

Took in a shallow breath.

“You’re right, Alina. I ran. Like a coward. Like a goddamn idiot.”

He laughed—low, bitter. The sound of someone who finally understood the joke was on him.

“I’ve walked through kill zones without breaking a sweat. Rigged cities to blow and slept like a saint. Made mob bosses crawl. Outsmarted Gotham PD at every turn. Vanished from the goddamn world without leaving a shadow...”

He shook his head—slow, disbelieving.

“But you?”

His voice dropped. Rough, low, real.

“You walk into a room and I forget how doors work.”

A pause.

He met her eyes. Held them.

“You make me stupid. You make me—human. And I couldn’t fucking stand it. So I ran.”

He took in a shallow breath.

“I’m not built for this shit, Alina. I don’t do feelings. I don’t do—whatever the hell this is.”

His eyes flicked to hers—naked and ashamed.

“But I came back.”

His voice frayed at the edges.

"And for a guy like me… doll, you gotta know what that means.”

She said nothing.

Her chest tightened. Just barely.

A twitch of breath. A splinter of something old and aching. One awful heartbeat stuttered—warm and stupid, flaring behind her ribs.

But she crushed it.

“You came back because you couldn’t sleep.”

Her gaze pinned him.

“Because the silence got too loud. Because you missed the way I looked at you—like you were something more than the wreck you are.”

He froze.

“And now you want what? Forgiveness? Redemption? Another hit?”

Silence stretched between them—until finally, he said it. Quiet. Unsteady.

Honest in a way that hurt.

“I want you.”

It landed like a wound.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t look at him.

Her lashes fluttered once.

And then—

She felt them.

Tears gathering. Slow. Treacherous. Her body breaking ranks without permission.

He stepped forward.

She flinched.

He stopped.

“I hate that I need you,” he said quietly. “But I do.”

She turned her face slightly away, swallowing hard.

It hurt. Because he meant it. Because she’d wanted him to mean it.

And because it didn’t matter anymore.

When her voice finally came, it was threadbare.

“So what happens now?”

No fire. No fight left.

“You put me back in your bed?”

Her eyes lifted to his. Tired. Hollow.

“On a leash this time?”

He flinched.

His jaw tensed. Something flickered in his gaze—shame, hunger, grief.

Then, quiet. Ragged.

“No leash.”

A pause.

“Unless you wanted one.”

His voice shook—just a little.

“I wouldn’t touch you unless you asked me to.”

Another breath. Almost a whisper now.

“But God, Alina… I’d wait forever, hoping you would.”

Her vision blurred, not from the tears—but from the sudden, brutal weight of it.

Like the floor had shifted beneath her.

Like his voice had cracked something loose she’d barely kept buried.

He looked at her then—really looked—and something broke in his eyes.

“I don’t want your fear, Alina. Not anymore.”

A beat. Shame flickered.

“I just want… you. However you’ll let me.”

And that was it.

The moment the wall gave out—and everything inside her surged to meet it.

Tears spilled—hot, unwanted—cutting down her cheeks like salt in an open wound.

But they didn’t drown her.

They lit the fuse.

Grief and fury collided—violent, blinding—fusing beneath her ribs until her chest felt like it might split.

Because how dare he say it like that.

Like he was the wounded one.

Like she held the power now.

Like he hadn’t already torn her open and called it devotion.

Her breath hitched—but not from tenderness.

Not from hope.

She shook her head, once. Slow.

Because where had this been?

Where had it been when she was on her knees in the dark, begging for scraps of warmth?

Where had it been when she would’ve followed him into fire?

Her voice broke through the quiet.

Low. Furious.

“You don’t get to destroy my life and then make me comfort you about it.”

And his look—God, his look—he knew it. Knew he’d crossed every line that mattered.

But still, he dared.

“Doll, I didn’t come for comfort—I came because—” He faltered. “Fuck—I thought... maybe I could fix it. Us. Start over. No games this time. Just—"

“SHUT UP!”

She snatched his coat from the floor and shoved it into his chest.

He didn’t move.

She slammed it into him again, harder this time, until he finally caught it—like reflex more than will.

Her face was soaked. Not the kind of crying that begged for comfort.

The kind that warned you not to touch.

“You don’t get to be here,” she said, each word a fracture.

“Not in this apartment. Not in my bed. Not in my FUCKING LIFE—Not after what you did in that courtyard.”

He swallowed.

She stepped closer.

Deadly calm now.

“And I swear to God, Jack—If you try to stay—If you try to laugh it off—If you try to reduce this to some kind of game again—”

Her voice dropped to a knife.

“I will make you bleed.”

Silence followed—thick, absolute.

Wind rattled the old windows. A siren screamed somewhere far away. The world seemed to tilt toward them and wait.

Something dark flickered in his eyes—instinct, raw and violent and achingly familiar.

The kind that grabbed.

That pinned.

That took what it wanted and dealt with the fallout later.

His hand twitched at his side—then stilled, fingers curling into a fist like he was physically holding himself back from reaching for her.

She felt it in the air—like a wire tightening.

He could force this. He’d done worse. He’d taken more.

For one awful, charged heartbeat, she truly believed he would.

Then she watched it hit him.

Watched something raw and jagged flare across his face—then burn out.

He exhaled slowly.

Painfully.

Like a man setting down a loaded gun aimed straight at his own heart.

“Dammit,” he muttered, low and rough—not amused, not mocking. Just lost.

He looked down at the floor between them, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt. When he lifted his gaze again, there was no Joker in it.

Just Jack.

Bare. Exposed.

He looked like a man standing at the edge of a cliff he’d never planned to fall from—only now realizing he already had.

Then something in his face shifted.

Acceptance.

Maybe respect.

Definitely pain.

He exhaled again—slow, steady—like folding a blade back into its sheath.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”

He shrugged into his coat with movements that were too careful—like he didn’t trust his own body not to betray him. Adjusted the collar like it was armor.

He didn’t touch her.

Didn’t smirk.

Didn’t play the clown.

He just looked at her—soft, devastated.

“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “you’re right. You should hate me.”

He turned and walked toward the door.

Stopped once—hand braced against the frame, knuckles white.

He didn’t look back.

“You’re not pathetic, Alina,” he said.

“You never were.”

Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut.

Silence swallowed everything.

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

A/N:

Oooof. I’m so sorry for offering hope and then ripping it away so ruthlessly—but I couldn’t live with myself unless I gave Alina the space to finally put this man in his place!

This was her Jane leaving Rochester moment—the “I love you, but I won’t erase myself for you“ reckoning. And wow, did some of those lines hurt to write.

Our man is so catastrophically down bad and still utterly incapable of saying “I love you” like a functional human being. Not that it would save him right now anyway—he torched that possibility the day he pointed a gun at her and told her all those cruel lies. Sir really said “let me emotionally self-sabotage in the most unforgivable way possible.” What a stupid, emotionally constipated wreck of a man...😑

As for where this goes next—I do have several scenes planned and a loose concept of the ending, but I’m very much flying by feel at the moment. I’m just as excited (and maybe a little terrified) as you are to see how I manage to pull this all together 😅

I'll also be fully honest and say this is actively driving me a little insane. I want them, back together desperately, but my need for everything to be psychologically honest will always come first. After everything Alina’s been through, she deserves growth. She deserves agency. She deserves to choose him, not collapse back into him.

And that restraint is currently my personal hell. 😭

Thank you all so much for the incredible comments on the last chapter! It genuinely means everything that you love these two as much as I do 🥹 I’m so glad you’re here with me on this feral, emotionally ruinous ride 🤗💜💚🖤

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Taglist: 💚 (please let me know if you'd like to be added)

@furisodespirit @blackholeofcreativity @readingafterdarkness @captivatinqg

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Alina blinked slowly. Somewhere far off, a car honked. Closer, a pipe clicked in the wall, expanding with the strain of summer heat in early spring.

She rolled onto her back with a low groan, pressing her hand to her eyes.

Last night's dreams were already slipping away—just smudges of velvet and the weight of something she couldn’t hold. But the feeling remained.

That ache behind her breastbone. That hollow throb of grief and longing, indistinguishable from one another in the murky air.

She didn’t know what she’d dreamed—only that whatever it was had meant something.

And now it was gone.

She sat up slowly, rubbing the crick in her neck, skin prickling with sweat. The heatwave had somehow worsened overnight. Her room, windowless and airless, felt like a sealed box.

She opened the door. Warmth greeted her—heavy, but lighter than her room. The hallway was dim, only the pale wash of daylight spilling in from the living room windows.

The television murmured in the distance. She drifted toward it, drawn by the familiar rhythm of anchor voices.

When she rounded the corner, the studio lights of last night’s broadcast lit up the screen—rewind footage, familiar graphics, the looping headline: JOKER CALLS LIVE—TERROR RETURNS?

Emma scrambled for the remote.

Click. Silence.

The room felt louder in its absence.

Emma winced, guilt already in her eyes. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t think you were up.”

Alina just stood there, the nausea rising slow and familiar. That cold twist in her stomach, her throat, her ribs.

“It’s fine,” she lied.

But Emma didn’t turn it back on. She left the remote on the cushion beside her like it had bitten her.

“I made muffins,” she offered instead, softer now. “Blueberry, and banana walnut. Want one?”

Alina picked one up from the counter. Still warm. Still soft. She took a bite, but the taste didn’t register.

“Is it really noon already?”

Emma smiled gently. “You were out cold. Probably needed it.”

Alina nodded, swallowing crumbs that felt like sand.

A quiet settled. Gentle. Companionable.

And then:

“I can help you pack, if you want,” Alina said. “Your train leaves at four-thirty, right?”

Emma froze mid-sip of her tea. Then she set the mug down too carefully.

“I’m not going.”

Alina blinked. “What?”

“There’s no way I’m leaving you after what happened yesterday.”

Alina stared at her.

“Emma—”

“No. That’s final." Emma's voice sharpened. "You were ambushed on live television. He called you! You think I’m just gonna hop on a train and go cuddle a newborn while you deal with this alone?”

Alina felt it hit—that rising pressure behind her ribs, the kind that steals your breath before it breaks you.

Alina didn’t mean for her voice to shake—but it did.

“That’s… that’s why I did it. The interview. The money—it’s for you, Em. For the train. So Eddie would back off and you wouldn’t have to—”

She stopped, jaw tightening.

“Please don’t make me feel like I shouldn’t have done it.”

Emma opened her mouth, but Alina was already moving.

“I got the advance. Early payout.” She disappeared into her room, returned with a folded stack of bills—small, but enough—and held it out.

“This should cover your ticket. Food. A gift for the baby—whatever. Please... Just go.”

Emma looked down at the money. Then back at Alina.

“You went on that show… for me?”

Alina gave a small nod.

Emma blinked, stunned. “But—I told you not to do it. I begged you not to go on.”

“I know,” Alina said softly. “But you needed help.”

Emma’s eyes filled instantly, her voice breaking. “I can’t take that,” Emma said, “Not if it came at that cost.”

Alina’s expression didn’t change. She just stood there, steady, holding out the money.

“You have to,” Alina said. “Otherwise it meant nothing.”

And the fire Emma always carried… flickered, then cracked.

“I don’t want to leave you,” she said quietly.

“I know,” Alina said. “But you have to.”

Emma stared at her, eyes glassy. “Why?”

Alina exhaled, and for once, the truth came easily.

“Because you’re the only good thing left that he hasn’t touched.”

Something raw crossed Emma’s face—grief, helplessness.

Her mouth parted, like she might say something. Anything. Then closed again.

Alina’s expression didn’t budge.

“You worked so hard for this time off. You’ve waited so long to meet her.” She hesitated—then finished quietly, “…please don’t miss something beautiful because of me.”

Emma flinched like the words hit a bruise. Her face crumpled—small, involuntary. She looked down, then back up again, swallowing hard.

Finally—after a long, unbearable pause—Emma exhaled. Shaky. Slow. Like it hurt to let go.

“Okay,” she murmured. “I’ll go.”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice to something fierce and trembling.

“But you have to promise me something. If anything even feels off—even for a second—you call Gordon. Immediately. No waiting. No ‘maybe it’s nothing.’ You call him.  Do you hear me?”

Alina nodded. “I will.”

It wasn’t loud, but it was steady enough that Emma let out a breath.

Then, she pulled Alina into a hug—tight, sudden, full of the kind of fear she rarely voiced aloud.

Alina didn’t move at first. But when she finally returned the embrace, she felt the faintest tremor in Emma’s body… and the warm, damp press of tears against her skin.

Emma drew back gently, thumb brushing the corner of her eyes before she pretended nothing had happened.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “I’ll… start packing.”

She tried for a smile. It wobbled.

“And hey—eat another muffin, okay? They’re better warm.”

Then she turned down the hallway before the tears could spill over, leaving Alina alone in the sweltering living room, the air thick and unmoving around her.

The quiet closed in again.

And somewhere far off, thunder murmured.

---

Hours later, Alina stood alone in the small apartment.

It felt even more suffocating without Emma in it.

It wasn’t just the silence. It was the lack of tether, of someone else’s gravity keeping her rooted.

Alina considered leaving—just to get some air. A change of scenery. The press had thinned since the interview; just a few idling cars now, a rare flashbulb like a dying insect. Maybe she could walk around the block. Maybe she could remember how to feel like a person.

She dressed like she might.

A sundress, soft and loose. Her hair swept into a bun. A shaky hand dragged eyeliner across her lids, followed by mascara. It helped. A little. Enough to trick herself into thinking she was okay.

She stood at the door with her fingers wrapped around the knob.

Just turn it.

But she didn’t.

She couldn’t.

She’d only left the apartment once since the night he'd let her go. And that had been in a car from Kip's production team—with a driver—picked up and dropped off like a fragile package.

The thought of stepping outside—of seeing a neighbor, a stranger, or God forbid, someone she knew—made her feel like her pulse might shatter her skin.

Like her throat might collapse in on itself.

She let go of the knob.

She tried to busy herself. Mundane things. Ordinary things—

She watered Emma’s plants. Cleaned the dishes. Put away the leftover muffins Emma hadn’t taken for Joel and Becky.

It was so damn hot.

Sweat prickled her back and made the sundress stick to her spine. The tendrils that had escaped from her bun felt like a noose at the base of her neck.

She prayed it would just rain already.

When there was nothing left to do, she stood at the kitchen counter and stared at the chipped backsplash tiles—old green-and-ivory porcelain. Art deco, 1920's maybe. Probably original to the building.

She wondered what it looked like back then.

What the city sounded like. What kind of woman stood in this kitchen, hands on this same counter, breath caught in this same air.

Was she happy? Was she safe?

Did she keep secrets in silence too?

Alina shook herself hard. Like a dog shedding water.

Enough.

She turned toward her room.

There was a box in the corner she had never opened. A time capsule from a different life, carried here by Emma like a wound in storage.

She sat on the edge of the bed and opened it—a battered watercolor set. A pad of heavy paper, pens worn to nubs, and rusted tubes of gouache.

She brought it all to the breakfast nook—wobbly chairs, old table stained with Emma’s tea rings. Filled a chipped mug with water. Sat down.

Stared at the paper.

For a long moment, she didn’t move.

And then something in her cracked open—silent and inevitable.

Her hand moved. Brush to paint. Paint to page.

She didn’t think. She didn’t see—not in the way she used to. She just bled. Quiet and fast and shaking.

When she looked up, the sun was gone.

The apartment glowed blue with the last light of dusk. The air was thick and swollen, the humidity high enough to blur the edges of the room.

Three sheets lay in front of her.

Three faces stared back.

The first was all red—raw, slashed, a mouth caught between a scream and a prayer. Blood that bloomed and bloomed but never dried.

The second—bruised purple. Shadows gouged beneath the cheekbones. Dark circles under darker eyes. Fingers pressed into the throat—not in clear form, but in shape, in suggestion.

The third—cold blue. Hollow. Watching. The eyes too black to read. The jaw sharp enough to cut. The silhouette more suggestion than substance.

But she knew that face.

God help her, she knew it.

Her stomach turned.

The paint was still wet. She watched a bead of sweat drip from her temple, roll down her wrist, and fall onto the paper—mixing with the still-drying blue, distorting the pupil, making the face blur and weep.

The effect was worse. More haunted. More human.

A breath escaped her chest without permission.

Goya. Bosch. Munch.

They came to her mind, uninvited. Painters of nightmares. Of holy terrors. Of silent screams buried beneath the skin.

What was happening to her?

Outside, thunder rolled—low, long, and close.

She looked up. The kitchen light flickered.

And for just one second—

It felt like she wasn’t alone.

—

She stood very still, eyes scanning the apartment.

The flicker passed. The hum of the refrigerator resumed. Nothing moved. But the air had changed—just slightly. As if someone had breathed in behind her.

She pressed the back of her wrist to her forehead, trying to will the sensation away.

Heat did strange things. Loneliness did stranger.

Another rumble shuddered through the sky.

---

She needed water.

A reset.

A shock.

Something.

She moved fast.

Down the hall. Into the bathroom. Flicked on the light—it buzzed, dimmed, steadied.

Her mother’s voice surfaced without warning, old and gentle and superstitious:

“Never shower during a thunderstorm, honey. You could be electrocuted.”

Another rumble answered her before she could shove the memory away.

She turned the dial anyway.

Lukewarm water sputtered to life, fogging the mirror in patches. She stepped, scrubbing fast—like she was washing something off, not away.

Sweat and paint and dread swirled down the drain in weak spirals.

The water should’ve felt like relief. It didn’t. Every distant growl of thunder knotted her stomach tighter.

She shut off the shower before it warmed. Toweled off fast.

Cotton clung to her damp skin as she dressed—a mauve bralette, soft and familiar, and white panties with the tiny blue flowers pressing coolly against her hips.

She clipped her wet hair up, stray drops sliding down her shoulders in the thick air, and padded barefoot toward the kitchen.

---

The apartment was too quiet.

She couldn’t name it, but something had shifted. In the air. In her blood. As if the world itself were leaning closer.

Alina opened the fridge. Ate cold pasta salad straight from the container. Tore off a piece of bread.

She ate standing up, the door ajar, cool air brushing her knees.

One last bite.

Then, she shut the door. Drifted to the living room.

Her hand hesitated over the remote.

House rule: no news.

But Emma wasn’t home. Emma was on a train, headed away from all of this.

Away from the danger.

Alina pressed the button.

The news flickered on.

“Storm of the century expected to break sometime around midnight…”

A round, harmless-looking weatherman gestured enthusiastically at thermal maps and swirling radar animations.

“More updates at the top of the hour as the front moves in.”

Then the shift.

Batman. Mafia bust. Sirens.

The usual storm of Gotham’s chaos.

She watched without really watching, her mind already drifting.

Where there was Batman, there was usually—

“…still no word from the Joker since last night’s unexpected live call—”

A freeze-frame appeared. Her face. Kip’s. The studio lights frozen mid-glare.

Her stomach shot upward.

Her thumb snapped down.

CLICK.

Next channel.

An infomercial for The Incredible Indestructible Knife! “Cuts anything! Never dulls!”

CLICK.

Two figures in period clothing filled the screen—wind-tossed, wild-eyed. The moors stretched behind them, bleak and endless.

Wuthering Heights. The 1970 version.

Of course it was.

Cathy’s voice filled the room—breathless, frantic. Heathcliff’s followed, low and furious, the two of them circling each other like storm fronts ready to collide. Every line was soaked in longing and bitterness and that terrible, impossible need to be understood by the one person capable of destroying you.

Alina didn’t move.

Heathcliff’s anger broke first. He grabbed her. Cathy shoved him back. They clung and fought and tore at each other in the same breath.

When he dragged her into the mud and smeared it across her face—Alina’s breath caught.

A claim.

A wound.

A kiss sharpened by fury.

Cathy gasped into him like she couldn’t tell which one of them was hurting.

Alina felt something hot twist low in her chest.

She watched every second. Forced herself to.

The way Cathy’s hands fisted in Heathcliff’s clothes, the way he held her like he wanted to crush her against him—love indistinguishable from violence; that deep, feral recognition:

If I am ruined, it is because of you.

If I am alive, it is also because of you.

Her head throbbed. A slow, pulsing ache behind her eyes. 

But—no tears.

The film moved on.

The separation.

The sickness.

The madness of grief that dragged Heathcliff half-feral across the years.

It shouldn’t have hurt this much to watch—

shouldn’t have felt this familiar.

When Cathy’s ghost returned—white, barefoot, wild-haired, beckoning through the moor’s fog—Alina’s chest constricted. The wind on-screen screamed across the heather; the score swelled, haunting and mournful—

Heathcliff followed her into death like it was the only place he had ever meant to go.

Two figures alone on the moors.

Two shadows finally converging.

The music was devestating.

Alina's fingers curled against her chest on instinct. Something inside her wanted to crack open—like her ribs were pushing outward, trying to let the ache escape.

But nothing broke.

Her eyes burned.

Her throat drew tight.

Every breath hurt.

And still—no tears.

Just pressure.

And heat.

And that terrible, hollow pain in her chest that felt like longing wearing the mask of grief.

The credits rolled.

The music faded.

She sat in the silent blue glow of the television, pulse hammering behind her eyes.

Outside, the storm held its breath.

And somewhere deep in her bones, she felt it—

When it finally broke, it wouldn't be the sky that split first.

It would be her.

---

She turned off the TV.

The apartment felt too quiet afterward—the buzz of static still ringing in her ears. She stood there for a moment, heavy-limbed, then did what she always did when her thoughts wouldn’t slow.

She checked everything.

Door. Lock. Deadbolt. Chain. Then again.

The windows next—Emma’s makeshift security system, strips of scrap wood wedged tight like a prayer. Nothing moved. Nothing ever did.

Still, her hands were shaking.

She brushed her teeth, stared at her reflection without seeing it, then stepped into the darkened hall.

She couldn’t sleep in her room tonight.

Too hot. Too dark. Too closed in.

Emma had told her to use her room if it got bad. More airflow, she’d said.

So she crossed the hall and slipped into Emma’s room—lavender, fabric softener, a kind of safety her own room never quite managed.

She dragged the box fan from the corner, set it on the dresser, and clicked it on high before crawling into bed without turning on the light.

Her skin stuck to the sheets. The pillow was already warm. Above her, the ceiling fan creaked softly with each slow rotation.

She lay on her back, eyes wide open.

Don’t think about Cathy and Heathcliff.

Don’t think about Jack.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but the thoughts kept clawing at the inside of her skull.

What a joke.

What a sick, twisted joke.

Heat crept along her neck, her thighs, her spine. She turned, kicked the covers away, pulled them back again.

Still no rain.

The pressure didn’t lift. It settled.

Eventually, her body gave out before her mind, the edges of her thoughts softening until she slipped under.

---

She was on the moors.

The sky was gray—its edges bleeding violet—and the air felt unnaturally still, as if the wind itself were holding its breath.

The scent of heather drifted around her, sweet and ancient. Long grass brushed her shins as she walked, wildflowers opening and closing in soft pulses, reacting to her presence like they knew her name.

The ground beneath her feet felt strange. Soft. Almost freshly turned, as though something had been dug up—

Or buried.

There was no sound. Only that impossible, suspended stillness—the kind that exists in the second before something monumental breaks.

She looked ahead.

A lone figure stood in the distance.

Black trench coat. Long, dark-blond curls stirring in a wind that did not exist.

Just a silhouette at first—unmoving, unreal.

She walked toward him. The grass tickled her ankles; the flowers leaned toward her and folded shut behind her, sealing the path.

The closer she drew, the more the shape sharpened.

Jack.

Not the painted monster.

Not the nightmare that had haunted her.

Just Jack.

She knew the shape of him instantly—the way a body knows its shadow. The slope of his broad shoulders, the tilt of his head, the tension in his stillness.

He didn’t move.

He simply waited.

She stepped forward.

The sky pulsed red behind him, turning his outline dark and bright at once. His coat clung to his frame like it had been soaked—heavy at the hem, dragging with some unseen weight.

Her throat tightened.

His scars—

They were gone.

His cheeks, his mouth, his jawline—smooth. As if nothing had ever been carved into him. As if the world had never dared to wound him.

But something glistened there instead.

Red.

Thin streaks of it along his skin where the scars once lived. As if the memory of the cuts had risen to the surface—not healed, not hidden, but bleeding through the dream.

Suddenly, a flash split the sky—white, searing, absolute.

It swallowed the moors whole.

Blinded her.

Burned the world down to a single color.

No thunder followed—

No sound at all.

Just the electric hush of heat lightning, gathering its breath before the break.

Her vision reeled. For a second she was nowhere—or everywhere—

Then the darkness rushed back in.

And he was right in front of her.

Close enough to touch.

Close enough to breathe the same cold-thin air.

Close enough that she could see the shine in his eyes.

Except—

They weren’t brown.

They were black.

The same dark shade as the sky—storm-heavy, endless—but still impossibly warm when they landed on her. Haunted, yes. But relieved too.

Like he'd been searching for her in every shadow, every night, every breath.

“You look far from home,” he said softly.

“I think I’m lost,” she answered.

His expression shifted—a shadow moving beneath the surface, a flicker of hurt he didn’t bother to hide.

“Lost,” he repeated, almost gently. “That’s how I found you.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but something warm slid down her wrist—a slow trickle.

She looked down.

Her palm was covered.

Her forearm.

Red. Thick. Warm.

Not paint.

Not this time.

It clung to her pulse, slid between her fingers, dripped slow and heavy down her arm. It made a soft sound when it hit the grass—like petals falling.

She stared as it soaked into the earth.

No fear.

No pain.

Only a strange, inevitable calm.

When she lifted her gaze, he was closer.

Close enough she could have reached him. Close enough his heat brushed her skin.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“I missed you,” he murmured.

Her brow knit, a trembling flutter rising in her chest—grief and anger and relief braided together until she couldn’t separate them.

“Why did you leave me?” she whispered.

A tear slipped down her cheek.

He caught it with rough fingertips. His touch so gentle it hurt.

“I couldn’t keep you,” he said, voice low, thick with a grief that felt ocean-deep—wide enough to drown her.

Her throat closed.

The air thickened around them, tightening like invisible hands.

Another flash split the sky—white, silent. And when darkness slid back in, his hand was at her spine.

She swayed toward him without meaning to.

He was gravity.

And she was so tired of pretending she wasn’t falling.

“Everything hurts when you’re gone,” he said, voice fraying at the edges. “Even the silence.”

His forehead rested against hers.

His hands slid up her back, curling into her damp hair like he’d been waiting a lifetime to touch her again.

Alina's heart felt like it might split open—spill every terrible, tender thing she’d been holding into the soil beneath them.

Her hand lifted before she realized she was moving.

She touched his cheek—lightly, desperately—fingertips grazing the red lines where his scars should have been.

The color smeared beneath her touch.

Warm.

Soft.

Bleeding across her palm like something alive.

He closed his eyes, as if the contact undid him.

“You’re not real,” she breathed.

“Neither are you,” he whispered into her hair, pulling her closer still.

His lips found the place beneath her ear—slow, lingering, right at the quiet place beneath her jaw where her pulse lived.

Warmth bloomed there.

Sticky.

Spreading.

Then she felt it—something tugging at her feet.

Soft at first.

Then heavier.

The ground turning to warm tar.

Or blood.

Drawing her down inch by inch.

But she didn’t care.

Not with his hands in her hair.

Not with his breath on her throat.

Not with the sky trembling, waiting to break.

“Don’t wake up yet,” he whispered.

Then the sky split open.

A flash of white—

And water struck her skin so fast it felt like fire.

Searing. Cleansing. Real.

She gasped—

And everything went dark.

---

She woke with a sharp inhale—choking on heat.

Above her, the fan wheezed. Blades turning slow, useless in the airless dark.

But most disorienting of all—rain slammed the roof in frantic, gasping torrents.

Finally.

Violently.

Lightning cracked across the ceiling.

A glimpse of movement in the mirror—

Her silhouette. Or something else.

Then thunder. Immediate. Brutal.

The kind that makes your teeth ache.

Her pillow was damp.

Not sweat.

She touched her cheek. Slow. Disbelieving.

Tears.

She hadn’t even noticed them fall.

A breath shuddered out of her as she wiped her face and rolled onto her side—

—and froze.

Something was off.

Not just the storm. Not the pillow. Not the ache still blooming in her chest.

The air.

It felt different.

Not just hot—disturbed.

Her skin prickled. Every fine hair on her arms stood upright.

She sat up slowly, heart thudding now in time with the rain, a rhythm too fast, too loud.

Her eyes searched the room.

Nothing.

Only the hush of shadows. The fan turning in slow, drowsy loops. The curtains—white and weightless—spilling from the tall, old windows like restless phantoms.

They breathed with the wind. Touched the floor like fingertips reaching.

The scent of rain curled inward. And something else.

Ash? Smoke?

A sudden bolt of lightning lit the room in a stark, colorless flare:

The dresser.

The armchair.

The door—still closed.

Then darkness, all at once.

But heavier now. Denser.

As if the air itself had thickened—

As if something had been disturbed.

Something that did not wish to be seen.

She held her breath.

Thunder cracked the silence wide open, so close it felt like the walls themselves recoiled.

She flinched.

Then—

Another bolt of lightning.

Brief and brutal.

And for a single, searing heartbeat—

She saw it.

Not a memory. Not a shadow.

A figure.

A presence.

Rooted in the corner like it had always been there.

Still.

Unblinking.

Watching her.

Her pulse jumped to her throat.

But she didn’t scream.

Didn’t blink.

Just sat frozen—lungs locked tight, gaze welded to the silhouette that should not exist.

Her mind rushed in with the only mercy it could manage:

This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. Still dreaming.

But dreams shimmer at the edges. They ripple. Shift...

This thing did none of that. Didn’t so much as sway with the storm winds battering the windows.

It stood like a fact.

Unwavering.

Undeniable.

Another flash of lightning lit the room—

Just for a moment. Just enough to see—

Eyes.

Dark and endless, fixed on her with a stillness that stopped her heart.

Not brown. Not glinting.

Black.

Consuming.

As if the storm itself had taken shape—and chosen her.

Her breath left her in a jagged sound, fingers gripping the edge of the blanket.

No, this isn't real.

It’s not—it can’t be—

A flash split the room—white, vicious.

And when the light vanished—

The shadow in the corner was gone.

Her stomach dropped. Something inside her went utterly still—like prey recognizing the thing in the dark that had always been coming.

Another flash.

And then—

He was there.

At the foot of her bed.

As if the dark itself had exhaled and placed him before her.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe—

Wished she could scream, speak—do something.

But something deeper had already surrendered.

Something primal. Cellular.

Because her body remembered what her mind refused:

The sharp cut of his jaw.

The wet strands of dark blond hair clinging to his face.

The absence of paint. Of mask. Of myth.

Just Jack.

Raw. Real. Impossible.

Beautiful in the way a storm is beautiful—right before it destroys everything you thought was solid.

He wore the same trench coat he’d had on the night he’d made her leave. Rain-soaked. Heavy. Clinging to him like a memory that refused to dry. Water slipped from the hem in slow, patient rivulets.

Underneath, his shirt was half-unbuttoned, plastered to his chest—every breath outlined in soaked cotton, every shadow of muscle visible.

He looked like he’d walked straight out of a fever dream—

Like he hadn't slept in years.

Like he'd torn himself apart just to get to her.

His knuckles were red—scraped raw. His jaw, dark with unshaved stubble.

The way he stood—tilted, uneven—like something inside him had cracked and never healed right.

And still—still—that gaze never wavered.

Deep. Dark. Alive with something old and aching.

She felt it drag like silk down her spine—a shiver beneath her skin, low and deep and helpless.

Her soul stuttered.

Her breath caught.

A hundred nights came crashing in—every moment she’d ached for him, hated him, needed him—

And now? He was here. At the foot of her bed.

Real. Rain-drenched. Watching her breathe.

Blood roared in her ears; her vision tunneled, the room collapsing to a single point—him.

“…You’re not real.” She whispered—thin, raspy, terrified to believe.

The wind screamed through the windows.

Something cracked outside—wood, or thunder, or bone.

And then—his voice.

Low. Soft. Almost gentle.

“Aren’t I?”

Her heart misfired.

Her lungs forgot what they were for.

He took a step forward.

Not rushed. Not threatening.

Just closing the distance he’d already claimed.

The storm outside broke fully then—wind surging through the cracks of the windows, the curtains lifting and falling like something answering.

Alina couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

Every instinct in her body screamed two things at once:

Run

And

Don’t you dare move.

He reached the side of the bed and stopped.

Like he was giving her a choice.

Like he’d let her shove him back into the dark if she wanted to.

But she didn’t.

She couldn’t.

His eyes moved over her—slow, intent—like a man relearning the shape of something he thought the world had taken from him.

The damp hair clinging to her throat.

The faint shake in her fingers she couldn’t hide.

The way her breath betrayed her when his gaze dipped—and stayed there, low.

She felt the exact second it went too far.

His jaw tightened.

His throat worked—once, then again—rough, unhidden.

But he didn’t look away.

He stared.

Like he was memorizing the damage.

Like he was counting how many seconds he could allow himself before he broke.

When he finally dragged his eyes back up, it looked like it hurt.

Like pulling away cost him.

Outside, the pressure finally gave.

The heat surrendered.

Cool air slipped through the rattling panes, skimming her bare skin—her throat, her collarbone, the soft rise of her ribs—following the path his eyes had already taken.

And suddenly she felt everything.

The silence.

The tension wound tight between them.

Her own body—achingly aware of itself.

She was barely dressed. A thin bra. Cotton underwear damp from heat, clinging in ways she couldn’t pretend not to feel.

He had seen her like this before—so many times.

Touched her like this.

Taken her like this.

But now—God, now—it felt different.

More naked than naked.

As if time had unraveled—rewound—and he was seeing her again for the very first time.

Her breath hitched.

She pulled the blankets to her chest and retreated until the headboard met her spine—cold and unforgiving.

He didn’t follow.

Didn’t move.

A muscle jumped in his jaw—just for a second.

His fingers curled, then released—like he’d remembered something important.

Restraint.

He stayed where he was.

Watching.

As if he’d expected this.

As if he knew he was the ghost in the doorway, the storm in her bed.

And still—he stayed.

Like a man willing to be damned, if it meant he could look at her one second longer.

The fan groaned above them. The storm screamed outside.

Then—

he moved.

A single step closer.

Then another.

And slowly—

like he was afraid to break something—

He lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed.

Not close enough to touch, but close enough that she felt him.

His heat.

His presence.

His breath in the air.

Her body didn’t know which way to run. Toward him. Or away.

So it froze.

He leaned forward—just enough for his coat to ghost across the sheets.

Just enough for her to see it:

Hunger flashing through his eyes before he locked it down.

That look reached inside her before she could brace—heart racing, warmth pooling low, her thighs tightening in answer—a response that made her stomach turn with fury at herself.

Then— his hand moved.

Slow. Intentional.

Not demanding. Not rushed.

Like a question without words.

He reached for the edge of the blanket pooled at her legs—and took it between his fingers.

The fabric shifted.

And barely—just barely—

His fingers brushed beneath it.

Skin to skin. Just the faintest graze against the side of her thigh.

A whisper of contact—

But it struck like lightning.

Her body went still, breath shallow. Dizzy with how little it took.

That hand—those fingers—had once known every inch of her.

Had dragged moans from her throat, clawed truth from her hips.

But now, this sliver of contact felt cataclysmic.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears—and outside, the sky answered.

His fingers tightened on the blanket, flexed once against her thigh—then stilled.

Not hard. But enough. Enough to say don’t move. Enough to say I remember you. Enough to make her breath catch like it used to, right before he made her beg.

And in that single, patient squeeze, every lie she’d told herself about being over him shattered in her bloodstream. 

His eyes lifted to hers.

Dark. Steady. Unblinking.

Like a hand around her throat.

Every nerve in her body caught fire.

There it was.

That gravity.

That sick, holy pull she had prayed she’d outgrow.

And then—

He spoke.

Low. Steady. Like gravel soaked in honey.

“You really thought I’d let you go, doll?”

—

She stared back at him, speechless. Her hands clutched the blanket tighter to her chest like armor—but it didn't matter.

The part of her that still belonged to him had already answered.

Heat curled low. Her thighs pressed tight. Her breath forgot how to lie.

And she knew, with a terrible clarity—

She'd never been free.

Just waiting.

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

A/N:

Oh friends 😩

I am SO SORRY this took as long as it did, but I absolutely completely lost my mind over this chapter. I stared at it. I rewrote it. I doubted every sentence. I walked away. Came back. Screamed internally. Screamed externally. Had a crisis. Dramatically declared I could never write again. Then crawled back, rewrote it again, stared at walls, whispered to ghosts, questioned my existence, and THEN finally hit post.

This chapter needed to feel monumental and my brain said “okay but what if we ruined your life in the process?” 😌

And to everyone who left comments on the last chapter: YOU LITERALLY KEPT THIS FIC Alive. Thank you, thank you, THANK You!!! You have no idea how much they meant to me. Just knowing that this story is resonating with actual human beings out there in the world?? What is life 🥹. You are keeping this cursed little fic alive with your kindness and enthusiasm.

Now listen to me very carefully:

I AM SO EXCITED FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER I COULD SCREAM INTO A PILLOW.

Because… J SCENES. FINALLY. REAL. ACTUAL. DIRECT. UNHINGED. J INTERACTION.

We are entering a new era of chaos. I am feral. I am vibrating. I am spiritually foaming at the mouth.

Thank you for being here. Thank you for feeling things. Thank you for letting me emotionally torment you with love.

Happy New Year. May you be chased through your own emotional breakdown by a hot wet man in a trench coat 💜

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Taglist: 💚 (please let me know if you'd like to be added)

@furisodespirit @blackholeofcreativity @readingafterdarkness @captivatinqg

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