I'm Angel. These are my wings.

Gazing into his warm brown eyes, his hands cradling yours as he said, “You are my Rhea,” you felt as if you had stepped into another world, if only for an instant.

The name rang out in your ears several times—brief, yet it felt achingly real.

“Rhea, where you’ve been?” a woman’s voice inquired, warm and kind, though accompanied by a hint of concern. It was a tone that was unfamiliar to you.

“Rhea, it is imperative that you fulfill this duty. You have obligations to Rome; it relies on your commitment. Do not disappoint me,” stated a deep, authoritative masculine voice, which was also unfamiliar.

And then, countless other voices began to call your name, an overwhelming chorus that sent your mind into a spiral.

But then, amidst the chaos, there was that voice...

“Rhea, you are my Rome. Nothing else matters to me, my love.” This was Marcus’s voice, but it sounded different—softer, more tender... younger.

The way he said that name set your heart racing.

It was only then that you realized Marcus was gently shaking you, concern etched across his face. You suddenly felt the familiar surroundings of your room wrap around you, as if you had taken a fleeting mental journey in mere seconds.

What was happening?

You felt lost, struggling to comprehend it all.

“Rosa? Please, say something, anything.”

Rosa...

Rose...

That was your name.

You were this person, in this moment. But who was that other one? Why had those voices haunted you?

It all felt too overwhelming, crushing down on you like a heavy weight, leaving you frozen in place.

Suddenly, you became aware of your chest heaving as you gasped for air. Dizziness swirled around you; if Marcus hadn't cupped your face in his hands, you might have collapsed.

“Rosa? Please, are you well? What’s wrong?”

You swallowed, trying to moisten your dry throat, and managed to whisper, “Anxiety... Attack. M-medicine.”

Marcus understood right away; it was the same medicine you had taken before, one he had seen you use many times. “Where? Is it in your bag?”

He reached for your bag hanging on the chair while still holding your hand, but at that moment, darkness closed in, and you lost consciousness, falling back. Fortunately, he was quick enough to catch you, pulling you into his arms just in time.

The smell hit you first—pungent, overpowering, and distinctly medical. Ah, that unmistakable scent of a hospital.

As you blinked your eyes open, the bright white light overhead and the IV bottle and tube confirmed it: you were in the emergency room. Hospital beds surrounded you, and there stood a nurse, leaning over with a look of concern.

“Are you okay, ma’am? Are you awake?” she asked gently.

“Was it all just a dream?” you muttered, still disoriented.

The nurse furrowed her brow. “Pardon?”

“You know how it is in movies—you wake up and everything that happened was just a dream,” you giggled uncontrollably.

“Rose?”

“Rosa, are you alright?”

Turning to your right, you saw your sister Lizzie, and beside her... Marcus.

No, this wasn’t a dream.

The moment you noticed him, anger flared up within you.

Just then, the supermodel doctor from your last visit entered the room. “How is our patient?” she asked, her heavily made-up face scrutinizing you.

“How am I?” you snapped back, laughter turning into disbelief. “How do you think I am? I’m in a hospital bed!” Your gaze shifted to Marcus. “This man—because of him, nothing good has happened to me. I hadn’t seen a doctor in three years, never stepped foot in a police station until he came along. Every day is a trip to the hospital, every day is a run-in with the cops. One morning, I wake up in ancient Rome; the next morning, it’s 2025 Rome, and there’s another man in my room! Because of him, I lost my job, he forced me to marry him supposedly for my protection, and just when I finally started to come around to him, the Praetorians shot him with an arrow and killed him! I saved his life, but somehow, I’m the one to blame. I thought he had changed; I thought he felt something for me. Now he’s saying there’s someone else in his heart and that I’m her reincarnation! What the hell do you want from me, Marcus?”

The nurses and the doctor exchanged glances, rolling their eyes as they listened to your rapid-fire rant. Lizzie blinked in disbelief, while Marcus seemed taken aback by your whirlwind of words.

“Should we check for a head injury, doctor?” the nurse asked with a hint of sarcasm, eyeing you as if you were a bit off-kilter.

The doctor sighed. “No, this is her normal state. She was weird last time too, probably still high on sedatives,” she remarked, looking at you with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

“She mentioned a head injury before, but the results were normal,” Lizzie added.

“Your sister is fine. You can go home once the IV is finished,” the doctor said, turning her attention to Marcus. “I wish you luck with your wife, sir,” she said before exiting the room, followed by the nurse stifling a laugh.

Marcus furrowed his brow at her implication and stepped closer to you.

“Are you truly well?”

“I think she’s lost it enough to mix up movie scripts with real life,” Lizzie said dryly.

You propped yourself up in bed, but the sudden movement made the IV tube pinch your hand. “I’m fine,” you murmured.

Before you knew it, your eyelids grew heavy again from the medication, and you drifted off to sleep. When the IV finally finished and the doctor checked on you one last time, she cleared you to leave. The tranquilizer still lingered in your system, making it hard to stay awake in the taxi as you avoided Marcus's gaze. You weren't prepared to confront the reality of his words or the haunting echoes that filled your mind.

All that you had been through recently felt like a heavy burden; perhaps this was just your body’s way of coping. Lizzie didn’t ask more questions—that was one of your favorite things about her. She had an uncanny ability to sense your mood and adjust accordingly.

Marcus didn’t take his eyes off you the entire ride home. He carried you from the taxi, through the entrance of the apartment building, and gently laid you in your bed. Lizzie paused at the sight of the bed on the floor, the one you had made for Marcus, and a cloud of suspicion enveloped her.

Lizzie stood in the doorway, watching as Marcus tucked the bedcover around you. She called out softly, “Marcus?”

He turned to her.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Lizzie asked, her voice steady yet friendly.

He nodded, and Lizzie headed into the living room while he took one last glance at you before closing the door to your room and following her inside. As Marcus entered the living room, Lizzie shot him a look, motioning for him to sit down.

“Listen, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you clearly don’t know my sister well enough yet,” Lizzie began. “You got married in a rush, and I still can't figure out why she did it, but it seems she truly loves you. Trust me, I’d understand if she didn’t.”

Marcus managed a weak smile.

“I can tell you love her too, even though I don’t know you all that well.”

“Very much so, Elizabeth,” he replied softly, referring to her by her name. “I love your sister, Rosa, with all my heart.”

“She can be a bit of a handful. She's too much talkative, makes snap decisions, and can be difficult at times. But at her core, she’s kind. Things changed for her after we lost our parents in that accident. She took on all the responsibility at such a young age—I was barely a child. She became both a mother and a father to me, working tirelessly to care for both of us. She's also really so stubborn, like, she wouldn't even take help from our aunt. That's a whole other story she’ll fill you in on later. But it’s been tough. She's been on anxiety medication since then, and whenever she gets really upset, it can trigger a crisis. She still takes them occasionally.”

As Marcus listened, his heart ached at the realization of what you had silently endured all this time. He felt the weight of responsibility for the turmoil you faced and never imagined it would be this difficult for you.

“Marcus, please don’t leave my sister. If she married you, it means she really loves and cares for you. After Nicolo, she lost faith in men and in people in general. But she chose to trust you, and that's a big deal. You seem like a decent guy, even if you’re a bit odd. So whatever it is you’re facing, don't walk away from her. If you do, I can’t even imagine how she’d cope, and I won’t be able to lift her up this time. Do you get it?”

Marcus nodded, deeply moved by Lizzie's words. “I promise you, Elizabeth, I’ll never leave Rosa. I live for her, and I’ve done so for a long time. From now on, I’ll do everything I can to make her happy.”

Lizzie raised her eyebrows; his words struck her as incredibly sincere, almost like a solemn promise. “Um, I hope that’s true. And I really hope you can work through whatever’s wrong between you,” she murmured, standing up and remembering the bed on the floor, though she chose not to dwell on it.“Good night,” she said with a smile as she made her way to her room, leaving Marcus in the living room, wrapped up in his thoughts and emotions.

When he returned to your room, he moved closer to the bed. His gaze lingered on your features, as if he were imprinting your face in his memory. Carefully, he sat down beside you and lay next to you, letting his hand softly glide through your hair, which was tousled from the pillow.

“Mi aeterne amor. As if you hadn't faced enough suffering in your past life, pain seems to have found you again in this one,” he whispered to himself. “But as long as you allow me to remain by your side, I won’t let you endure any more pain, spondeo (I promise).” He leaned a little closer, inhaling the soft scent of your hair while watching you sleep until exhaustion took over, his head resting on the pillow beside you as he closed his eyes.

The first thing that greeted you in the morning was the sweet sound of birdsong. As you slowly woke up, you realized you had slept exceptionally well. Perhaps it was the tranquilizer, who knows? Looking back, you recalled that you rarely managed such deep sleep without medication. Just how long had you been sleeping like this? Before opening your eyes, you scoured your memory. The initial thought that crossed your mind was that lovely morning when you awoke feeling truly refreshed—was it in Marcus' bed?

Strangely enough, despite all the nights spent in the villa and in ancient Rome, you had always had trouble falling asleep. But in Marcus' room—even including that night at Claudia's villa—you always woke up to the peaceful embrace of morning light. Yes, all those tranquil mornings were spent in his room, in his bed. Was it possible that the reason you woke up so peacefully in your own room, where you usually jolted awake to the sound of an alarm, was because of his presence?

Could that really be true?

Suddenly, you opened your eyes to a soft sound nearby. It was someone’s breath, close enough for you to feel the warmth on your cheeks.

Your heart raced as you noticed Marcus’ face just inches away from yours. Had he slept beside you?

A smile crept onto your face as you studied his exquisite features. He was undeniably handsome; the more you gazed, the more you felt captivated. His long eyelashes, the contour of his forehead, the fullness of his lips, the dark and silver streaks woven into his beard, and that perfectly shaped nose —even the scar on his cheekbone— made him look like a real-life version of those ancient Greek and Roman statues in museums.

And yeah, he really was here in the flesh.

Perfect.

You swallowed hard and instinctively sat up, resting on your elbow. The urge to kiss him was overwhelming.

But then, your thoughts drifted back to the previous night. You remembered your heartfelt confession, the kiss you shared, and everything he had said afterward. Yes, everything—including your words in the hospital.

Damn it.

You couldn't help but feel your jaw drop at the memory.

As you swung your legs out of bed, you noticed his arm draped around you.

Oh no.

Trying to slip away without waking him, you gently lifted his arm and bit your lip, willing yourself to move. “Come on, Rose, just a bit further,” you whispered to yourself as you edged towards the edge of the bed.

But the moment you attempted to slide out from under the covers, Marcus stirred, his hand finding your leg and pulling you back towards him. He lifted the covers, and you couldn't help but struggle beneath it. He snickered, a low, teasing sound that sent shivers down your spine. Frustrated, you pulled the covers over your face, attempting once more to make your escape, but to no avail.

“You feeling better now?” he asked, concern evident in his eyes as they rested on your face.

“Let go, Marcus,” you replied through gritted teeth, still fighting against his hold.

“Why are you hiding your face?” he queried, gently pulling the covers down again.

"I’m not hiding my face; I just don’t want to look at you. Two completely different things," you retorted, avoiding his gaze.

"Is it?" He frowned and pressed further. "You don’t want to look at my face. Why?"

You let out a big sigh and leaned back on the bed. "I’m so embarrassed, alright?"

Marcus laughed quietly and ran his fingers through your hair. "There’s really no reason to feel that way, Rosa," His smile kind of rubbed you the wrong way.

Crap.

Determined, you tried again, sliding your leg to escape and finally standing up with your back to him. "Let’s forget about last night," you insisted.

Marcus jumped out of bed, grasped your arm, and turned you toward him. The abruptness took your breath away, and your eyes widened as you met his intense gaze.  “How could I? I won’t let that happen,” he replied firmly. Then his expression softened. "Is it because of what I shared with you? I had to be truthful. I never meant to hurt you."

"But that’s exactly what you did, Marcus. I told you I loved you, and you…" Your voice faltered, struggling to articulate what you felt, fearing your words would sound ridiculous.

Storming into the closet, you grabbed your sports leggings and a tank top, then headed for the bathroom.

"Rosa, can we please talk?" he pleaded, following you until you slammed the bathroom door in his face.

"I can’t hear you," you called from behind the door. "I don’t want to talk."

Even after getting dressed, Marcus was still there, waiting. "Please, Rosa."

He shadowed you as you slipped on your shoes, but you chose to ignore him.

"Are you leaving?" he asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

"I'm going for a walk," you replied, tying the laces firmly. "By myself," you added after standing up.

"I can’t leave you alone, Rosa," he said, putting his own shoes but clearly struggling with his laces.

"I will be fine on my own, Marcus," you insisted, and before he could respond, you slammed the door behind you.

You turned around as you left the apartment, noticing Marcus trying to catch up. Enzo, the owner of the restaurant below, greeted you with a warm smile. “Good morning, Rose. Out for a morning walk, I see?”

You returned his smile and continued up the steps, while Enzo looked at Marcus with a wider smile. "Oh, look who’s here—our hero, Marcus! I knew you were a good man from the moment I met you. I'm so glad you married Rose,” he said, shaking Marcus's hand.

“Thank you, Enzo,” Marcus replied, his gaze fixed on your increasingly distant figure. After saying goodbye to Enzo, he hurried to catch up to you.

“Oh, like a puppy, he’s following me,” you muttered as you glanced back and spotted him trailing behind.

While keeping a reasonable distance, Marcus couldn't help but stare at around in awe until you reached the Tiber River. Everything he once knew had transformed, and he struggled to adjust. He paused, taking in the sight of Ponte Rotto, now appearing like a distant ruin. When you looked back, you noticed the sadness on his face, and a sense of concern washed over you. If you kept walking without stopping, you feared he might lose his way back to the apartment. Suddenly, you felt a wave of responsibility; it was clear he needed you.

Witnessing ancient Rome, you could imagine how he felt. Yes, some structures had endured, their silhouettes still recognizable against the skyline, but they could never revert to their former glory. It had to be incredibly difficult for him. You decided to pause your walk and return to his side.

“Pons Aemilius…” he murmured, his gaze wandering across the ancient structure.

“It's called Ponte Rotto now,” you corrected him. “The Broken Bridge.”

“It’s been repaired several times in throughout my youth,” Marcus said, squinting as he continued to gaze at the remnants of the bridge.

You didn’t want to delve into the history of the bridge—or all of Rome—as it had changed over time. He didn’t press the matter either; he likely wasn’t ready for that conversation.

It was a very complicated situation.

Traveling to the past was daunting and incredibly difficult, but traveling to the future must be even harder—a formidable challenge that would test his limits in ways he never imagined. Oddly enough, you both were experiencing this from entirely opposite perspectives. As you strolled along the Tiber, you chatted with Marcus about morning exercises people engaged in now, the influx of tourists, and the various newly built structures around you. Marcus, being a smart man, had already pieced together how Rome had transformed over time, based on what he saw and heard. It was justified for him to be surprised.

At the end of your walk, as you regaled him with the story of the Trevi Fountain, Marcus couldn’t help but chuckle. He certainly didn't buy into the idea of associating the fountain with love, considering he was the only living witness to its history. But still, he agreed to toss a coin into the water.

“You tossed a coin into the fountain; congratulations, you’re a true Roman now,” you teased him.

He laughed too, though you noticed a flicker of sadness in his eyes. You both locked gazes on the spot where you had read the parchment, the very spot where you travelled to the ancient Rome and came back. You wondered what was running through his mind. Was he contemplating a return to his time?

“Are you thinking about Julius?” you asked tentatively.

His eyes wandered over the statue of Neptune, and he sighed. "Julius, my soldiers, Emperor Severus, even Lydia,” he said, glancing at you and managing a faint smile. “I hope they prevent Geta and Caracalla.”

You hesitated, debating whether to reveal that Caracalla had indeed ascended to the throne and later had Geta killed. “I’m sorry, Marcus. I hope everything is fine,” you said, trying to sound reassuring but not quite convincing even yourself. After a deep sigh, you decided to ask the next question. “Do you wish to go back?”

He looked at you, smiled, and gently caressed your cheek. “No, Rosa. Not anymore,” he said softly, locking eyes with you, making your heart flutter. “I will miss Julius dearly, and the streets where I grew up—the familiar Rome that shaped my youth, I know so well. If Julius knew that I found you, he would wish me to stay here, with you.”

“You're right; he’d want what's best for you,” you murmured. “But Marcus, who are you choosing to stay for?”

He frowned at your question.

You pressed on. “Last night... Who did you kiss? Rhea or me?”

“Rosa, I told you, you are her,” he replied.

“Marcus, look, this is super confusing for me. I mean, in the middle of a kiss, I've just bared my heart to you, and then you throw this at me… How can we be the same person? Rhea was from your time. I’m Rosemary Louise Anderson; I’m from here. We can’t be the same just because we look alike—it’s absurd.”

“What do you truly know about reincarnation?” he asked.

“I see it as soul transmigration,” you answered.

“That’s not it.” He continued, “In my faith, it's viewed as something that the god Viduus orchestrates with his power. Personally, I've never encountered it, and I’m not a believer, but perhaps I’m starting to.”

“Viduus? I thought it was Janus, at least that’s what Katie said.” 

“Yes, the parchment bears his symbol and his name.” 

“That’s really odd. So why can’t I remember anything?” 

“That’s another question I can’t answer, Rosa.” 

Should you have mentioned the voices that briefly echoed in your mind? It lasted only two or three seconds, then faded away.

Even if you did tell him, what would it change? “You must really want me to remember, don’t you?” You turned your gaze back to the fountain. “If I can’t remember, if it turns out I’m not Rhea, what then? Will you still love me?” 

“Rosa—” 

You interrupted him, “Or let me put it another way, Marcus. If I weren’t the girl who looks like your first love, if I were just Rose, could you still love me? Or would I still just be the girl you were cold to, the one you married for protection only?” Tears began to spill down your cheeks, and you could feel the sobs building up. 

Marcus didn’t respond; he couldn’t find the words. It seemed he didn’t know the answer either. 

“Because Marcus, I love you for who you are, regardless of everything. No matter how you treat me. But if you can’t give me a straightforward answer, don’t expect me to ask you to stay or to love you any longer. I can’t do that with someone else occupying your heart.” 

He took your hand, but words escaped him. He was struggling to articulate his thoughts.

“I think you can find your way back to the apartment from here,” you said, turning and walking away. 

Marcus just stood there, staring after you. 

Like a statue, frozen in place— a statue filled with emotions and confusion. 

He was taken aback by your words; he hadn't considered those possibilities until now. As he stood by the fountain, he searched his own heart, forcing himself to find the answer. But it felt insurmountable. He had been convinced for 24 years that he would never love anyone like he loved Rhea -you-. The question stirred frustration within him. He had treated other women as mere acquaintances, certain he could never feel that way again. 

When you got home, tears streamed down your face uncontrollably. You were angry with yourself; why were you crying? This wasn’t the first time you shed tears for a man but this time everything was so painful. Just as you were about to unlock the door, Lizzie swung it open from the inside, keys in hand.

Oh no, she had seen your tears. 

“Are you off to school?” you asked, tucking the keys back into your pocket. 

“Yeah. Are you okay? You didn’t look too good yesterday. Was a walk really a good idea?” 

“I’m fine, dear, don’t worry. Sorry, I was… just feeling anxious about work and everything.” 

“Nothing to do with Marcus?” 

You knew she would catch on the moment you lied. And you did enough already. “That too, but we’re fine now.” 

She narrowed his eyes, studying your face. “I’m glad to hear that. He was pretty worried yesterday. I mean, he’s odd, but he’s a good guy.” 

“Yeah, he is.” 

“By the way, Aunt Victoria called,” she said while slipping on her shoes. 

“What did she want?” you asked, stepping inside and removing your shoes. 

“She thanked us for not calling her even once since she left,” she replied with sarcasm. 

“Oops,” you mumbled. “What else did she say? I bet she did.” 

“Well, she invited us to Milan this weekend.” 

“You should have turned it down,” you said as you loosened your ponytail.

“Try yourself. She’ll call you soon; don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She kissed you on the cheek and bounded down the stairs. 

You instinctively took your phone out of your pocket.

Phone. 

Marcus. 

You sighed when you walked into your room and saw his phone on the desk. He still wasn’t used to it— it would take time for it to become as familiar to him as his sword. 

You couldn't help but laugh at the state of your room. On the bed and desk, there used to be just paper sketches of designs you were working on, along with fabrics, scissors, and a sewing box. Sure, you were messy back then too, but that wasn't the main change. What had really shifted was the pile of Marcus's clothes neatly folded on your little armchair. You opened your wardrobe and started taking out some winter clothes to store in the communal dressing room closet. You wouldn't need them for a while, but Marcus's clothes needed a home. It was hard to believe you were doing this. You had always thought that if you ever got married, you'd live in the house of your husband. But this was a whole new concept, and oddly enough, you liked it. Most of the clothes in your closet were things you had sewn yourself, often transforming a plain pair of trousers or jeans with some added detail. You loved the idea that the outfit was uniquely designed for you; it had been your favorite pastime since childhood. That’s why you seldom went shopping for new clothes. However, shopping for Marcus was a different story, and you enjoyed picking out new outfits for him. As you hung his clothes on hangers and placed them in the spaces you created for him in the closet, a sense of fulfillment washed over you. You couldn’t wait to see his reaction when he arrived to find them.

Speaking of...

Why was he taking so long?

Suddenly, panic washed over you.

He hadn't taken his cellphone with him; what if he got lost? You dashed to the living room, flung open the window, and looked down at the street below.

He was nowhere in sight.

Perfect—just what you needed, another anxiety attack.

You rushed to the door, slipped on your shoes, and felt guilt gripping your entire being. “Why did I leave him alone?” you muttered to yourself.

As soon as you opened the door, you froze at the sight before you.

Daisies.

A bouquet of them was offered to you from a hand reaching out, and that’s when you spot Marcus.

Seeing his smile made you place your hand on your chest and take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart.

“I was thinking the flowers for Rosa should be roses again, but then I remembered you said you liked daisies,” he said, looking straight at you.

He frowned at your expression. “Are you well?”

Instead of taking the flowers, you reached out and hugged him tightly. “Marcus, you scared me! I thought you got lost or that something had happened to you.”

He gently patted your back. “Don’t worry, I know my way home now. This is my city too, remember? I’ve made a mental map of the new city by recreating the buildings I remember from my time. I don’t think I’ll get lost easily.”

Taking a step back, you observed him closely. “Really? That's quite clever. But you still need to have your phone with you, so make sure you answer when I call.” 

“You're right, I will,” he replied. 

You took the bouquet of daisies from his hand. “But how did you manage to buy these? You don’t have any euros.”

"Enzo," he replied with a grin. "He mentioned that he owed me a payment from last time but couldn't give it to me directly, so he handed me some... um, how do you say it?" 

"Cash?" 

"Yes, that's it... cash," he said with a smile.

Ah, that's right.

Last time, Marcus had spent the night outside Enzo’s restaurant, stalking you. Enzo had mentioned that Marcus-dressed as a Roman general-drew in a lot of customers, like a living mascot for his shop. What a great guy. Even though Marcus hadn’t asked for anything, Enzo had gifted him some of the money he earned thanks to his charm.

“Wow, you’ve got about 400 euros here,” you said while counting. “So you’ve made your first earnings and your first purchase. Congratulations.” You smiled and looked at the daisies. “And thank you.”

Marcus sighed as he walked in. “I wish I could make more ‘cash’,” he said, clearly struggling with the new word. “I’d give it all to you. Then you wouldn’t have to work at all.”

“Whoa, hold on. Are you trying to play the macho card, General?”

“Macho?”

“Well, some men want their wives to stay home and raise kids instead of having any jobs.”

Marcus crossed his arms. “That doesn’t sound so wrong to me.”

“Oh, right, who am I talking to? What does a man from ancient Rome know about modern life?”

"In this place, men allow their wives to work while they remain at home without any responsibilities?"

“Well, it’s a bit complicated actually. Societal norms vary.” Suddenly, an idea struck you. “You know, the best way to understand modern life is by watching TV series and movies. Since we’re both jobless right now, why not watch a movie together?”

Marcus narrowed his eyes, clearly clueless about what you meant.

You sighed and began explaining the TV and movies to him.

Watching a movie with the -ancient- Roman general turned out to be even funnier than you had anticipated. Your style leaned towards romantic comedies and dramas, so when you introduced him to your favorites, Marcus ended up asking more questions about the actors, the atmosphere, and the costumes than about the plot. Showing him a historical film wasn't the best idea, but somehow, those movies kept cropping up. In reality, the films were like a crash course in modern history for Marcus, packed with insights about everyday life. Yes, the thought of watching a movie made sense; it conveyed so much more than you could ever explain. He seemed genuinely delighted to be introduced to popcorn and coffee during your movie marathons.

But during the last film, *Pride and Prejudice*, you both found yourselves staring at each other, as it mirrored your own situation. You had always felt a connection to the character of Elizabeth, and you couldn't shake the feeling that Marcus had some resemblance to Mr. Darcy too—his initially cold demeanor had gradually softened over time. When Mr. Darcy finally confessed his love to Elizabeth, you couldn't hold back the tears. “Every single time,” you murmured.

Marcus turned his gaze towards you. “It seems that you have viewed this movie on several occasions.”

“I’ve read the book as well, but this movie is wonderful. My favorite stories are the ones where love triumphs in the end. Ironically, Jane Austen, despite her own unhappy love life, supposedly gave each of her characters a happy ending to spite her circumstances.”

“Happy ending,” he echoed, locking eyes with you.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Do you think our story will end happily too?”

He nodded. “It will be, Rosa.”

There was a silence between the two of you.

“Have you thought about what I mentioned earlier?”

Even Mr. Darcy had found the courage to express his feelings; now it is your turn, you thought to yourself.

Just then, the door swung open and Lizzie walked in from school. “Hey, guys!” she greeted, glancing at the credits of *Pride and Prejudice* rolling on the screen.

“I would have come later if I knew you were watching a romantic movie,” she laughed before heading to her room.

Marcus didn’t look at her right away; his eyes remained fixed on you, so you waved Lizzie off and turned your attention back to him.

But that night, he didn’t really say anything.

He just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Milano.

After all these years…

How did it happen?

How did you find yourself here?

It all started with an endless phone call from your aunt, one you thought you would never receive again—a call that might have been the longest of your life.

Despite saying no and resisting her insistence, she managed to wear you down; here you were. Lizzie also played a big part, constantly talking about how much she needed a break now that her school was on vacation. The manor house, a 400-year-old historical monument nestled in a large garden, was just a short distance from Lake Como. Your aunt’s husband, Vincenzo, in his fifties and the CEO of one of Italy's top fashion brands, owned the family fortune worth billions, so it was only natural for him to own such a grand home. It had been quite some time since you had last seen him. He typically worked long hours, and even when you came here with your dad and mom, he was often nowhere to be found.

Victoria had repeatedly urged you to move in with her after the tragic loss of your parents, but you never accepted. You held a grudge against her for the history between her and your mother. You loved Rome; leaving for another city felt unimaginable. You didn’t want to uproot your life—your college, Lizzie's school, and your work all tied you to that city. Moreover, it was risky to transfer your father to another hospital since he lay in a coma after a severe brain hemorrhage.

Perhaps because of all this, your aunt didn’t push you hard. She understood your stubbornness well. Now, though you felt a little uneasy about coming here, a few days wouldn’t hurt, especially with Marcus by your side. For some reason, he made you feel incredibly safe. You realized that waking up next to him felt wonderful, even without any physical intimacy. Yet, you found yourself still angry with him, confused by his feelings and the lack of clarity about his love for you.

What was he waiting for?

You wondered if reincarnation stuff was real, somehow you found yourself wishing for that.

The thought of being the only woman in Marcus's heart was beautiful, though doubts haunted you—did he love you or her?

It was tough to wrap your head around that.

During his first plane ride ever, Marcus surprised you with his calm demeanor. He wasn't scared or nervous at all; instead, he smiled at you while you sat by the window, holding his hand. He was fascinated by the sights of Rome and all of Italy from above.

“All these years, I’ve battled and conquered new lands, I have engaged in numerous endeavors and explored new territories. I believed I had witnessed the full extent of the world. Now, it has become clear to me that the world is indeed much larger than I thought,” he murmured.

“The Roman Empire truly was one of the greatest,” you said, squeezing his hand. “And you’re one of the great generals who contributed to its glory,” you whispered, leaning closer.

He smiled.

Thankfully, Lizzie was absorbed in her headphones and tablet, uninterested in your conversation.

As you opened your eyes and became aware that you had dozed off against Marcus's shoulder, he gently kissed the top of your head. You exchanged a fleeting glance, silently acknowledging the emotions that lingered between you. That's when Lizzie caught a glimpse and smiled at you both. Still, she sensed something was off, and her thoughts drifted to that night she was preoccupied with the bed on the floor.

A driver sent by your aunt picked you up from the airport and escorted you to the mansion in a private car—an unnecessary luxury, one of your least favorite things and a favorite of hers.

Such contradictions defined your relationship.

By the time you arrived at the mansion, evening had settled in, and dinner awaited you. Unfortunately, your aunt's sister-in-law, Beatrice, was present. Unfortunately, because you didn’t like her; she talked too much and meddled far too often. She bombarded you with questions about Marcus during dinner. Luckily, you had prepped your story with Marcus in advance. Although you disliked lying, you had to; after all, the truth was far worse than the worst lie.

After dinner, sitting in the spacious living room, you exchanged smiles with Marcus as Vincenzo poured wine from his private cellar. You both knew the ancient Roman falernian wine was exceptional. Yet Marcus favored the taste of Château d'Yquem, sparking a lengthy conversation about wine between him and Vincenzo. Fortuitously, the ancient world and modern age sharing a common fondness for the wine.

While Vincenzo, Beatrice's husband, and Marcus engaged in their lengthy discussion, your aunt invited you and Lizzie to sit on the veranda in the back garden. You glanced back at Marcus before leaving; he gave you a reassuring look that said it was okay.

He seemed to be getting used to all of this.

Sitting on the veranda with Beatrice, Victoria, and Lizzie, the chatter about Marcus flowed freely. Not only did you have to field their endless questions, but you also had to listen to their opinions. As they reminisced about Marcus's parents, Balbina crossed your mind, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of your aunt meeting her.

“I like Marcus so much. He seems like an amazing guy,” Beatrice said with a grin as she sipped her wine. She adored chatting about men—perhaps that was why she had been married five times before hitting her forties. She was practically an expert on relationships, or so she claimed. “His way of speaking and his demeanor—they really set him apart. He’s a very noble man. Quite different from you, Rose,” she added with a teasing smile. “They say opposites attract, and it looks like it might be true.”

Victoria took a sip of her drink. “But he’s older than Rose. So, is the age gap 18 or 20 years between you?” 

“It's sixteen, but that’s not really your business, ladies,” you shot back with an attitude, rolling your eyes.

“Oh, that’s fine. Older men know what they want,” Beatrice said with a cheerful manner.

“Do they? And what exactly is it that they want?” you asked sarcastically.

“A serious, low-key relationship. And children. He married you in his forties, after all, and he seems like he’d make a great family man.”

The mention of children sent a wave of anxiety through you, almost making your chest tighten.

“Rose is just the woman to have kids,” Victoria giggled, poking fun at you. “But I’d love to see you as a mother,” she continued. "Who knows, maybe you could be the one to give me some grandchildren," she sighed.

Lizzie rolled her eyes and opened her tablet, slipping on her headphones.  She knew what your aunt would bring up next. Yes, Victoria and Vincenzo hadn’t had children despite wanting them deeply, and she had occasionally viewed you and Lizzie as her own child—maybe a bit too much over the years. You hadn’t allowed that connection to flourish since you disliked interference in your life. The constant tension between your mother and her was enough to deal with on its own. You could attribute some of this to the fact that you had broken your aunt’s heart numerous times during your teenage years, but she insisted on keeping you close. Guilt wasn’t why you were here, though.

You were thankful she was looking after Lizzie in your absence. But it didn’t mean you wanted her discussing your personal life with Marcus any further, at least not that evening.

When you got up to excuse yourself to your room, your aunt turned to Lizzie, eager to hear more about you and Marcus. As Lizzie recounted the events of the night, including what she had observed, Victoria reacted with unexpected shock.

“Did you say they were sleeping separately? Jesus Christ!”

Beatrice clutched her chest. “That’s awful.”

Lizzie raised her eyebrows. “I don’t understand what’s so bad about it. They clearly had a fight and didn’t go to bed together. Why are you blowing this out of proportion?”

“Oh, my Lizzie,” Beatrice began, “You’re still quite young, and it’s hard to grasp, but this is a disaster for a newlywed couple. Couples should always share a bed, no matter the situation.”

“I think Rose must be lacking some compassion for Marcus. Silly girl, she’s never been one to be tolerant or respectful, not even toward the man she loves.”

“Let’s not exaggerate. Isn’t Marcus at fault too? Maybe he has something to do with this?”

“He’s a gem,” Beatrice insisted. “I can read a man well just by looking at him. That man is crazy about Rose. Poor Marcus; he’s probably more in love with her than I realized. What man can endure this?”

Lizzie grimaced. “I think you’re overstating things.”

“Overstating? Darling, when we were alone with my husband during our newlywed times, we were at it every minute—”

“Beatrice,” Victoria interjected with a warning. “Lizzie is 17 and a virgin, so let’s tread carefully.”

Lizzie rolled her eyes once more. "Even a six-year-old knows about that kind of stuff."

“We can’t let this go on,” Victoria declared. “Rose can’t endure another breakup after all the heartache. We need to step in. But how?”

“Wait, what do you mean we need to step in? You’re not planning to meddle in their private lives, are you?”

“No, we won’t interfere. We’ll just help them. We have to reignite their love.”

“Oh, I know just what to do!” Beatrice clapped her hands together excitedly. “After all, as a woman of passion, I’m an expert in this.”

Lizzie stood up. “Count me out of this. I’m sure Rose wouldn’t appreciate any intrusion into her life. I don’t want to face her wrath.”

The room they gave you was larger than your entire apartment—possibly even bigger than Marcus' room back in Ancient Rome. The mansion had a classic charm, complete with small fireplaces in each room and beautifully restored wall details that spoke of its history.

“You and Vincenzo seemed to hit it off,” you remarked, glancing at Marcus.

“He's a decent man. His passion for wine surprised me—I never knew there were so many varieties. It's hard to believe people are still so interested in wine these days,” he replied.

“It’s great to see you adapting to my time and people.”

“Despite my efforts, I can't say I've succeeded,” he muttered, sounding a bit down.

You paused with your suitcase half-unzipped, sensing his unease. “What do you mean by that?”

“It’s tough to fit into this world, Rosa. I was supposed to take you to the hospital that night, but I didn’t know how to drive a car. Your sister called a taxi. I still struggle with some conversations, but I pretend I understand. Most of all, I feel like a burden.”

You left your clothes as they were and moved closer to him. “Marcus, don’t think like that. You’re not a burden. Just being in the same house—and sharing a room—with you has brought color to my life," you said with a smile. "Who else can say they’re roommates with a Roman general? I consider myself lucky."

Marcus smiled gently, his fingers brushing against your cheek. “This Roman general feels fortunate to have a woman like you by his side. However, as your husband, I know I have responsibilities. I can't simply stand by while you search for a job. While it may be acceptable here, in my world, a man provides for his woman, ensuring that all her needs are met. I don't want to tell you not to work; I don’t think I have that right. And please, don't use that word when referring to me.”

“Macho? Bigot? Psycho? Misogynist?” you teased.

He laughed. “Yes, those… Rosa; if I’m going to settle in this place, it’s vital for me to have a sense of responsibility.”

“Okay, I get it. Right now, you’re in a Generation X mindset. I have to think of it that way."

“Generation X?”

You laughed at his reaction. “I mean, I won’t call you ancient. You’re in your 40s or 50s now. Anyway, to make you feel better, I promise I’ll help you find a job. But first, you need to adapt to this world a bit more—like learning to use your phone and drive a car--”

Suddenly, he took your hands and pressed both to his lips, making your heart race. “Gaudium vitae meae (joy of my life). I will adjust to anything as long as you’re by my side."

He kissed the top of your hand and leaned in closer, resting his forehead against yours. Your eyes were locked, both following the movement of his lips to yours. When he cradled your face in his strong hands, it felt like you could hardly breathe. He placed a tender kiss on your temple, slowly moving his lips down your chin aiming your lips. Each kiss felt like he was carefully gauging your reaction, tracing a sweet path until he fully captured you.

“Rosa,” he whispered, his breath teasing your lips.

“Marcus,” you murmured back, feeling the same intense feelings.

But just as your lips were about to meet, your phone began to ring. You pulled back reluctantly to answer, seeing the number you had been waiting for.

“I have to take this,” you said, glancing at Marcus.

He nodded and went to the suitcase to grab his clothes. It was the head costume designer discussing an upcoming project, but your focus remained on Marcus as he stripped off his shirt, nearly making you forget the call.

“Hey, what are you doing? Use the bathroom,” you whispered to him while still on the line.

Marcus shrugged. “Could we end this? Besides, you mentioned your aunt shouldn’t realize we’re not married.”

“Ending this?” you almost raised your voice. “Oh no no, I didn’t say to you to ending anything,” you said with a nervous smile at your phone while shooting Marcus a warning glance. “Okay, I’ll be there," you said before hanging up.

“Did they offer you a job?” Marcus asked.

“Yes, but first, I need to attend a meeting. I’m sure she’ll have me come up with a million designs. But I can handle it,” you sighed, feeling confident.

“I believe you can do it, Rosa,” he said with a smile that made him look irresistibly charming, especially without his shirt.

“I-I should get in the shower,” you stammered, pointing toward the door as you turned and hurried out of the room.

Marcus chuckled at your reaction, ready to change his pants when a knock interrupted him. He sighed, giving up and opening the door. Victoria and Beatrice stood there, grinning widely.

“Oh honey, sorry to drop in at this hour. We just wanted to check if you needed anything,” they said, eyes gleaming as they took in Marcus’ bare chest.

Beatrice nudged Victoria inside, and they rushed into the room. With arms crossed and brows raised, Marcus watched them warily. “We don’t need anything, thank you, Lady Victoria and Lady Beatrice.”

“Oh, he says ‘Lady’ beautifully, doesn’t he, Beatrice?” Victoria remarked, a sparkle in her eye as she admired him.

“Yes, yes. He looks like a noble gentleman out of a medieval movie,” Beatrice chimed in admiringly.

Marcus smiled vaguely at their compliments, his gaze dropping to the bottle of wine she held. “You and Vincenzo talked about wines, and this one was your favorite,” she said, pointing to the bottle.

“We thought you might enjoy a drink,” Beatrice said with a cheeky wink at Victoria.

As she poured wine into a glass, Marcus stepped closer. “Actually, I’ve had quite enough to drink already—”

Before he could finish, Beatrice popped a piece of chocolate into his mouth, almost making him choke. "Top quality, from Sweden," she explained with a grin.

“Oh, come on, just take it. You’re a strong man; you can handle it,” Victoria said, playfully patting his chest and laughing as she handed him the wine glass.

Meanwhile, Beatrice sauntered over to the edge of the bed, seemingly aiming for the suitcase with another glass. She pretended to drop it accidentally, gasping, “Oh no!”

As Marcus continued to chew the chocolate, an unappealing taste lingered in his mouth, he turned to see the wine spilled all over the suitcase and ruin almost everything inside.

“Oh Beatrice, what have you done?” Victoria exclaimed, rushing to her side with exaggerated concern.

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” Beatrice said, pouting her lips apologetically.

Marcus frowned, feeling something was off. “Rosa’s clothes,” he said, lifting up the wine-soaked pajamas that had been meant for after your shower. Unfortunately, the t-shirt he planned to wear was soaked too.

With a gleam in her eye, Victoria reached for the suitcase and snapped it shut. “I’ll have them washed right away. Carmen!” she called out, her voice ringing through the hallway.

Moments later, Carmen, the housekeeper, appeared at the door.

“Yes, Mrs. Albano?”

“Take this with the clothes inside and wash them to keep any stains from setting in,” Victoria said.

Carmen hesitated for a moment, but quickly took the suitcase and left. Turning back to Marcus, Victoria continued, “We truly apologize again. I’ll find something for you and Rose to wear.”

Marcus felt a mix of anger and suspicion towards their odd behavior. Then, to his surprise, they dashed out of the room faster than he could process. Leaving him bewildered in the room, two women in the hallway, giddy and playfully high-fiving each other.

“Isn’t he handsome?”

“Oh, especially with those scars.”

“I wonder how he got those though. Do you think he might have done stunt work in the set?"

“Who knows? But I think scars make a man look more rugged. If I were younger, I’d be head over heels for him,” Beatrice sighed.

“Goodness, you naughty woman. Keep it down, or your husband will hear you,” Victoria scolded lightly.

“That big bear? He’s already snoring away in bed,” Beatrice said, rolling her eyes.

“God forgive us, you're so bad."

They both burst into laughter as they made their way back to their rooms.

"What do you mean they took all my clothes to wash them?"

When you stepped from the bathroom into the bedroom, only wearing a towel, and asked Marcus why he still wasn't wearing anything on top, his response left you stunned.

As if it wasn’t enough that your aunt and Beatrice had barged into your room in the middle of the night and spilled wine all over your clothes, now you found yourself in this embarrassing situation. Marcus, it turned out, was in the same boat—he had no clothes left either. It seemed suspicious that all your clothes in the suitcase were stained with wine.

But why would they do such a thing?

When Carmen arrived with a bag of new clothes, the answer became crystal clear. “You old dirty bitches...” you muttered under your breath. Inside the bag were a few ridiculously sexy nightgowns that were undoubtedly expensive, clearly from Vincenzo's fashion brand. Those brand-name dresses your aunt had sent you before, along with the overly revealing items you would never dream of wearing. It wasn’t your style, yet your aunt seemed oblivious to that. Lizzie shared your taste, but they both always loved to meddle in your lives—just as they were doing now.

“I can’t believe she did this.”

“You should wear something; you’re going to catch a cold,” Marcus said, coming closer and making you even more nervous.

“If I wear this, I’ll catch an even worse cold, trust me.”

“They look like that clothes we saw in that store,” he remarked, peering into the bag. You knew exactly what he meant—those sexy nightgowns he had spotted while you buying him underwear, only causing him to look away in embarrassment. “This meant for me, isn’t it?” he asked, pulling out a black linen nightshirt from another bag.

You reached over and snatched it from his hand. “I’ll wear this one."

“But this is men’s clothing.”

“So what? You didn’t think I’d wear those other options, did you?”

“I think it would look great on you,” he teased, a crooked smile on his face.

You narrowed your eyes in response. “You might be waiting a long time for that—”

“Please let go of your hold, Rosa,” he said, pulling at the shirt, but you held firmly onto your end.

“But I can’t sleep in these. I’m cold, please.”

With a sudden yank, Marcus pulled the shirt again and drew you closer, wrapping his arm around you. “I’ll keep you warm,” he said playfully.

You widened your eyes but managed to pull back just in time; the towel almost slipped away, but you caught it at the last moment. You couldn’t see clearly, but your back was exposed, and you shivered as a draft hit you.“Marcus, please, just give me the damn t-shirt.”

He chuckled, “Even if you wear this, your legs are still going to be exposed. Come now, don’t be stubborn—wear that dress instead.”

You didn’t want to give in to your aunt’s game, but there seemed to be no choice. Your body was still damp, and the wet towel and hair were making things worse. Plus, you could warm up under the blanket. Gripping the towel tightly against your chest with one arm, you took a bag with the other and slipped behind the screen.

You tossed the towel onto the screen as you muttered a curse. The nightgown was sheer lace, while the other options were even more revealing. The most modest one was red satin with a plunging neckline. But that didn’t change the fact that it was incredibly short. Oh, and there was also a lace panty so thin it might as well have been a whisper.

Great.

Each piece still had tags on them, as if they had been handpicked just for you. It seemed a long chat with your aunt was in order for the morning. After putting on the nightgown and panties, you felt a wave of relief on your skin, likely due to the fabric’s quality, but your body suddenly felt aflame.

How were you going to face him dressed like this?

You peeked around the edge of the screen; he was busy tearing off the tag from his T-shirt. “Now I need you to promise me something.”

“Hm?” He turned his head in your direction, curiosity sparkling in his eyes.

“You won’t stare at me. And definitely no touching. We’ll just get into bed and sleep. Okay?”

“Rosa, you’re asking me to do something pretty tough,” he replied with a sly grin.

You frowned. “I said promise me. As a Roman general, this is one of those life-or-death promises... so promise me already.”

"I apologize, but I'm afraid I have to decline."

You blinked in surprise. “Why?”

"I cannot make a promise I can't keep," he said with a smirk.

“Oh c'mon! I’m not asking you to cut yourself or something.”

"What you are requesting is harder than that, Rosa." As he approached with intent, his focus remained steady on you. "I wish for you to be my true wife. In fact, in my time, we are already married, so let us proceed with finalizing the necessary documentation here."

You raised your eyebrows in disbelief, heart fluttering. “Excuse me?”

“Marriage license,” he said, remembering the movie you watched together.

“Whoa, so you think you know everything now, huh, Mr. General? Then tell me this: why should I marry you?” you asked playfully, caught up in the moment without realizing you had stepped out of the screen to face him directly.

He narrowed his eyes as you approached, taking in your appearance, visibly captivated.

He swallowed hard. “You said you loved me. You kissed me, saying you wanted me.”

“That was before you said those things to me,” you replied, struggling to keep your gaze from drifting to his bare chest. Marcus leaned in closer, and you instinctively took a step back. “What are you doing? Don’t come at me like that,” you warned, retreating further. “Marcus, stop.” Suddenly, the back of your leg hit the edge of the bed, and you lost your balance, falling onto your back.

He leaned over you, but as you tried to pull away, he grabbed your wrists and pinned you down, watching your attempts to struggle with an amused expression.

“If I hadn’t said those things, you would’ve been ready to give yourself to me, wouldn’t you?” he whispered, his warm breath brushing against your face.

“Let me go. That won’t happen,” you insisted, striving to free yourself. But your efforts were futile.

"Don't be so sure of yourself, Rosa,” he said, leaning in to kiss you.

“I can’t,” you protested, causing him to halt. “Yes, I love you, but I can’t do this. It feels like there’s something—or someone—between us. I can’t move forward feeling this way.”

Marcus frowned, tightening his grip on your wrists just enough to almost hurt. “You’re mistaken. There’s no one else, Rosa. It’s only you and me.”

"Is that so? Then why do I feel this way? Maybe there are things you haven’t told me yet. How can I trust you?"

In an instant, a shift occurred in his expression, and he released you, sitting up on the bed. You followed suit, straightening yourself as well.

“Rosa, I’ve told plenty of lies for you, but I’ve never lied to you. I swear it,” he said softly and sincerely.

You fell silent, knowing deep down he wouldn’t deceive you.

He took your hands, placing them in his palms as if to measure the difference. “I understand why you’re taken aback by everything I’ve said, but I truly believe with all my heart that you are the only woman I love. I don’t know how to prove that to you, but it’s the truth. I’m certain of it.”

You pulled your hands back. “I need to be sure too. If I’m a reincarnation, I should remember my past, right? Otherwise, I can’t move forward with this, Marcus. I’m sorry.”

In one swift motion, Marcus wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. Your bodies brushed together, sending a rush through you as your hands instinctively clung to his shoulders. “You obstinate woman. I’m pouring my heart out, telling you that I love you and that my heart is yours alone. What more do you need to hear? Do you take pleasure in tormenting me?”

“Am I really the woman you love?” you asked, breathless as your lips almost touched his.

“It’s you, Rosemary,” he said, using your name for the first time in its true form. Taking your hand, he placed it on his chest, just above his heart. “You can’t easily change what your heart feels. This heart has loved only one woman, and that's you—regardless of the time difference. Believe me, it is you. I swear by all the gods I believe in, and even to your god, that it’s true. How else could I have found you again? How could you summon me? This can’t be mere coincidence. I If you doubt me, listen—feel my heart. It holds the answers you seek. I love you, Rosa.”

“Those words…” you whispered.

And then it happened again. It felt as if your thoughts, reasoning, and logic were dancing with the wind. Marcus' voice echoed in your mind once more: “Listen —feel my heart. It holds the answers you seek. I love you, Rhea.” These were familiar words, yet they resonated anew.

How had this come to be?

Where were you?

A memory, yes, a memory. But not just any memory.

This one was far more vivid, revealing a younger Marcus, hair free of grey, no scar marring his cheekbone. He wore a different kind of armor, and your hand rested on his chest just like now you do. The memory was so clear that you could almost feel the texture of the leather under your palm. With the sweet sounds of chirping birds and a gentle breeze, you could tell that you were younger too—your hand resting on his chest seemed smaller.

Everything felt different, yet somehow the same.

His touch, the way you looked at each other, and the emotions swirling around—it was all familiar.

“Marcus,” you breathed, echoing the tone from that vivid memory, even surprised yourself. The very words from your memory took shape and spilled from your lips. “Marcus," you whispered once again. "I feel your heart with mine. I hear your words—I love you with every fiber of my soul, completely and unconditionally."

Marcus's eyes glistened with tears, a mix of surprise and overwhelming happiness at the recollection of that moment. “Mei amor,” he said, his voice deep and trembling, mirroring the feelings you both shared in that cherished memory.

Then he kissed you, just like he did in there.

Yet this kiss was different—more passionate, more tender, filled with longing, need, as if his very existence depended on it.

In an instant, you broke the surface of that treasured memory, leaving behind the sunlit meadow of ancient Rome and returning to the grand room in a Milan mansion. Your eyes fluttered open as you gradually pulled away from the kiss, both of you surrendering to the reality that surrounded you.

You locked eyes with him, hearts racing, breaths mingling in the charged silence. His deep brown eyes, rich and dark like gems, bore into yours with a profound intensity, as if he could peel back the layers of your soul to uncover every concealed thought. The fire in those eyes ignited something deep within, flooding your veins with warmth.

“What just happened?” you whispered.

“You remembered,” he smiled, his hand resting gently over your heart, feeling its rhythm beneath his palm. “You recalled our first kiss, my love.”

It was true—an unshakeable certainty washed over you, as if the universe itself had whispered the truth into your ear. Yet, amidst the emotional rush, a quiet realization settled within you.

You understood that this kiss was the only physical connection you shared, and you knew the truth behind it—she, or rather, you, was still a virgin.

This became evident in his gentle touch and the unspoken electricity crackling between you. The eager pulse of his hand above your heart spoke volumes without requiring a single word.

But all of that was about to change. You were no longer a virgin in this time or life, and your longing for him intensified, a desperate need coursing through you.

Head bending down, he nuzzled his nose into your neck, placing peppers light, sweet kisses in the crook where your throat meets your shoulders. However, with his strong body pressed against you, and your mind still traitorously wandering off to his naked body, you felt your body automatically respond to him. Involuntarily, liquid heat pooled between your thighs - a sudden wanton desire to feel him inside of you overtook your senses.

“M-Marcus,” you gasped out - his name tumbling out of your mouth before you could even stop it. There were a deep need to your voice, and when his body froze, you know he heard it.

“Rosa?” he replied, his head tilting to the side in question.

“Please,” came your breathy response. His gaze roved over you, and noting the slight breathlessness, and how your fingers curled into the muscles of his arms, his eyes widen in understanding.

His other arm curved around you, hand still resting on your breast. When you breathe, it made the calluses on his sword-hand rub against your skin which sending pleasant little shivers down your spine, causing your nipples drew tight.

“Rosa, what is it you want?” he asked, his gaze locking onto yours with a hint of desperation, longing for the response he yearned to hear. 

“You,” you replied, your tone sharp and direct. "I want you."

A sly smile danced on his lips. “Are you truly certain?” 

You nodded vigorously, “One hundred percent,” your fingers digging into the firm contours of his shoulders, the strength of his muscles only fueling your eagerness further.

Filled with happiness and joy at the answer, he pulled you in close and kissed you with such passion that your heart raced wildly in your chest. As your lacy-covered breasts brushed against his bare skin, a small moan of excitement escaped your lips.

He used your open mouth to his advantage and slipped his tongue inside, dragging it along yours. You crumbled, kissing him back with as much vigour as your body would allow.

The second kiss was like him, powerful but gentle, fierce but beautiful, and completely intoxicating. The touch of his tongue dancing with yours, the press of your lips, his hands on your body…it felt natural.

So natural as if you were always meant to be this.

To be his.

He moved to allow you to catch your breath, but his lips never leaving you. Instead, his mouth traced your bottom lip before moving along your jaw.

"You can not imagine how deeply I've ached for this moment, how many quiet prayers I’ve whispered to the gods themselves," he murmured softly, his breath warm against your skin as he paused between the gentle caress of your kisses. With tender care, he laid you back onto the soft, inviting bed. He leaned over, you wrapped your arms around him, your fingers first brushing against the arrow wound on his shoulder, then trailing down to explore the jagged line that marked his skin below it. Each scar was a testament to a life rich with battles fought, silent witnesses to the struggles he had endured—years that spanned nearly double your age.

Those painful years spent longing for you. 

"You are my answered prayer, Rosa," he whispered, his voice deep and resonant, as he leaned down to capture your lips in another fervent kiss.

“I love you,” he whispered. Then, he ran his tongue down the length of your neck again causing a gasp of pure desire leaving you.

He repeated those three words as he peppered your chest with light strokes of his lips.

Body completely wired, your nerves burning with the ravenous heat of desire, you sank deeper and deeper into his presence; ignoring the slow burn that creeping into your lungs and focusing more on the intensifying heat that pools between your thighs. Gripping his locks, you kissed him back just as ferociously; the muscles of your thighs simultaneously flexing as you grind into his abdomen - in a bid to alleviate the deep ache in the pit of your stomach. Neck straining, you tried to press your lips harder against his. With a soft whine escaping your lips, your hands wrapped around his neck, then slid over his shoulders and down to his arms, gripping his biceps, pulling him closer, drawing him further down toward you.

His large hand slipped beneath your nightdress, grazing the laces of your panties—a strange yet incredibly alluring invention he had ever encountered. You couldn’t help but giggle at his reaction and playfully assisted him in slipping your panties off.

Kneading the flesh of your ass, his digits flex over your skin, and you moaned in pleasure - the sound muffled by his kiss. Gripping your ass harder, Marcus let out another low groan at the movement before he pulled you even closer. his other hand quite busy touching, stroking softly where he hadn’t yet explored. Where you felt burned. Every touch, every simple gesture, his eyes -god those eyes, they never left you, never stopped trailing a burning path on your body. 

With a searing vengeance, the dull ache in your lungs suddenly ignited, and unable to resist its burn, you reluctantly tear your lips away from his. Gasping for oxygen, your breathes intermingled together - entwining between each others, and circulating the air between you.

He was staring at you, mouth soft and reverent, like you were holy, like you were the word made flesh. "You're so beautiful," he sounded awestruck, kneading you so gently, thumbing your nipple through your nightdress, and he was actually killing you.

You never knew his hands on you could feel like this.

“M-Marcus, please,” you mewled - the desperation evident in your tone.

With Marcus living with you, sharing your room, bathroom, even bed; not to mention the fact that he was almost always practically glued to you, it was not often that you’ve had any alone time. Thus, it’s been a long, long time since you’ve had any sexual release. And Marcus walking around your room half naked with his glorious body certainly hadn’t made matters any easier.

Feeling the bulge of his clothed erection against your heated sex, your head lolled back and let out a deep, keening mewl, your hips grinding against his a little faster. Through the fabric of his pants, you could almost feel him: long, thick and pulsating with need.

For a fleeting moment, the thought of Marcus' cock flit through your mind - and just the thought had your core throbbing in tandem with his shaft. Because you weren’t prepared for what he feels like and you were dying to find out. Briefly, you wondered if he’ll fit inside you: he was much larger than you, there was no denying it, and just like the rest of him, his cock must be equally large. Nonetheless, the slight concern that strums through you is overshadowed by your lust-filled anticipation: your body wanted nothing more than for him to fill you up and stretch you out - in a way no one else could.

Or would.

Removing your nightdress, he breathed out, his gaze honing in on the way your breasts move with each breath of your lungs, the peaks standing erect and pert. Wasting no time, Marcus sweep his head down and took one of them in.

The moment his mouth enclosed around your nipple, you whimpered out his name - your hips bucking into his. Flicking his tongue out, he licked to the hardened bud; and reflexively, your fingers fisted more of his curls - his ministrations drawing soft mewls of pleasure from your lips. Smirking against your breast, he grazed his teeth against your nipple - lightly nibbling on it and licking again - and immediately, you felt your arousal trickle out of your core.

“Oh, mmm, M-Marcus,” you groaned - tugging his hair and pulling him closer into your breasts. Releasing your nipple with a wet sound, he turned to the second one before repeating his action. This time, however, his large hand finds its way to your neglected breast, and palming at the soft mound, you feel deft, calloused fingers tease your wet nipple.

Delicate fingers danced over the underside of your breast, his digits reverently roving over your flesh as his thumb toys with your nipple - the pad of it repetitively caressing the hardened nub. His ministrations are incredibly tender, and despite the ravenous desire that burns within your stomach, you find yourself letting out a soft sigh as you relished in the attention he lavish on your tits.

Thighs flexing, you thrust your pussy against him; the molten heat between your legs growing uncomfortable and too much to bear. With every surge of your hips, his hard cock brushed against your wet folds, the head teasing your neglected clit; but the material of his pants smooth - and you can’t create enough friction to alleviate the deep ache.

Hearing your moan was like an audible aphrodisiac given to him by the gods of fertility.

From that moment on, Marcus changed profoundly. His eyes burned with an intense hunger, radiating a carnal need as they roamed over your body. His hands, no longer gentle, moved with a fervor that reflected the awakening of deep thirst, yet they still conveyed an undercurrent of control, resisting the wild urge surging within him.

You felt that same fire coursing through you; nothing in your life had ever ignited such an all-consuming desire. Every fiber of your being pulsed with an exhilarating passion, deeper and more intense than anything you had experienced before. In a moment of urgency, you reached out with fervor, impatiently tugging at his pants and underwear. He chuckled softly, surrendering control to you, as if sensing your escalating hunger. Until that point, he had been gentle, almost teasingly slow, but now you could barely contain yourself. Gratitude mingled with an insatiable craving—you yearned for more. You wanted to cry out for him to be rougher, to unleash all his strength to claim you and have you completely.

And soon he did it.

“Gods above, woman, your beauty casting a spell over me,” he muttered; with his gaze still fixed onto your exposed folds, you couldn’t help the ripples of embarrassment that flitters through you. Turning bashful under his stare, you curled into yourself slightly and tried to close your legs. However, Marcus was having none of it, and immediately, the hand holding onto your thigh flexing, his grip turning firm and halting your movements. Meanwhile, his free hand moved from your thigh to brush against your dripping core. Dexterous fingers teased the outline of the soft, dewy petals of your sex, causing your timidness into wanton need once again.

“Marcus,” you moaned once again. Hearing his name, Marcus' brown eyes darkened and in instant, he surged forward - his lips pressing against your folds. "So soft," he whispered against your sensitive skin, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine and causing you to bite down on your lower lip hard in response.

Tongue sliding out, he finally ran it over the entirety of your pussy: circling around your throbbing clit, over the outline of your folds before he teased the twitching entrance of your pussy. When he lightly flicked the honeyed muscles that make up your cunt, you cried out in pleasure; your inner walls involuntarily clenched around the tip of his tongue. The motion caused a fresh wave of arousal to trickle from your core; the thick wetness bathing his tongue.

Your heady taste coated his taste buds, and lapping at your entrance once again, he let out a moan. It was better than he could have ever imagined. Skin flashing with heat, spikes of pleasure prickled at your flesh, causing you to rock your hips into his face - in a bid to get his tongue deeper within you. Nonetheless, Marcus continued teasing your entrance - delicately tracing the ring of muscles in long, repetitive circles.

With your hands reaching out, you sank them once more into his hair, and a moan escaped your lips that sounded almost like a soft sob. "Marcus, please," you pleaded.

Smirking, he responded, "Patience, my love, patience," as he hummed softly.

Slowly, you felt the digit sliding into your velvet depths, and with each inch that pushed into you, your walls contracting around his long and thick finger. Releasing your clit, Marcus hissed at the sensation, “I see you are so tight and sensitive Rosa. Allow me to make you ready for me.”  When the hilt of his finger hit your outer walls, he curled it - the motion causing your thighs to quiver as he stroked the sensitive zones inside of you.

Eyes rolling into the back of your skull, your hands tugged at his hair as your thighs shook: pure, unadulterated euphoria coursing through your veins.

Another finger teased at your entrance, before you feel him slip it into you - stretching you out wider. Crying out in pleasure, you bucked your hips into his mouth. Swirling his wet tongue, he licked at your inner walls - lapping, practically drinking in the wetness that seeps from your cunt. His amazing tongue moved deeply inside you; the muscle thrusting in and out as he fucked you with it, and every time it entered you. Pleasure burned deep in your abdomen, your stomach twisting and turning with every motion.

Thighs shaking on either side of his face, you felt your throat constrict as the knot inside your stomach begins tightening.

“Cum, Rosa. Cum for me,” he urged, one of his hands moving to lie flat on your abdomen as he pressed the thumb into your clit. Between the vibrations of his words reverberating through your cunt, and his thumb rolling your clit in small, tight circles, the coil inside your stomach suddenly snapped, and with a high-pitched mewl, you wailed out his name as you came.

Sheer, unbridled pleasure took you over; your blood boiling with euphoria as your body coming alive under the mind-blowing ecstasy he lavished upon you. Uncontrollably, your body began trembling, eyes rolling back as you cum around his mouth. Cunt contracting into a vice-like grip, your pussy forced both his fingers and tongue out of you, and instead, he moved his hands to grip your ass - his tongue lapping at your quivering entrance as you leaked into his mouth, your head spinning.

"So sweet," he praised. When your contractions begin slowing, your orgasm fading into light aftershocks of bliss, Marcus began pressing soft kisses to your clit, the tender action had you sighing.

Growing increasingly impatient, one of your hand curled around his shoulders, your fingers carding into his hair, whilst your other hand slipped between both your bodies. Fingers curling around his thick shaft, you gripped his cock. Feeling you stroke his length, your hand indolently palming at it as you silently awe at the size, Marcus hissed through his teeth. Gaze flicking up, you stared at him through the thick of your lashes, and despite the lazy, elated smile on your face, your eyes simmered with fervid desire, pad of your thumb skimming over the outline of his cock: where the head meets his length. Responsively, his length twitched, and repeating the motion, you pumped your fist over his impressive thickness.

With his gaze locked on yours, he gently ran his fingers through your hair. “Rosa, are you ready for me?” 

“What do you think?” you teased, licking your lips with anticipation, your core more than drenched and ready for his cock.

“Very well,” he smirked.

Unable to hold himself back any longer, Marcus' arms pulled you into his arms. Eyes widening, you felt him easily lifting you up - almost as if you were weightless - before maneuvering you both so you were sitting in his lap; your thighs on either side of his hips. Inhaling sharply, your hands move to hold onto his broad shoulders as you felt the tip of his head brushing against your folds; pleasure darting over your nerves as it grazing your clit.

Large hands found the cheeks of your ass, and effortlessly, he hoisted you over his cock - so the crown pressing against your leaking entrance. Sitting in his lap, you were suddenly made aware of how large he is. Of course, you’ve always known - because standing at six foot one, and built of strong muscle - he had never been small by any means.

“Remain very still,” he breathed out. That was the only warning you get, because all of a sudden, you felt him lowering you onto his cock - the bulbous crown pressing against your dripping opening.

Mouth falling open, your throat hitched as you let out a silent scream. Despite how incredibly wet you are, your cum still leaking out of your core and slicking the opening in your arousal, he still struggled to enter you - his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass as he attempted to force himself inside of you. There was an intense pressure against your cunt, your fingers delving further into the hard muscles of his shoulders, causing him hissing in response.

“Very tight,” he groaned, his sweet breath wafting over your face.

Whimpering, “And you’re fucking huge,” came your soughed response. As your back arched backward, he nestled his face into the curve of your neck while gently laying you back down on the bed.

"Sshh, calm yourself," he whispered to you ear. “I believe you are able to manage it, meum delicium.”

His words were soft, and affectionate, and yet, you couldn’t help but notice the authoritative inflexion to his words. Nonetheless, the dominance in them only turned you on further, and not wanting to disappoint, you sucked in a shaky breath before nodding.

And with just a simple thrust of his erection, you saw stars. “Oh, Marcus!” 

He growled in response and did it again. And you gasped again. His mouth trailed towards your neck, grip shifting across your back deliciously while his teeth left behind little imprints near your jaw.

His mark -he was marking you.

“Are you well?" he asked.

“I-I can take it,” you whimpered. Against your skin, you feel his lips twist into a smile, and puckering them, he lavished another kiss to the base of your throat.

“Good girl,” he murmured. Continuing his descent into your velvet depths, your breath turned laboured as his heavy intrusion continued entering you, your eyes futtered at the sensation and small whimpers slipped through your lips, and just as you wondered just how long he is - just because of how much he utterly opening you up for his cock - you felt him bottom out. Your entire cunt burnt with pleasure, and you let out choked sob.

“Are you well, Rosa?” he asked again, his nose nuzzling the corner of your jaw. Eyes slowly slipping open, you blinked out, momentarily wondering just when you’d shut them, before nodding.

“Y-yeah,” you barely muttered in response, your voice coming out hoarse. Taking his time, he showered your chest with tender kisses; his large palms rolling and kneading the fleshy cheeks of your ass simultaneously.

With his cock buried deep into your inner depths, and his chest pressed against yours - your soft curves moulding against his hard torso - Marcus was all you can feel. Periodically, his cock pulsated within you, the shaft throbbing in tandem to your own quivering cunt, and slowly, the pain of his stretching you to your limit fades away - until it almost entirely dissipates.

While you've experienced intimacy numerous times before, nothing could compare to this. There were countless occasions where you set aside your own desires, but Marcus was different—he skillfully attuned to your every need, ensuring you experienced an exhilarating wave of pleasure. It was as if he had unlocked hidden doors within you, revealing sensations that felt utterly new and intoxicating, leaving you breathless and marveling at the boundless depths of ecstasy you never knew existed.

You never expected a man from ancient time -a Roman General- to be so good at fucking you.

Maybe it was just for Marcus.

He was amazing.

Left with nothing but the delightful bliss of him splitting you open around his immense girth, you softly crooned. Experimentally, you clenched your cunt around his cock, and, “M-Move, please,” you urged, your hips writhing against him. Just as he did with you, you ran your tongue up his neck -wanting to taste him, swirling it around his pulse point before moving to the sensitive skin below his ear. Without hesitating, you nibbled at his flesh before sucking, hoping to visibly mark him. Your name left him in a moan, making you feel triumphant.

Feeling your tongue on his skin Marcus growled and took a hold of your thigh and wrapped them around his waist one at a time. He planted his hands on either side of your head and pressed his forehead against yours, melding his gaze with yours. Then he leaned down to quickly kiss you, capturing your bottom lip between his teeth and bite down hard enough to make you groan. Meanwhile, he was thrusting his hips backwards, slipping his length almost entirely out of you before slamming back in. His movements sent you over the edge. Tightening your grip around him, your sudden orgasm overtook you, a loud moan coming out of you, toes curling in delight. "S-Sorry," you murmured, giggling.

Marcus chuckled and asked. ”May I—" 

Understanding his unspoken request, you eagerly replied, "Yes, please, don’t stop," You were keen for him to continue, hoping for more.

He smirked and showered gentle kisses on your breasts, leaving the both of you wanting more.

He then set a brutal pace.

You couldn’t even move your hips to meet his thrusts; your legs wrapped around his waist put you at an angle where you have no choice but to take what he gave you. He grasped your ass and angled your hips upwards, forcing him deeper inside you. You could feel every delicious inch of him as he thrust into you, hitting your sweet spot with every surge forwards. He leaned forward, taking your legs with him, almost bending you in half, and captured your mouth with his. In comparison to the movement of his hips, the kiss was soft and gentle. The contrast made your head spin. You didn’t think there was a drug in this world that could give you the same effect.

You couldn’t believe you were close to having your third orgasm. You felt exhausted, at the same time, you didn’t want him to stop. You would happily let him fuck you until he split you open; even then, you’d probably beg for more.

You felt your slick down your thighs, creeping across your ass, and took less than a second to suspect there was a large stain forming on the sheets beneath you. But you were thrown out of that thought when a particularly hard slam of Marcus' hips had you screaming his name.

In your state of delirium, you didn’t feel Marcus spun you onto your stomach. He didn’t break the connection not even single second. He planted soft kisses all over your back, sensing that you were starting to lose control of your limbs and helped hoist you to your knees. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise. But you would welcome any bruise and mark he left on your body, you wouldn’t care.

A beautiful warmth enveloped you when Marcus bent forward, pressing his chest against your back. He reached for one of your hands and interlinked your fingers. You managed to find the energy to squeeze his hand. His thrusts were slow but incredibly deep at this angle, and you felt every inch of him inside you.

"I love you, Rosa,” he spoke low in your ear.

Turning your head to the side, you took your free hand and reached up to cup the side of his face, pressing as much of him against you as you can.

“I love you, too, Marcus.”

His hands returned to your hips as he straightened up behind you, squeezing your flesh; you gasped as your hips buck. A hand on your back forceing you lower into the bed, angling your ass higher.

He snapped his hips forward, contorting your body into an almost-uncomfortable position. Then, he thrusted in and out of you at a speed that should be impossible; you screamed his name over and over.

The sound of his skin slapping against yours, the rippling of your ass every time he went forward, and the sinful noise of his cock sliding in and out of you drag you higher. You felt yourself clenching around him once again, and if the noise that left him was any indication, he felt it too. And you felt it too-- he was close.

Suddenly, it hit you that you hadn't been taking your birth control pills for some time, and you realized you didn't have a condom on hand.

“Fuck,” you grunted. “I-“

A curse in his native tongue—Latin, though you’d never heard it before—slipped from his lips as he quickened his pace. His arm wrapped around you, almost leaving you breathless. Suddenly, without warning, your fourth and final orgasm hit you like a whirlwind, leaving you momentarily breathless and forgetting who you were. A few seconds later, Marcus moaned behind you, enjoying his own release. You could sense his ragged breath brushing against your cheek.

You felt your body melt into the sheets, your limbs too overstimulated to hold you. Then, you welcomed the warm weight of Marcus as he collapsed on top of you. He wiped your sweat-drenched hair off your face and smiled down at you.

You smiled back at him and he slowly pulled out, both of you let out low moans as his thick cock retreated out of your sensitive cunt, you felt his cum follow - trickling in thin rivers out of your slidely gaping entrance and down your ass. Feeling at the sensation, your walls involutarily clenched - in a poor attempt to keep as much of feeling inside you as possible - through, the movement only causing more of him to spill out, a vivid reminder of the passionate moment you had just shared.

It was absolutely exhilarating—an incredible rush of emotions— But as the initial bliss began to fade, a worry crept in: it hadn’t been protected sex.

Well it wasn’t his fault; how could he know? He was unaware of the modern methods.

“Meum corculum (my sweetheart),” he murmured, wrapping his arms around you, drawing you close to his chest. With your back to him, his nose nestled in your hair, you slowly drifted off to sleep, surrendering to the exhaustion that had taken over.

It would be a good idea to pick up the morning-after pill at the pharmacy tomorrow.

Yes, you should have.

At the same time, near the mansion.

a man sat in a black car, sending photographs from his phone to an email address. These were your images—taken at the airport, by the Tiber River, and outside your apartment building.

When the phone rang, he answered, glancing at the mansion silhouetted in the darkness. “Yes, I’ve been tracking her since she landed in Milan. The parchment is still with her. This time, we’re certain... It’s her,” he said.

Whatever the person on the other end of the line responded made him smirk. “Don’t worry; she’ll be on set for a meeting later this week, and then we’ll make our move,” he replied confidently before hanging up.

He then drove off into the night.

hope you enjoyed the chapter babies, thanks for reading ❤️ Your thoughts are important to me, so please share them with me.

taglist

The voice rips through the gray Seattle afternoon between ragged breaths as two men shove past abandoned cars, shoulders slamming hard enough into dented metal to shake loose fragments of broken glass.

Another gunshot cracks across the street.

Not close. Far. Sharp enough to split the city open.

The bullet tears past the first man’s head so close he feels the heat of it scrape his ear before it punches into the rusted hood beside him—

CLANG.

Sparks burst violently off metal. “Fuck!” he gasps, stumbling sideways.

Another shot. The second man’s head snaps backward in an explosion of blood and bone.

Red sprays across the survivor’s face.

For half a second the body keeps running. Then collapses violently against the pavement with a sick crack. The remaining man chokes on a scream.

“Aah— Jesus fucking Christ!”

He runs harder.

Adrenaline floods his legs so violently they barely feel attached to him anymore. His boots slam through puddles as he forces himself forward between abandoned FEDRA trucks swallowed by vines and collapsed barricades overtaken by moss.

Another shot cuts through the rain-heavy air. This one hits. The bullet punches straight through his thigh.

“AHH— FUCK!”

He drops instantly, shoulder smashing against wet asphalt hard enough to tear skin through his jacket. Pain detonates through his leg while blood spills hot between trembling fingers clawing desperately at the wound.

He tries dragging himself toward the nearest overturned truck.

Breathing too hard. Too loud. Too terrified.

He glances back.

His friend’s body lies twisted in the middle of the flooded street twenty feet away, rainwater slowly carrying diluted ribbons of blood toward a clogged drain.

Then—

Nothing. Silence. No third shot. The man’s chest heaves violently.

Why didn’t she kill me?

Shaking hands fumble at his torn pant leg, yanking the soaked fabric high enough to reveal the bullet wound shredding through the side of his thigh.

Clean shot. Missed the artery. Deliberate.

Then—

Footsteps. Soft against wet grass nearby.

Slow. Controlled. A revolver cocks. The metallic click echoes louder than the gunfire. The man jerks for the pistol holstered at his hip instinctively—

BANG.

The bullet tears straight through his hand. He screams.

The gun flies uselessly across the pavement as he throws himself backward in panic, scrambling away on elbows slick with blood and rainwater.

“You fuckin’ psycho bitch!” he screams hysterically, clutching his ruined hand against his chest. “I told you everythin’! What the fuck else do you want?!”

The footsteps stop. A figure emerges slowly through the drifting rain. Black jacket darkened by water. Sniper rifle hanging loose against your back. Expression cold enough to freeze blood. You crouch slowly in front of him and press the revolver against the center of his forehead.

The man’s breathing turns ragged instantly.

“Listen— listen to me, okay?” Blood bubbles faintly at the corner of his mouth as panic makes him speak too fast. “I swear to God we ain’t WLF anymore! We left! We’re headin’ south, alright? Santa Barbara! We told you where the hospital is! I wasn’t lyin’!”

Your eyes narrow slightly. No sympathy. No hesitation.

“You shot my fuckin’ dog.”

BANG.

The back of his skull bursts against the pavement. Silence crashes back over the street. Rain taps softly against abandoned cars. Thunder rolls somewhere far beyond the skyline. The faint ringing left behind by gunfire hums inside your ears. Without another glance toward the corpse, you holster the revolver. At your boots lies an unfolded map stained dark with rainwater and blood.

Earlier, while you questioned them, one of the Wolves managed slipping free from the zip ties around his wrists and bolted.

Taxi lunged before you could stop him. The gunshot came immediately after. Too fast. Too close. The bullet only grazed his front leg.

Lucky.

You crouch beside the map beneath the weak glow of your flashlight and study the markings carefully.

Hospital.

A rough circle near a cluster of taller buildings farther north. Your jaw tightens slightly. “Thirty miles,” you mutter quietly.

The map folds neatly before disappearing into your back pocket. Behind you, Taxi lets out a low whine. Your head turns instantly.

“There you are.”

The shepherd limps toward you through wet grass, ears tilted back slightly in annoyance more than pain.

You kneel beside him immediately, gently lifting the injured leg into your lap. “Hey.”

Your voice softens despite yourself. “What did we talk about, huh?”

Taxi huffs.

“You don’t throw yourself in front of bullets.”

He barks once.

You snort quietly while wrapping fresh bandages around the graze wound.

“I had it handled.” Another bark. Then a softer whine. “Yeah, yeah.” You lean down and press a kiss against the top of his head. “Good boy.” Taxi leans briefly into your shoulder before you stand again, slinging the rifle back across your shoulder.

“C’mon,” you murmur. “Let’s find somewhere to sleep.”

Your eyes drift toward Seattle looming against the storm-dark horizon. Huge. Silent. Waiting. “We move again tomorrow.”

Taxi barks once. Together, you walk past the cooling corpse left behind in the rain. Your boots splash through shallow puddles. Taxi’s paws thud softly beside you. Neither of you looks back.

The café sits dark between two collapsed storefronts, half-hidden behind overgrown ivy and years of rain damage. The faded sign overhead swings lazily in the wind. You stop across the street first.

Always across the street.

Your eyes move slowly over shattered windows, rooftop lines, alley entrances. Listening before moving. Watching before breathing.

Seattle feels wrong at night. Too quiet one second. Too alive the next.

Taxi stands beside your leg, ears twitching toward the dark building. “You smell somethin’?” you murmur.

The shepherd huffs softly but doesn’t growl.

Good enough.

You cross the street carefully, boots splashing through shallow rainwater before stopping beneath the old café awning. Rain drums softly against rotten canvas overhead.

The front door doesn’t budge at first.

Swollen wood. You shove your shoulder into it harder. The hinges groan.

Then the door finally jerks inward with a burst of stale air carrying old coffee, mildew, and wet dust.

Your flashlight cuts through darkness slowly.

Tables overturned. Broken mugs. A mold-covered pastry display near the counter. Dead vines crawl across one wall where rainwater leaks through cracked ceiling tiles.

Taxi slips inside first, paws silent against warped hardwood.

You wait. Listen. Nothing.

No clicking. No breathing. No shifting somewhere deep in the dark.

Still, your hand stays close to Joel’s revolver at your hip.

You slip inside the café quietly and pull the door shut behind you before dragging a rusted metal chair beneath the handle.

Not enough to stop somebody determined. Enough to buy you a few seconds.

Habit.

Your backpack drops beside the counter with a tired thud while you crouch near the entrance, pulling thin wire and two empty cans from one of the side pouches.

Taxi watches silently from the doorway.

You glance toward him briefly while tying the wire low across the handle. “Better find more of these tomorrow,” you mutter. “We’re officially running outta food.”

Taxi blinks once. “Yeah, don’t look at me like that. You eat more than I do.”

One of his ears twitches.

The cans clink softly together while you secure them beside the wall. Crude. Fast.

Enough to wake you if infected—or worse—wander inside during the night.

Only after that do you finally move deeper into the café. The beam of your flashlight catches an old employee sign hanging crooked near the kitchen entrance.

MANAGER

The office door sits half-open beyond it. Small room. No windows except one narrow pane overlooking the rain-soaked street outside. Rain taps steadily against the cracked window overlooking the street outside, the sound muffled beneath distant thunder rolling somewhere deep over Seattle.

Taxi limps in after you, nails clicking softly against warped hardwood.

Your flashlight beam moves across the room slowly.

Peeling wallpaper curls away from damp walls. Water stains spread dark across the ceiling above. An old chandelier hangs crooked overhead, half its glass bulbs shattered, long dead electrical wires spilling downward like black vines tangled through hanging ivy creeping in from the broken corner of the ceiling.

The whole place feels abandoned in a tired sort of way. Not violent. Just forgotten.

Your eyes land on the couch against the far wall. Dark leather. Old. Still intact somehow. “Well,” you mutter under your breath. You walk over and drag your palm across the top cushion first. Dust coats your skin immediately. You grimace faintly before smacking your hands together a few times, watching gray powder drift through the flashlight beam. “Jesus.”

Taxi huffs softly behind you.

“At least somebody around here’s clean.”

The shepherd blinks at you without remorse. You drop your backpack beside the couch before finally sitting down. The leather creaks beneath your weight. Then your eyebrows lift slightly. “Hm.” You lean back deeper into the cushions. “Actually kinda comfortable.”

The room answers only with the soft groaning of old pipes somewhere inside the walls.

Your gaze drifts toward the desk near the window. A little metal plaque still sits crooked near the edge beneath layers of dust.

LEONARD MITCHELL - GENERAL MANAGER

You stare at it for a second. “Nice office, Leonard.”

Taxi circles twice before climbing carefully onto one of the smaller armchairs nearby, turning until he finds a comfortable position despite the bandaged leg. He lets out a tired grunt before finally curling into himself.

Your mouth twitches faintly at the sight.

Then silence settles over the room. Heavy.

A leather couch rests against the far wall beneath dusty shelves stacked with old paperwork and mold-swollen binders. The room smells old.

Thunder rolls softly somewhere far outside while rain streaks down the office window in silver lines. For a moment, neither of you moves. The city groans around you. Old pipes. Distant wind. Something metallic banging somewhere far down the street. Seattle never really sleeps. Neither do you.

You finish wrapping Taxi’s leg before leaning back against the couch with a tired exhale. Your rifle rests within arm’s reach. Revolver beside your thigh. Knife still strapped near your boot. Taxi stares toward the office door, ears twitching sharply. You both listen. Nothing. Just distant movement somewhere outside. Far enough away. The sound fades slowly back into the storm. Taxi lowers his head first. You follow a second later. Neither of you fully relaxes. You doubt either of you remembers how anymore.

You lean your head back against the couch and stare upward. The ceiling above is cracked open in places, tangled electrical wires hanging loose between patches of water damage and creeping ivy. Rain leaks steadily somewhere deeper inside the café.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

You close your eyes for a second. And immediately think of him.

Of course you do.

Your chest tightens before you can stop it. This office—cold, damp, rotting around the edges—is so far away from the warmth of Jackson it almost feels unreal. So far from his bed. From the heavy warmth of his body pressed against yours beneath thick blankets. From the way his arms wrapped around your waist in his sleep like some stubborn instinct he couldn’t turn off even unconscious. From the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back. From the rough scrape of his beard against your shoulder. Even the occasional snoring that always dragged a laugh out of you eventually.

The corner of your mouth lifts before you can stop it. Then the smile fades just as quickly. A deep breath leaves your lungs.

You reach for your backpack beside the couch, unzipping it slowly. Metal clicks softly together inside. Ammo. Knives. Canned food. Taxi lifts his head again immediately, watching you with quiet attention like he already knows exactly what you’re looking for. Your fingers eventually find the sketchbook buried beneath everything else.

You hesitate for a second before opening it.

Joel stares back at you almost immediately.

A rough pencil sketch from Jackson. Then another. And another. The lines change slightly between pages—different expressions, different angles—but it’s always him.

Two weeks. That’s all it’s been. And somehow you already miss him enough it physically aches.

Your throat tightens. You stare at the drawings longer than you mean to. Unable to stop yourself from wondering what happened after you left. You tried not to think about it on the road. Tried not to imagine the morning after. Joel waking up. The empty side of the bed. The drugs wearing off. That look on his face when he realized.

You swallow hard.

The thought hits like a punch straight to the ribs.

You’ve never worried about people before. Except William. You’ve feared losing him before. Feared ending up alone again. But Joel... is different. Joel makes your chest hurt in ways bullets never could. Makes you understand why people in old movies ruined themselves for love.

The idea of breaking his heart somehow feels worse than breaking your own.

Your eyes burn, your heart clenching.

God.

So this is what loving someone feels like. Not the happiness part. You already knew that part. It’s him laughing quietly against your neck in bed. It’s his hand finding yours without thinking. It’s the way your body relaxes the second he walks into a room.

No—

This part. The ache. The fear. The terrifying realization that someone else now has the power to break your heart just by existing somewhere you can’t reach. Your gaze drops back toward the sketchbook. Joel’s face follows you everywhere now. You barely recognize yourself anymore because of it. You have something to lose now. Someone.

If this goes wrong… If you fail…

You may never hear his voice again. Never feel his arms around you again. Never see that tired little smile he gets when he looks at you like you’re something dangerous he decided to keep anyway.

A bark suddenly cuts through the silence.

You blink hard. Only then noticing the tear that slipped free and landed against the page. “Shit,” you mutter softly, wiping it away quickly.

Taxi climbs down from the chair immediately, limping over toward the couch.

“I know,” you whisper quietly. “I miss him too.”

Taxi rests his head against your knee. Your fingers slide automatically through the fur behind his ears.

“But I have to do this.”

The shepherd lifts one paw slowly onto your leg. You stare at him for a second. His eyes look strangely human sometimes in the dark. “You think I broke his heart?”

Taxi whines softly. Your chest tightens harder. “I couldn’t let him come with me.” Your voice turns quieter now. “Ellie needs him. Jackson needs him.” You swallow thickly. “And… maybe I just showed up and fucked that old man’s life all up.”

Taxi barks once immediately.

You let out a small breath through your nose. “Yeah. I know.” Your fingers continue stroking slowly through his fur. “He meant what he said.” Your voice nearly cracks. “But that’s not the problem.”

You stare down at Joel’s sketch again.

“Being the daughter of someone like Clouser feels like carrying rot around inside your chest.” Your jaw tightens faintly. “As long as he’s alive, I’m never gonna stop feeling it.”

Rain rattles softly against the broken windows outside.

“I can’t build a future with Joel while all this still exists.” Your eyes lower slowly. “Not while I keep lookin’ at Tommy, Maria… Dina, Jesse, Benji, Ellie…” Your throat tightens. “They deserve to feel safe around me.”

Silence stretches for a moment.

Then quieter: “I think…” You blink slowly. “I think I finally know what having a family feels like.” The words hurt to admit out loud. “And I can’t let him take that away from me.”

Taxi lifts his head and licks the side of your jaw suddenly. A weak laugh escapes you before you grab his muzzle gently. “Hey.” You rub your thumb along the bridge of his nose. “When I go back…” Your voice softens almost into a whisper. “I want my head clear.” Your fingers move slowly through his fur again. “Maybe then I’ll know how to be someone better. A better girlfriend.”

The word feels strange but warm.

“Assumin’ he forgives me.”

Taxi presses closer immediately.

You finally set the sketchbook aside before sliding down fully against the couch cushions, pulling him close against your side.

His fur still smells faintly like rainwater, old forest, dirt, and gunpowder. For years, that smell alone meant safety more than any human being ever could.

But now—

Now there’s another scent your body misses more.

Worn leather. Gun oil. Damp flannel dried near a fire. Sawdust caught in rough hands after long afternoons working wood in Jackson.

Him.

Your eyes drift slowly toward the cracked office window overhead. Beyond fractured glass and tangled ivy, the night sky barely peeks through Seattle’s storm clouds. A few weak stars flicker faintly between them.

You stare at them quietly.

And for the first time in years—

You make a wish.

Just one.

To see him again. To hear his voice again. To come back alive long enough to fall asleep in his arms one more time.

Your fingers tighten gently in Taxi’s fur.

Then slowly—

Exhaustion finally pulls you under.

Horse hooves echo hollow against cracked highway.

Slow now. Careful.

Joel keeps one hand near the reins while his eyes scan the massive quarantine wall rising through the rain ahead.

Seattle.

Even from a distance, the city feels wrong.

Too big. Too quiet.

Fog crawls low between abandoned checkpoints and collapsed military barricades swallowed whole by ivy and moss. Old FEDRA fencing stretches along the road in rusted lines, parts of it torn open long ago by something stronger than time.

Rain taps steadily against Joel’s jacket. The horse shifts uneasily beneath him the closer they get. “Easy,” Joel mutters quietly, patting its neck once.

Ahead, the massive outer gate hangs crooked on broken hinges, chains swaying softly in the wind. Faded quarantine warnings still cling to metal signs eaten away by rust. Across the center of the gate, someone has painted a message in massive white letters now streaked by rain and time:

WLF TRESPASSERS KILLED ON SIGHT

The dripping paint almost looks like bone beneath the gray Seattle sky.

Joel squints upward toward the walls towering over him.

Dead guard towers stare down empty streets. Or at least they look empty. Seattle reminds him too much of places where people disappear. His jaw tightens.

The horse carries him slowly through the open gate. Immediately the city swallows sound whole.

No birds. No distant voices.

Just rainwater dripping from collapsed buildings and the faint creaking of old structures somewhere deeper inside the streets ahead. Joel’s eyes move constantly.

Cars. Windows. Rooflines. Habit.

Then—

Something catches his attention near the mud alongside the road. Fresh tire tracks.

Joel pulls the horse to a stop instantly.

The tracks cut sharply through rainwater and dirt before disappearing farther into the city.

Fresh. Very fresh.

Joel slides down from the saddle with a grunt, crouching low beside them. WLF vehicle. His fingers brush against wet mud before his gaze shifts farther ahead.

Then he sees it.

An abandoned pickup truck half-crashed against a storefront farther down the street. “Shit.”

Joel stands quickly and moves toward it, boots splashing through puddles. The closer he gets, the more obvious it becomes. Bullet holes shred the side panels. One tire blown out. The gas tank leaking slowly beneath the truck into rainwater mixed with oil and blood.

Joel’s eyes narrow immediately.

Not random.

Forced stop.

His hand brushes against the hood. Still faintly warm beneath cold rain. “Goddamn…”

Then he notices the steering column hanging open beneath the wheel. Wires ripped loose. Hotwired. A humorless breath escapes him through his nose. “Course she did.”

His eyes drift across the street automatically. Searching. Reading. Tracking. Then he sees blood. Not much. Drops leading toward a nearby alley.

Joel follows carefully.

One hand already resting near the revolver—your revolver—on his hip. The alley opens into another ruined street farther ahead—

And that’s where he finds the bodies.

Three WLF soldiers sprawled across wet pavement. One near an overturned patrol truck. Another collapsed against a wall. The third barely recognizable anymore.

Joel slows immediately.

His stomach tightens. Rain runs steadily down the corpses, washing blood into the gutters. Then he notices the bites. Deep tears through exposed throat. Another through the forearm. Jagged canine marks.

Taxi.

Joel exhales slowly through his nose. “Attaboy.”

He crouches beside the nearest body carefully. Then spots the spent casing laying near the corpse. Joel picks it up between rough fingers, rolling it once against his palm.

Sniper round. Your sniper round.

One clean shot. Two heads. Straight through the glass.

Precise. Efficient. Smooth. Exactly your kind of work.

“Goddamn it, Kat,” Joel mutters quietly. “You can’t take ’em all down at once.”

He rises slowly, eyes scanning the street again. Unease settles heavier in his chest with every passing second. He plants both hands briefly against his hips, jaw tightening hard.

Ten straight days riding from Jackson. Ten days barely sleeping. Ten days chasing your ghost across half the damn country—

And still he’s late.

The bodies tell him immediately. Spacing. Angles. Timing. Experience never lies.

You’re ahead of him. One day at least. Maybe more.

Joel’s back screams when he straightens fully, exhaustion dragging through every muscle in his body, but he ignores it automatically. Pain barely registers anymore. Rain continues falling steadily around him while Seattle groans somewhere deeper ahead.

Waiting. Watching.

Joel stares toward the dark streets disappearing farther into the city. “Can’t be late,” he mutters quietly. More to himself than anyone else. “Gotta find her before it’s too damn late.”

Then he turns back toward the horse. And rides deeper into Seattle.

Morning comes gray and wet.

Not bright. Not warm. Just a thin, colorless light spreading over Seattle like the city is too tired to wake up properly.

Rain still clings to everything. Broken windows. Rusted signs. The hoods of abandoned cars. The sagging awnings over dead storefronts. Every surface shines dull and cold beneath the low sky.

You move north with Taxi at your side.

The hospital doesn’t appear right away. Nothing in this city gives itself up that easy.

The map says it should be somewhere ahead, past a mess of flooded streets and half-collapsed buildings, but Seattle keeps folding in on itself. Roads blocked by wreckage. Alleys choked with vines. Military barriers left behind like broken teeth.

And people.

Too many people.

By noon, you’ve already run into more WLF deserters than you expected. Small groups. Two here. Three there. Scared. Armed. Dirty. Running from something behind them and terrified of whatever might be ahead.

The first few don’t tell you much before they die.

The next group gives you the name you're looking for.

After that, you stop killing first.

You start listening.

That is how you end up crouched on the second floor of a half-collapsed building, one hand resting against Taxi’s neck while voices drift up from below.

The ground floor beneath you is split open in places, the concrete caved inward toward a lower level thick with spores. Pale fungal growth climbs the walls down there in swollen veins, pulsing through the damp like something still alive. The air below looks yellow in the weak light, heavy and ruined.

You keep Taxi close. No way in hell you’re taking him through that.

Below, four WLF soldiers move through the street, unaware of you above them. “What the hell is goin’ on?” one of them mutters. “This is what, the sixth group?”

“Sixth if you count the ones from yesterday.”

“Jesus.”

“Isaac made an example outta the last ones. Had ’em executed in front of everybody. Thought that’d be enough.”

“Guess it wasn’t.”

“It’s that fuckin’ doctor.”

Your whole body stills.

The man beside him lowers his voice. “Clouser?”

“Yeah. People don’t wanna stay and die for Scars or for some bullshit vaccine that ain’t ever gonna work.”

“Wasn’t the whole point of taking FEDRA down to build a liberation front?”

A bitter laugh. “Does this sound like liberation to you?”

“You sound like you’re about to run too.”

“Hey. You hear what he’s been doing to pregnant women? Kids?”

The silence that follows feels heavier than the rain.

“Rumors.”

“You sure about that?”

“Fuck.” Another voice exhales shakily. “Isaac should’ve killed that old bastard when he had the chance.”

“He still sending his A-team to the hospital?”

“Yeah. The ones he trusts.”

Rain taps softly against broken concrete overhead. Then another voice lowers slightly. “Hey… you know Jordan?”

“The Firefly guy?”

“Yeah. Him.” A pause. “Heard that immune girl everyone’s looking for? Supposedly she’s Clouser’s daughter.”

Silence. “…Bullshit.”

“And apparently she was with the other immune girl for a while. Somewhere in Wyoming.”

Your stomach tightens instantly.

“Word is Isaac’s planning to send a group out there soon.” The man snorts quietly. “Abby might lead it.”

“No fuckin’ way Isaac lets Abby leave Seattle right now.”

“Why the hell would she even care?”

A longer silence follows.

Then quietly: “That smuggler from Salt Lake? The one who killed all those Fireflies in the hospital?”

Your pulse stutters.

“He’s supposedly in that town too.”

Silence crashes over the group immediately afterward. Even from above, you can feel the tension shift.

“…That’s too much coincidence for my taste.”

“Think that crazy doctor’s making half this shit up.”

“Or that Jordan guy.”

“Alright, enough gossip.” Boots scrape concrete. “Get back to your posts and keep your eyes open.”

That is enough. More than enough.

Your grip tightens around the rifle. Taxi’s ears twitch. You glance down at him and press two fingers to your lips.

Stay.

He understands. You’ve taught him this too many times to count.

Stay unless you whistle.

Stay unless you scream.

Stay unless he sees you bleeding too much.

That last part is always the problem.

Because Taxi listens until fear takes over. And fear makes him stupidly brave. You point toward a patch of tall weeds and vines growing through a broken section of wall. He lowers himself reluctantly, still watching you. “Good boy,” you mouth.

Then you move.

Silent across the cracked upper floor, stepping over broken tiles and rotted office chairs, rifle raised. The building groans softly beneath your weight.

You line up the first shot from above. The suppressor does its job, but barely. A soft, ugly pop.

One soldier drops. The others turn too late.

Second shot.

Third.

Fourth.

Each one clean.

Each one fast.

By the time the last body hits the pavement, the street is quiet again except for rainfall and Taxi’s low breathing behind you.

You stay crouched for a moment, listening.

No infected. No returning fire. No shouting.

Good.

You climb down carefully. The air grows colder near the broken ground floor. Spores drift lazily below through the collapsed opening, glowing faintly where thin daylight touches them. The fungal growth along the walls looks old and thick, spread in rootlike patterns beneath peeling paint.

You avoid the edge. You’ve seen enough basements like that. You search the bodies quickly.

Ammo. A dull knife. Nothing useful.

Your last suppressor is already ruined, and the one currently screwed onto your pistol is close to useless. The metal is hot from overuse, the sound less clean than it should be.

One left after this.

One.

You’ll need to save it for something that matters.

You’re about to move on when you find a photograph in one of their jacket pockets. Not an old one. A fresh one. Instant film.

You hold it between two fingers and wipe rain off the glossy surface with your thumb.

A group of people smile back at you. Young. Tired. Alive.

Behind them rises a massive structure, round and crowded, with stands and lights and lines of people moving in the background.

A stadium.

Not a checkpoint. Not a small base. A real settlement.

Crowded. Organized.

You don’t know any of their faces. You don’t care to.

But the place itself matters.

You unfold your map and compare it quickly, marking distance with your thumb and eye. The stadium sits too far west to be your target.

The hospital is north. Far enough away from the stadium to make sense. Far enough to hide things.

You crouch beside a cracked wall, using a rusted pipe as a flat edge while you sketch a rough route across the paper. Streets. Blocks. Waterlogged underpasses you’ll avoid. Higher ground where possible.

Ten miles, maybe. Two hours if the roads don’t fight you. They will.

A burst of static crackles from one of the dead men’s radios. Taxi lifts his head instantly. You freeze.

“Cooper, you copy?” The voice is rough, irritated. Static. “Cooper? Linda? Come in.”

You stare at the radio. Taxi gives one sharp bark. You raise your hand. “Shh.”

The radio crackles again.

“Cooper, listen up. We found a deserter group wiped out near your last checkpoint. Clean shots. Somebody hunted ’em. Doesn’t look like Scars.”

Your jaw tightens. Yesterday’s bodies.

“Answer me, Cooper. Goddamn it. We’re coming to your position.”

Taxi growls. Not the low warning he gives for people.

Different. Deeper.

Your eyes flick to him immediately. That growl means infected. But then you hear it too. Not infected. Footsteps. Multiple. Close.

You move to the broken window and look down through hanging ivy.

Five people. Armed.

WLF.

And a dog.

“Shit,” you whisper. The dog has its nose low, pulling against the leash. Taxi’s lip curls. “So that’s what you smelled.”

Your mind works fast. Two exits. One dangerous. One worse.

The patrol is already too close. The dog will catch your scent any second. You crouch in front of Taxi and grip the fur at the sides of his neck gently, forcing his eyes to yours. “You stay in the grass,” you whisper. “I’ll pull them away.”

Taxi whines.

“No.” Your voice hardens. “You can’t come with me. I don’t have a damn gas mask for you, understand?”

Below, the WLF dog barks.

“Hey, what is it, boy?” one of the soldiers calls. Too close.

You point sharply toward the weeds leading along the collapsed wall. Taxi hesitates. “Go.”

He goes, but he hates it. You can see that in every line of him.

You drop low and begin crawling along the upper ledge, aiming for the vines that spill down toward the lower level. If you can get to the other side, maybe you can circle out before—

A snarl erupts behind you.

You twist just as the WLF dog lunges out of nowhere.

Too fast.

You barely throw yourself sideways before its teeth snap where your arm was. Then Taxi hits it like a damn wolf.

The two dogs crash into the floor in a violent tangle of teeth and muscle. “Taxi!” you hiss.

Too late. The WLF dog yelps as Taxi’s jaws lock around its throat. Voices explode below.

“Trespasser here!”

“No—Jesus, that’s Lenny! He's dead!”

“There’s another dog!”

“Shoot it! Shoot it!”

Taxi shakes once. The WLF dog goes limp. “Stay there!” you snap at him. “Goddamn it, stay!”

Gunfire tears into the wall beside you.

You dive behind a broken concrete partition as bullets chew through plaster overhead. Your heart slams against your ribs. One soldier breaks off toward Taxi. Another moves to flank you from the rear. The man behind you rounds the broken wall too fast.

You move faster.

You catch his wrist, twist, slam him chest-first into the concrete, and drag him back against you with your revolver shoved beneath his jaw. The others freeze the second they see you.

“Drop it!” one of them shouts.

Your hostage spits blood. “Shoot her!”

“Shut the fuck up,” you growl against his ear. You shift backward, dragging him with you toward the collapsed edge. Behind you, the lower floor waits.

Dark. Yellow. Thick with spores.

The woman in front stiffens. “Ari—no!”

Good.

That matters. That means they won’t shoot through him. You press the barrel harder under his jaw. “Back up,” you shout. “Or I paint the floor with his head.”

“You got nowhere to go,” another soldier says, weapon trained on you.

You understand what he means.

The spores. The drop. The infected below. No mask. No escape.

For them.

Not for you.

You tighten your grip on Ari and take one more step back.

He realizes a second too late. “No—no, we’ll both die!”

“Maybe,” you say.

Then you throw your weight backward.

The fall is short but brutal.

Air rips out of your lungs as you hit broken concrete and roll hard, dragging the man down with you. Dust and spores explode upward around you in a sick yellow cloud.

Above, voices scream.

“Ari!”

“Fuck!”

“No, no, no—”

You roll behind a collapsed support beam just as bullets cut into the ground where you landed. “Leah, stop!” someone yells. “You’ll die too! We don’t have masks!”

“I’m gonna kill that bitch!”

“She’s already dead! Come on!”

“Isaac’s orders—nobody goes into spore zones. You saw what happened to Ramirez!”

“Fuck!”

Bootsteps retreat above. You stay still until the last one fades. The spores hang thick around you. You inhale once through your nose.

Damp. Earthy. Rotten.

It tickles faintly. Nothing more. Like mildew in an old basement.

Ari is somewhere in the dark, coughing violently. “God…” he chokes between ragged breaths. “Goddamn…”

You glance toward the sound instinctively.

Then freeze. The wall behind him moves.

No. Not the wall.

Cordyceps.

Pale fungal shelves bloom across concrete and brick in thick layered growths, veins spreading outward like diseased roots through the entire lower floor. Some of it is old and dry, cracked apart like dead bark.

Some of it still glistens wet beneath your flashlight. Fresh. Breathing.

Bodies cling half-swallowed inside the growth. Arms. Ribcages. Open mouths permanently fused into the fungus climbing over them.

The entire building smells damp and rotten enough to taste.

Then—

Click.

Click-click-click-click.

Your blood runs cold instantly. The sound echoes from deeper inside the dark.

Clickers.

The explosion upstairs must’ve drawn them down here.

And now Ari’s coughing is doing the rest.

Another clicking cry bursts through the building.

Closer.

Wet fungal chatter bouncing sharply through concrete halls while something shifts rapidly in the dark ahead.

Ari hears it too. “No…” His breathing turns panicked immediately. “No no no—”

CLICKCLICKCLICKCLICK.

Another answers somewhere nearby. Then another. The entire lower level suddenly feels alive. Movement everywhere.

You crouch lower immediately, barely breathing while Ari drags himself backward across the floor, one ruined leg useless behind him.

“Please—” he gasps. “Please help m—”

The first clicker lunges. Fast as hell. Ari’s scream cuts violently short beneath tearing flesh and wet crunching bone.

You look away instantly. Not because you feel bad. Because he’s already dead.

More clicking erupts nearby. The feeding sounds alone are enough to turn your stomach. You lower yourself silently and begin backing away through the darkness instead, keeping low beneath hanging cords of fungus spreading across the ceiling. Slow. Controlled. One careful step after another.

Then—

CLICKCLICKCLICK.

A clicker jerks its head upward somewhere behind you. You freeze instantly while it listens, twitching sharply toward the noise. Then Ari’s dying screams echo deeper in the room and the infected bolts away from you immediately.

You exhale slowly through your nose.

Lucky. Very fucking lucky.

Keeping your flashlight lowered, you slip silently between collapsed cubicles while wet ripping sounds echo behind you. Bones snapping. Flesh tearing. You don’t look back once.

The faint glow of daylight finally appears ahead through thick hanging vines near a collapsed loading exit. Fresh air. Rain. Freedom.

You push through the overgrowth and stumble outside into the cold Seattle evening just as another horrible shriek erupts somewhere deep inside the building behind you.

The city air never smelled so good.

You suck in a breath.

The street is empty. Too empty.

“Taxi,” you call softly.

Nothing.

Your heart climbs straight into your throat. You whistle once. Sharp. Low. Still nothing. “Taxi.”

This time it comes out rougher. Panic starts crawling up the back of your neck while you scan every broken window and dark doorway around you.

No.

No, no, no—

“Taxi!”

Then a bark echoes from above.

You spin just as Taxi comes barreling down from the broken upper level through a sagging stairwell, ears back, tail low, alive.

Alive.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe.

You drop immediately, grabbing his face between both hands while he whines and pushes into you. You check him fast. Neck. Chest. Legs. No blood. No new wounds.

You exhale so hard it almost hurts. “Okay. Okay.” You press your forehead briefly to his. “You’re okay.”

Taxi licks your chin and a broken laugh slips out of you.

“Yeah, we definitely need to make you a gas mask.”

He barks once like he agrees.

You stand slowly, wiping rain and sweat from your face. Through the gap between buildings, beyond a broken bridge and the skeletons of old towers, you finally see it.

A distant building rising above the gray. Hospital lettering barely visible through the rain.

Your chest tightens.

There. Finally.

You take a long drink from your canteen before letting Taxi drink from your cupped hand too. “You ready?” you ask quietly.

He looks toward the hospital. Then back at you.

You sling the rifle over your shoulder and fold the map away. “We’re close. Let’s go.”

Seattle, Day Two.

Dusk settles over the city in bruised shades of blue and gray by the time you reach the hospital district. The rain weakens into a thin mist drifting between buildings, but Seattle still feels soaked through to the bone. Somewhere far off, gunfire rattles across distant streets before fading back into silence again.

The hospital rises above everything else. Massive. Cold. Its upper floors disappear into fog while floodlamps burn pale through rain-streaked windows below. Even from here it dominates the skyline like something watching the entire city.

Close enough to see. Still too damn far away.

Between you and the hospital stretch blocks of ruined streets, flooded intersections, and whatever the hell WLF has waiting in between. Too many lights. Too many guards.

You crouch behind an overturned bus with Taxi pressed close beside you, eyes moving carefully across the perimeter. Watchtowers. Patrol routes. Barricades. Armed Wolves everywhere.

“Jesus,” you mutter under your breath.

Taxi’s ears twitch.

Then—

A whistle echoes somewhere nearby. Sharp. Seraphites.

Your head snaps toward the sound instantly. Another whistle answers deeper in the street before shouting erupts.

“CONTACT!”

Gunfire explodes seconds later. WLF soldiers sprint across the street ahead while arrows whistle through the rain. One Wolf jerks backward with an arrow through his throat. Another drops seconds later. Chaos spreads fast.

Exactly what you need. Not to win. To disappear.

Your eyes lock onto a WLF transport truck sitting crooked near the curb thirty feet away. Driver dead. Engine still running. Headlights cutting pale beams through the mist.

Perfect.

You glance toward Taxi. He already looks ready. “We need that truck,” you mutter. Then you’re moving. You sprint low across rain-slick pavement while bullets crack somewhere behind you. The city erupts into noise around you— Wolves shouting, whistles answering back, glass shattering somewhere farther down the block.

You wrench the truck door open and climb inside fast. Taxi launches in beside you just as you slam the gear forward. The truck lurches violently. “C’mon, c’mon—”

Tires screech across flooded streets. Then somebody notices. “HEY!”

Gunfire slams into the truck immediately. The windshield spiderwebs near your shoulder. “Shit!”

You duck instinctively while jerking the wheel sideways around abandoned cars. Taxi barks wildly beside you every time the truck fishtails through standing water.

“Taxi, get the fuck down!” you shout over the engine. “Down, boy!”

He finally ducks lower as another engine roars somewhere behind you through the rain. They’re following.

You glance into the side mirror briefly—

And your stomach drops.

It’s them. Ari’s squad. The woman from earlier leans halfway out the passenger window with a rifle in her hands.

“That’s her!”

Gunfire erupts again. Bullets punch through the truck bed beside Taxi.

“Fuck—!”

You slam the wheel hard around a collapsed ambulance while the hospital looms closer between buildings. So close. Almost there—

Then headlights catch something too late.

A collapsed barricade stretches across the flooded street ahead.

“Shit.”

You wrench the wheel sideways but the truck clips the barricade hard enough to launch metal screaming across pavement before smashing broadside into a storefront.

The world snaps sideways. Glass explodes. Pain detonates through your shoulder. For a second all you hear is ringing.

Then Taxi barks. Loud. Panicked.

“I’m okay,” you choke out immediately, forcing yourself upright. Smoke curls from beneath the crushed hood outside while voices already close in.

“MOVE!” “THEY CRASHED!”

You kick the warped truck door open and force yourself out. Taxi jumps down beside you instantly. You grab your rifle and run toward the nearest half-open building entrance beneath a flickering neon sign drowned in vines.

You and Taxi disappear inside just as bullets rip through the doorway behind you.

Darkness swallows you whole.

The air changes immediately. Wet. Rotten. Wrong.

Your flashlight snaps on. Broken shelves and collapsed walls stretch endlessly ahead inside what used to be some kind of office building. Too quiet.

Your stomach tightens instantly.

“…shit.”

Taxi growls low beside you.

Then something moves. Fast. A shape darts between walls ahead before disappearing again.

Stalker.

Of fucking course.

One of the Wolves swings his flashlight toward the hallway just in time to catch two clickers sprinting straight at them through the dark. “FUCK THIS!”

Gunfire erupts instantly.

Muzzle flashes strobe violently across fungal walls while the infected slam into the group. One Wolf screams as a clicker tackles him sideways into broken office furniture.

Another fires wildly while backing toward the exit. “Pull back!”

A stalker explodes out of the darkness behind them. The scream that follows cuts brutally short. The remaining Wolves don’t hesitate after that. “GO GO GO!”

Boots thunder back toward the entrance while infected shrieks and wet tearing sounds swallow the lower floor behind them.

Your flashlight catches movement sprinting low across the ceiling beams overhead.

“Taxi!”

The shepherd lunges before you finish the word. A stalker crashes into him midair with a shriek. The two slam across the floor together in a snapping mess of teeth and claws.

You raise your rifle—

Another infected explodes out of the darkness straight at you. You barely get your knife up in time. The stalker slams you backward into the floor hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. Its fungal face twitches inches from yours, jaw snapping wildly while rotten saliva drips onto your sleeve.

“Get the fuck off me—!”

You jam the knife upward.

Miss.

The creature shrieks directly into your face. Somewhere deeper inside the building, gunfire mixes with screaming.

Taxi snarls viciously nearby.

The stalker pins your wrist harder against the floor—

Then suddenly—

BANG.

The infected jerks violently. Warm blood sprays across your throat. The body collapses instantly on top of you.

Dead.

For one second you can only hear your own breathing.

Then boots step into view beside your head. Worn leather darkened by rainwater steps into view beside you. Jeans soaked dark at the hems. Holster strapped low against his thigh.

One large hand gripping a revolver steady at his side—

Your revolver.

Your pulse stumbles instantly. Then you see the watch. Cracked glass. Worn leather strap.

His broken watch.

The one that never leaves his wrist.

Your breath catches so sharply it hurts. No. No fucking way. Your eyes lock onto his hand again. Calloused fingers. Faint scars across rough knuckles. You know that hand.

God, you know it.

That hand held your face like something precious. Fixed your weapons at the kitchen table late at night. Curled warm against your waist in bed. Your chest tightens so hard it almost hurts.

The man crouches immediately beside you, grabbing the dead stalker by the shoulder and hauling it off your body with a grunt.

Then flashlight beam finally cuts upward across his face.

Rough beard. Wet curls. Dark exhausted eyes already locked on yours like they’ve been searching for you for days. For a second your brain genuinely refuses to process it.

You just stare at him. Breathing hard.

Rainwater still dripping from his jacket onto the floor.

He looks tired. Older somehow. Terrified. Relieved. All at once.

Still unfairly handsome.

“…Joel?”

Your voice comes out barely above a whisper.

Another stalker scream echoes somewhere nearby.

Neither of you looks away.

Joel’s jaw tightens hard enough you see the muscle jump beneath wet stubble The stalker crashes into Joel so fast.

One second he’s crouched in front of you, rough hands hauling the dead infected off your body while rainwater drips from his curls onto your jacket—

The next—

Movement explodes out of the dark behind him. Fast. Too fast.

“Joel—!”

He twists instantly, revolver already snapping upward on instinct. Nothing. Just a hollow click.

Empty.

For the first time since you’ve known him, you actually see it—

Pure panic.

Not fear for himself.

For you.

Because the creature is already on him.

Its mouth opens wide enough you see strings of rotten saliva stretching between fungal-split teeth. Its face barely even looks human anymore beneath the blooming cordyceps splitting through skin and jawbone.

Joel shoves against it hard, but the stalker slams him backward into the wall before he can reload.

“Fuck—!”

Its teeth snap inches from his throat.

Joel’s forearm jams against its neck violently, muscles straining beneath soaked flannel while the infected screeches directly into his face.

The sound is horrible. Wet. Not human.

Taxi lunges across the room barking viciously, claws scraping across concrete as he tries to reach Joel. Your body moves before your brain does. You throw yourself into them. The impact knocks all three of you sideways.

The stalker turns instantly. Its jaws slam down around your forearm, just as you planned. Pain detonates through your entire body. “AHH— FUCK!” The scream tears itself out of your throat raw and sharp as teeth sink deep through muscle. You feel them puncture skin. Feel the pressure of its jaw locking harder the more you fight.

Warm blood floods instantly down your wrist.

Joel freezes. Actually freezes. His face drains of color so fast it terrifies you more than the bite itself.

“No—”

The word barely leaves him. The stalker thrashes violently against your arm, snarling through flesh still trapped between its teeth.

You could pull away. But you don't. Instead, you force your arm deeper.

Joel’s eyes widen in horror. “Kat, NO!”

Pain burns white-hot through your entire arm as the infected tears harder into flesh, fungal teeth sinking deeper with every violent jerk of its head. Taxi loses his mind somewhere beside you, barking viciously.

Joel lunges forward—

Too late.

You wrench the revolver upward with your free hand and jam the barrel directly against the side of the stalker’s head. Then pull the trigger.

BANG.

The gunshot explodes through the room. The bullet punches straight through fungal plates and skull with a sick wet crunch.

The creature spasms violently.

Its jaw clamps one final time around your arm before the body suddenly goes limp and collapses heavily against you.

Dead.

For half a second nobody moves. You can actually hear blood hitting the floor from your arm. Taxi keeps barking hysterically beside you. Then Joel grabs the infected and literally rips it off you hard enough the corpse slams against the wall nearby.

“Jesus Christ— Jesus fucking Christ—”

His voice sounds wrong. Shaking. Panicked.

You’ve heard Joel angry. You’ve heard him violent. You’ve heard him terrified.

But this?

This sounds like a man watching the world end all over again.

His hands grab your arm immediately. Too fast. Too rough. Then suddenly gentle the second he sees the damage. The bite already looks ugly. Deep punctures torn into flesh. Blood running between his fingers while fungal saliva mixes with rainwater across your skin.

Joel stares at it like he can somehow undo it if he looks hard enough. He’s not even looking at your face anymore.

Only the wound. Only the blood. Only the teeth marks.

He knows you’re immune.

But it doesn’t matter. Because watching something bite you still breaks something inside him instantly.

“Hey.” Your free hand catches his wrist hard enough to force his eyes back to yours. “Joel.”

His gaze snaps upward finally.

And God—

You’ve never seen him look this terrified before. Not even close.

“It’s okay,” you whisper quickly. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re fuckin’ not okay!”

The words crack out of him louder than intended. “You let it bite you,” he says, staring at you like he genuinely cannot understand what he just watched.

Your jaw tightens against another pulse of pain. “It was gonna get you.”

“So you let it tear into your goddamn arm?!”

“Yes!”

The word echoes harder than expected through the ruined building. Silence crashes down afterward except for both of your breathing.

Joel looks furious. Terrified. Completely shattered.

You swallow hard before quieter: “I knew it wouldn’t kill me.”

Joel’s expression twists instantly. “That ain’t the point. You think watchin’ that was supposed to be easier just because you can survive it?”

“I—”

More screeches erupt somewhere deeper inside the building.

Not one.

Several.

The sound bounces violently through dark hallways and collapsed floors, wet clicking mixed with the frantic shouts of WLF soldiers still trapped somewhere below. Joel’s head snaps toward the noise instantly. “Shit.”

Another scream echoes. Closer this time.

Taxi barks furiously beside you while the dead stalker’s blood continues dripping slowly from your bitten arm onto the floor. Joel grabs your wrist immediately. “We gotta move. Now.”

You stagger upright beside him, adrenaline barely drowning out the burning pulse ripping through your arm.

The building groans around all three of you.

Something crashes downstairs.

Then running. Fast running. Too many footsteps.

“Infected?” you ask breathlessly.

Joel reloads while already moving. “All of ‘em.”

That answers enough.

Taxi bolts ahead first as Joel shoves open a warped emergency door leading into another hallway thick with mold and water damage.

“Where are we going?!” you shout while running after him.

“My place ain’t far!”

You blink. “Your what?!”

“Keep runnin’!”

Another stalker bursts from a doorway ahead.

Joel fires before it fully reaches you.

BANG.

The infected folds violently against the wall. “Right!” Joel shouts. “Take the right!”

You skid around the corner hard enough your shoulder slams concrete.

The hallway opens toward a collapsed loading bay exposed to rain and fading evening light outside.

The sky has turned nearly black now.

Seattle after sunset feels less like a city and more like something alive waiting to swallow people whole. Taxi leaps through the broken opening first.

You follow immediately—

Then freeze.

A chain-link fence blocks most of the alley outside except for one narrow gap near the bottom where the metal has been bent upward. “Fuck.”

“Go!” Joel shouts behind you.

Gunfire erupts somewhere deeper inside the building. Then shrieking. Taxi squeezes through the gap first before spinning around barking wildly for you. You drop low and crawl after him just as Joel grabs the fence hard enough to yank the opening wider for you.

The metal tears loudly.

Your injured arm screams in protest while squeezing through. “Joel—!”

“I’m comin’, keep movin’!”

A runner crashes through the loading bay doorway behind him.

Then another.

Joel rips a molotov from his backpack, lights it without hesitation, and hurls it straight into the entrance.

Glass shatters. Fire erupts instantly.

The hallway behind him explodes into orange light and screaming infected. “GO!” he roars.

You don’t argue.

All three of you sprint through rain-dark alleyways while flames spread violently behind you, infected shrieks echoing through the burning building. Joel catches up fast despite the extra weight of his rifle and pack.

“Left!” he shouts over the rain. “Take the left!”

You follow him blindly through narrow streets flooded ankle-deep with rainwater. Taxi keeps pace beside you, breathing hard while distant gunfire and infected screams slowly fade farther behind.

Eventually—

Finally—

The noise dies. The city quiets again.

Joel slows near an old brick building squeezed between two collapsed storefronts. A faded neon saxophone still hangs crooked above the entrance.

JAZZ • LIVE MUSIC • COCKTAILS

Or at least that’s what’s left of the sign. Joel grabs the door handle first.

Locked.

He shoulders it once. Hard. The wood gives immediately. “Inside.”

You and Taxi slip in first while Joel slams the door shut behind all of you. Darkness swallows the room.

The beam of Joel’s flashlight cuts across overturned tables, dusty bottles behind the bar, ripped velvet booths, and a stage sitting abandoned beneath hanging lights coated in years of grime.

Then Joel immediately starts moving furniture.

Fast. Efficient. Like muscle memory.

He shoves a heavy cabinet against the door before dragging another beside it.

You bend forward, hands braced against your knees while trying to catch your breath. Rainwater drips steadily from your hair onto the floorboards below. Taxi pants nearby, ears still twitching toward distant sounds outside. You glance around the bar slowly.

“…I passed this place earlier,” you mutter between breaths. “Didn’t exactly scream safehouse.”

Joel grunts while forcing another chair beneath the door handle. “That’s ‘cause you think like a survivor.” He finally looks back at you briefly. “You gotta think like a smuggler.”

The corner of your mouth almost twitches despite everything.

Taxi finally relaxes enough to lie down beside one of the booths, though he still watches both of you carefully while licking rainwater from his fur.

Outside, thunder rolls softly over Seattle. Inside, everything suddenly feels too quiet.

You straighten slowly while pressing your palm against the bandage wrapped around your arm. The bite throbs beneath soaked fabric now. Hot. Sharp. “Joel,” you say quietly. “How did you find us?”

Taxi huffs softly at the sound of his name.

Joel completely ignores the question.

Instead, he walks straight toward you, grabs your uninjured arm gently but firmly, and guides you toward one of the old leather couches near the stage.

“Sit.”

“Joel—”

“Sit down.”

Something in his voice makes you listen.

You lower yourself onto the couch slowly while he drops his backpack onto the nearby table and kneels in front of you.

“Lemme see.”

The bite still bleeds slowly through the bandage. Joel pulls fresh gauze and alcohol from his pack with practiced hands.

Your eyes stay fixed on him while he works. The furrow between his brows deepens immediately the second he unwraps the blood-soaked cloth from your arm.

There it is. That line in his forehead. The one that only appears when he’s angry or worried enough it physically hurts him.

God.

You missed him. So fucking much. More than you allowed yourself to admit.

“This’ll hurt.” Joel pours alcohol over the wound.

“Wonderful.”

The second the liquid hits torn flesh, pain rips straight through your arm. “Ah— fuck—”

Your whole body tenses instantly while Joel grips your wrist tighter to steady you.

“Easy,” he mutters quietly.

You hiss through clenched teeth while he carefully cleans dried blood from around the bite marks. Your eyes drift across his face again. The concentration. The exhaustion beneath his eyes. The tension in his jaw. You wonder how many nights he hasn’t slept.

“You showed up at a pretty convenient time,” you breathe, still staring at him like he might disappear again. “How the hell did you even find us?”

Joel keeps wrapping the bandage.

Doesn’t answer.

There are a hundred other things you want to ask him too. How long has he been here? Did Ellie know? Was he hurt? Was he angry? Did he hate you for leaving? But after drugging him and disappearing in the middle of the night, asking those questions feels almost selfish somehow. So instead you ask the smallest one. The safest one.

“…Why are you here, Joel?”

This time he finally looks up. And the expression in his eyes makes your throat tighten instantly. Dark. Tired. Hurt.

“S’pose I’m the one oughta be askin’ questions.”

Silence stretches between you.

You glance away first. Joel doesn’t.

“How the hell do you hear every damn thing I tell you,” he says quietly, “and still leave anyway?”

Your jaw tightens. “Joel—”

“That stubbornness of yours real or you just enjoy makin’ me lose my goddamn mind?” His voice sharpens now. “You come here to kill yourself? Was that the plan?”

The words hit harder than expected. Because part of you knows he’s not completely wrong.

“I got close,” you argue quietly. “I’m almost done. Tomorrow I finish this.”

Joel lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Finish it how exactly?” He rises suddenly to his feet. “You see how many Wolves are out there? This ain’t a mission, darlin’, it’s a suicide note.”

“I’m not leaving without killing him.”

“Well you ain’t gettin’ the chance if you end up dead first!”

Taxi lifts his head immediately at the sharpness in Joel’s voice. You stand too fast. Pain flares through your arm but you ignore it. “What, you think I came all this way for nothing?!”

“Yes!” Joel explodes. “That’s exactly what I think!”

You stare at him in disbelief. Rain rattles softly against the windows behind him while the neon sign outside flickers weak blue light across his face. “You don’t understand.”

“No, YOU don’t understand!” Joel snaps back immediately. “If I hadn’t found you tonight you woulda died in there!”

“I saved you too!”

“That ain’t the damn point!”

His voice echoes through the empty jazz bar. Taxi whines softly from the couch. Joel runs one rough hand through soaked curls before pointing furiously toward your bandaged arm.

“You ain’t bulletproof, Kat! You ain’t immune to gettin’ your head blown off or blown apart or buried under some goddamn building!”

“I KNOW THAT!”

“Then why the hell are you actin’ like you got nothin’ left to lose?!”

Your breathing turns uneven instantly. “I always find a way.”

Joel stares at you for one long horrible second. Then suddenly he crosses the room and grabs both your arms hard enough to stop your pacing completely. “Goddamn it, Kat—” His voice breaks lower now. Rougher. Desperate. “Why don’t you get it?” His grip tightens. “Not everythin’ goes the way you planned.”

Your heartbeat stumbles.

“One mistake,” he whispers harshly. “One bad second and everythin’ falls apart. Why you runnin’ toward death like this, huh?” His jaw clenches hard. “You don’t think about yourself, fine. But do you ever think about what happens to me?”

Your lips part. Nothing comes out. So you look away instead.

“…Ellie needs you,” you whisper weakly. “If somethin’ happened to me, you’d still have—”

“Don’t.” His voice cuts straight through yours. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

You look back at him slowly. Joel’s eyes burn now. Actually burn.

“She ain’t you.”

The words hit like a punch. Joel breathes hard once through his nose before quieter now:

“You’re not Ellie to me.” He steps closer. So close you can feel warmth radiating from him despite the cold rain still clinging to his clothes. “You’re worse,” he mutters roughly. “So much goddamn worse.”

Your breath catches.

“Because I let myself love you.”

The confession lands heavy between both of you. Joel laughs once under his breath. Bitter. Broken.

“This stubborn old heart was finally startin’ to beat again and you just…” He shakes his head slightly. “You rip yourself outta my bed and disappear across the country like I’m supposed to survive that.”

Your throat tightens painfully. “I couldn’t let you get hurt.”

Joel stares at you like the words physically offend him.

“And what the hell you think happens to me if you die?”

Silence. Real silence this time.

Joel closes his eyes briefly before leaning forward until his forehead rests against yours. When he speaks again, his voice barely sounds steady anymore. “I told you about Sarah.” Your heart cracks quietly. “I told you exactly what losin’ somebody like that does to a man.” His nose brushes yours lightly when he exhales. “You’re there for me now.” The words melt something inside your chest instantly. “You understand?” he whispers. “Right fuckin' there.”

Your lips part softly.

Joel’s mouth hovers barely inches from yours now. Close enough that every breath mixes together. Close enough that thinking becomes impossible. You should keep arguing. You should push him away. Tell him to go back to Jackson. Tell him tomorrow changes nothing. But all you can think about is how badly you missed him. The smell of him. The warmth. The roughness in his voice. The way he says your name like it belongs to him. Your thighs tense unconsciously.

Joel notices immediately. Of course he does.

His eyes darken slightly while his hand slides from your arm to your waist slowly. Possessive. Careful.

Like he’s trying not to break under the weight of his own feelings.

“Listen to me,” he murmurs roughly. “I don’t give a damn about anybody or anything in this world the way I do you.” Your breath catches harder. “You hear me?” His fingers tighten slightly against your waist. “You got some kinda single-digit fuckin’ IQ or somethin’, huh? How many goddamn times do I gotta say it before it gets through that stubborn skull of yours?”

Your brows pull together immediately.

“Joel—”

“No.” His grip tightens when you try pulling back slightly. “No, you don’t get to pull that runaway bullshit and then stand there actin’ confused when I come after you.”

Heat flashes through your chest instantly.

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“Exactly!” Joel snaps. “That’s the damn problem!”

You turn your head away sharply, jaw tightening.

For half a second you almost step back.

Joel catches you immediately.

One rough hand locks around your waist and pulls you flush against him again before you can move an inch.

“You scare the livin’ shit outta me, Kat.”

The word comes out low. Dangerous. Desperate.

His forehead nearly touches yours now.

“You run into gunfights, infected, goddamn armies like your life don’t matter and it’s drivin’ me fuckin’ insane.”

Your pulse stumbles hard.

Joel’s jaw tightens once before he says the next part slower. Like he needs you to understand it this time. “You’re mine to lose sleep over now.”

Your breath catches sharply.

Joel’s eyes stay locked on yours.

Possessive. Furious. Completely wrecked by you. His hand slides tighter against your waist. “Mine to worry about. Mine to come look for. Mine to drag back alive if I gotta.”

Then he snaps. One hand grips your jaw. The other yanks you hard against him. And his mouth crashes into yours.

The kiss is brutal.

Desperate.

All teeth and heat and weeks of fear poured into one violent collision.

You gasp against his mouth immediately and Joel takes advantage instantly, kissing you deeper like he’s angry at you for making him miss you this badly.

Like he’s trying to punish himself and you at the same time.

His beard scrapes harsh against your skin while his fingers dig into your waist possessively enough to ache.

You clutch his soaked flannel automatically.

Joel groans low into your mouth the second you pull him closer.

The sound nearly destroys what little restraint you had left.

“Christ. Look what the hell you do to me,” he mutters against your lips before kissing you again harder somehow.

Raw. Messy. Needy.

Like neither of you fully believes the other is really here yet.

Joel kisses you like he’s trying to make up for every second you were gone. Like anger and relief and love have tangled together into something too big for him to hold quietly anymore.

Your back hits the edge of the old piano beside the stage with a dull thud.

Neither of you cares.

Rain fades into background noise beneath rough breathing, shifting clothes, and the scrape of calloused hands against soaked denim and flannel.

Joel’s fingers bury into your hair hard enough to tilt your head back while his mouth keeps finding yours again and again like he physically can’t stop once he starts.

You kiss him back just as desperately.

All the fear.

All the missing him.

All those nights alone in ruined buildings wishing he was there instead—

It all crashes out at once.

“Jesus…” Joel breathes against your lips, forehead pressing briefly to yours. “Missed you so goddamn much.”

The confession nearly breaks you.

Your fingers work shakily at the buttons of his flannel while he crowds closer between your legs.

“You weren’t supposed to come after me,” you whisper breathlessly, teasing despite yourself as you push the shirt from his shoulders.

Joel lets out a rough, humorless laugh against your mouth.

“Tough shit.”

His belt unfastens with a metallic clink.

Then he kisses you again before you can answer.

Harder this time.

Needier.

One large hand slides beneath your jacket, rough fingers spreading against the small of your back while the other grips your waist possessively enough to pull a soft sound from your throat.

Joel immediately catches it.

A dark smirk ghosts briefly across his face.

“Look at her now,” he mutters roughly against your mouth. “All needy.”

Heat rushes through your chest instantly.

“You keep makin’ sounds like that,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, “I’m gonna forget we’re supposed to be arguin’.” His thumb drags once along your cheek. “Real damn loud for somebody who left me.”

The words hit harder than they should.

Before you can answer, Joel’s hands find the zipper of your jacket instead.

He yanks it down impatiently.

Then your shirt follows, leaving you in nothing but your bra beneath the dim neon glow leaking through the rain-streaked windows.

Joel’s eyes drag over you slowly.

Hungry.

Overwhelmed.

Then his gaze catches on the fresh bandage around your arm. The softness disappears immediately. Joel leans down and presses a rough almost angry kiss against your forehead. “You scare the hell outta me,” he mutters. “Don’t pull that shit again.” Your hands slide over his bare chest, palms spreading across warm skin and tense muscle beneath your fingertips.

God.

You forgot how solid he feels. How warm. How safe. It almost hurts remembering it.

Joel exhales sharply the second you touch him. Then his hands are on you again. Touching like he physically can’t help it.

Your shirt snags briefly while he pulls it over your head one-handed before tossing it somewhere behind him without even looking.

His eyes move slowly across your skin afterward. “Christ,” he whispers quietly.

The way he says it sends heat straight through you.

Joel notices instantly.

That rough little smirk flickers again before something heavier replaces it.

His fingers brush lightly along your ribs before settling against your waist, thumbs hooking into your jeans and dragging them slowly down your legs. Cold air kisses exposed skin while rain taps softly against the windows outside.

“There she is,” Joel murmurs, voice low and wrecked as his hands settle against your thighs, holding you close. His kisses trailed to your neck and you gulped back a lustful sigh. He couldn’t know how much you were enjoying it. His fingers glided in between your folds, the vibrations already making you far too excited. He chuckled to himself, cupping you so your clit was between his fingers as he rubbed your heat. “She’s so fucking pretty and always ready for me,” he purred against your neck and you loved the excited rush his breath gave your skin. You yanked his hair pulling him back into another hungry kiss. His hands roamed your body, squeezing your soft spots, groping your ass, weaving his fingers through your hair, noting the places that made you squirm when he gave them attention. 

You started to retort but your knees dipped when he inserted a finger. His other hand reached around your back to hold you up and you moaned when he started to pump his fingers deep inside of you. Your hands slide up into his curls while his mouth moves against yours with enough care now to make your knees weaker than the violence of the first kiss ever could.

Taxi lifts his head from the couch nearby, ears twitching as he watches both of you pressed together beside the piano.

Joel notices immediately.

“C’mon, buddy,” he mutters roughly without taking his eyes and fingers off you. “Give us five goddamn minutes.”

Taxi huffs loudly from the couch. You grin softly against Joel’s mouth. “He’s protective,” you murmur, breathless. “Kinda reminds me of somebody.”

“Yeah? Smart dog then.”

“Smartest one around, actually. Shame he ended up with an idiot owner.”

Joel’s mouth twitches immediately. “Make that two idiots,” he murmurs.

Taxi barks once from the couch like he’s agreeing. You laugh softly. Joel points toward the dog without looking away from you. “Alright, smartass. Turn around.” Taxi lets out a dramatic huff before very pointedly turning his back to both of you and flopping back down onto the couch.

“How the hell do you just disappear on me,” he murmurs rough against your lips, his long finger curling inside you, “and take that pretty laugh with you too, huh?” You latch onto him, digging your nails into his arm, he exhales softly against your mouth. “Damn near forgot what it sounded like.” The vibrations shake through your core and curl low in your stomach, where a terrible and wonderful sensation begins to build, pulling a broken moan from your throat. “Yeah,” he mutters low against your lips. “Missed that too.”

With a grunt, he pulls his fingers out of you, still wet with your arousal, and presses them to his lips, sucking hungrily, almost angrily.

Then suddenly you’re in his arms.

Joel lifts you easily and lays you back against the old couch, one large hand settling against your waist as he leans over you. “‘M about two seconds away from losin’ what’s left of my damn self-control here.” One large hand slides up your thigh slowly before his dark eyes lock onto yours again. “So open wide for me, darlin’.”

You obey and spread your legs while he gets rid of his boxers and settles between your thighs. He leans down again and kisses you deeply. You wrap one hand around his dripping cock and squeeze softly, and simply feeling the way your grip trembles makes him weak. He can feel you smile against his mouth.

He drags his tongue across your lip and spreads your legs wider with his palm. He nibbles gently on your bottom lip, and you moan, arching against him.

He presses his swollen tip against your slick pussy and tries to still the swirling darkness inside him; he wants you, and he’s going to have you now and forever.

Even still, he feels anger clawing at the edges of his lust: anger that you left him like that, that you almost died, that you were so ready to sacrifice yourself for him and didn’t give a damn about dying so fearlessly.

Against all reason, he wants to punish you because you still don’t fully understand how much you mean to him, and because you’ve turned your immunity into an advantage, risking your life as if it were nothing. But he pushes those thoughts out of his mind.

He presses his fingers to your clit and teases you, and you moan against him, wrapping your legs around his hips, trying to urge him further. Exhaling quickly against your lips, he buries himself inside you in one smooth, severe stroke, and you cry out. You are so wet that the suddenness of it doesn’t sting, but the insistent burn and stretch inside you makes you shiver. He pulls back slightly to look into your eyes. From the way he looks down at you—like you are small and helpless and beloved, all for him—the realization makes his heart beat hard against his ribs and arouses him even further.

His next thrust is even harsher, and you dig your nails into his shoulders and writhe against him, wordlessly meeting his challenge. He grins darkly at you and fucks you in earnest, and the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the old jazz bar. He grunts with each thrust like he is exorcising something strange and wild, and you find yourself clutching at him with a ferocity that surprises you. You move against each other like animals desperate for release, but as your orgasm approaches, you realize he has no intention of finishing yet, even though he is struggling to hold back. When you grow insistent and press firmly against him each time he withdraws, he shakes his head at you like you are an insolent child. You whine and scratch his back, and he bites your shoulder where it meets your neck.

The couch shifts hard enough to bump against the wall, drawing a long suffering sigh from Taxi somewhere nearby.

Neither of you can help laughing softly at that. 

His gaze stops at your bra — the last piece still clinging to your body. He reaches with his large hand and unfastens it easily, grabbing your breasts possessively and burying his face between them.“Fuck, Joel, I’m—”

He crashes his mouth against yours before you can finish, swallowing the rest of your words as the kiss turns messy and desperate, teeth clashing briefly in the heat of it.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs roughly against your lips. “Jesus Christ… keep doin’ that and I ain’t gonna last.” He pulls back just enough to look at you before drawing you closer again, moving with a rhythm that grows rougher and more desperate the longer he kisses you. “Fuck… so goddamn tight, fuck, fuck. Feels too damn good.”

You scratch your nails down his back again as he finds that spot inside you once more. Joel sucks on your neck and uses the hand that isn’t holding yours to roughly pinch and twist your nipples.

“Right there,” you gasp softly, barely able to think anymore. “Joel… right there.”

He slams into you harder with every thrust, losing whatever control he had left the second he feels you falling apart beneath him.

Your moans break into desperate little sounds that only make him rougher, his forehead pressed against yours while he pushes his thick cock deep inside you. “That’s it,” he groans hoarsely. “Fuck, baby… just like that.” You cry out his name as pleasure crashes through you, your whole body trembling beneath him while your fingers clutch helplessly at his shoulders.

Joel watches you come apart with something almost feral in his expression, like the sight alone is enough to ruin him completely. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes shakily, gripping you tighter. “… gonna fuckin’ kill me one day.”

The way your walls squeeze him finally snaps the last thread holding him together, he grips the back of your head possessively and pulls you up into a searing kiss as he begins filling you up. His masculine groans are the sexiest sound you’ve ever heard—raw, rough, completely wrecked by you—and even if you hadn’t already been overwhelmed with pleasure, you know you’do anything just to hear them again.

By the time the both of you finally come down, exhaustion settles heavily into your bones. Your entire body still trembles from overstimulation, you feel him softening inside you, and without thinking, you cling closer to him — hooking one leg over his and wrapping an arm tightly around his waist while burying your face against his chest.

Joel lets out a tired breath and settles back against the couch with you tangled around him. One hand rests protectively over your arm while the other lazily twirls a strand of your hair around his finger. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, finally realizing how sweaty and completely spent both of you are. “Kat,” he murmurs quietly, fingertips tracing slow patterns against your skin. The softness in his voice makes you shiver more than anything else tonight. “Y’know I love you, right?”

Your eyes flutter half-shut as you look up at him. “I know,” you whisper back, voice rough and sleepy. Your fingers trace lazily across his chest. “Love you too, old man.”

A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth — soft enough that most people would miss it entirely. Then, reluctantly, Joel starts untangling himself from you.

“C’mon,” he mutters gently, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “Gotta clean you up before you pass out on me.”

Seattle, Day Three.

Joel wakes first. He doesn’t move right away. For a long moment he just lies there on the narrow couch with one arm wrapped tightly around your waist beneath the heavy wool blanket he’d found sometime during the night.

The thing had smelled like dust and old cedar when he shook it out upstairs near the storage room. Probably untouched for years. He remembers beating the hell out of it against the railing while muttering curses under his breath, trying to get enough dirt off it so you wouldn’t complain.

You still complained. Half asleep. Mumbling something about “old man nesting instincts.”

Joel almost smiles remembering it.

Now you sleep against his chest completely unaware, warm beneath the blanket, breathing slow and steady while Taxi snores softly nearby. Joel watches you quietly.

Your hair’s a mess. One cheek pressed against his shoulder. One leg tangled with his beneath the blanket. Peaceful. Too peaceful for somebody who spent the last several days fighting through Seattle like a damn one-woman apocalypse.

His fingers move carefully through your hair, brushing strands away from your face slowly enough not to wake you. Then his eyes drift downward.

And the softness in his expression changes immediately.

Bruises. Scratches. Old healing cuts layered beneath newer ones. Your shoulder carries a dark purple mark from rifle recoil, probably from firing that sniper nonstop for days. Your knuckles are split open in places. Another bruise blooms faintly along your ribs.

Joel’s jaw tightens quietly.

He’s seen bodies like this before. Survivors. People who lived too long outside walls. But seeing it on you feels different somehow. More personal. More infuriating.

His eyes stop at the bandage wrapped around your arm.

The bite.

Joel exhales slowly through his nose and looks back at your sleeping face. You were probably the strongest person he’d ever met. And that scared the hell out of him too.

He thinks about everything you survived before Jackson. Ten years outside. Fighting. Sleeping in ruins and abandoned cars and forests filled with infected. Your own father hunting you.

Your own father.

Joel still can’t wrap his mind around that part completely. His old man had been many things. Mean sometimes. Hard. But there had still been moments. A hand on the shoulder. A “good job, son.” Tiny things. Enough to know he’d been loved at least once growing up.

But you?

You learned young that love came with scalpels and cages and being hunted like an animal. And somehow you still came out capable of loving people anyway. Joel honestly doesn’t know how. Maybe he never will.

Taxi suddenly lets out a soft whine nearby. Joel glances over immediately. The shepherd lifts his head slightly from the floor, favoring his injured leg again.

“Hey,” Joel murmurs quietly. “Easy there.”

Carefully making sure not to wake you, Joel slips out from beneath the blanket and pulls his jeans back on before crouching beside Taxi.

“Lemme see it, boy.”

Taxi growls softly at first. Joel clicks his tongue.

“Shh. Relax, kiddo. Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

Taxi grumbles dramatically anyway. Joel snorts quietly.

“Yeah, yeah. You sound just like her.”

The wound isn’t terrible. Bullet graze. Angry-looking but clean. Joel pulls out antiseptic and carefully spreads ointment across the injury. Taxi flinches once.

“There ya go.” Joel scratches behind his ears afterward. “You did good lookin’ after her.”

Taxi’s tail thumps once against the floorboards.

“Hell,” Joel mutters quietly, “somebody had to.”

Taxi barks once like he fully agrees.

Joel laughs softly under his breath. “Yeah, well. That stubbornness rubbed off on you too apparently.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

Your sleepy voice makes Joel glance over immediately. You’re sitting upright now near the couch, pulling your shirt back on while watching both of them.

“Yeah?” Joel turns slightly toward you. “Dog’s almost as hardheaded as you are.” One corner of his mouth twitches faintly. “Guess crazy attracts crazy.”

You snort softly while stepping closer.

“How’s your arm?”

You notice immediately he avoids saying bite. Like the word itself pisses him off.

You flex your fingers carefully beneath the bandage. “Sore. Little throbbing. I’ll live.”

That does absolutely nothing for the look on Joel’s face.

“Lemme see.”

You hold your arm out without arguing this time. Joel unwraps the bandage slowly. His fingers shake slightly. You notice. He notices you noticing. Neither of you says anything about it.

The bite still looks ugly. Deep crescent punctures surrounded by bruising where the stalker’s jaw clamped down. But otherwise—

“No infection,” he mutters quietly, thumb brushing carefully near the wound. “No spreadin’. Nothin’.”

The awe in his voice almost sounds uncomfortable, like he’s rediscovering your immunity all over again.

You reach automatically for the knife lying nearby on the table. The second you angle it toward the bite— Joel catches your wrist hard.

“What’re you doin’?”

“If the mark’s still fresh, I can cut over it. Make it look like something else.”

Joel stares at you like you just suggested sawing your own arm off before immediately taking the knife away from you.

“You always this eager to carve yourself up?”

“It makes sense.”

He tosses the knife aside with a sharp look. “The bite’s deep enough already. Last thing you need’s an actual infection.”

You open your mouth to argue. Joel gives you a look. You close it again.

Satisfied, he starts rewrapping the bandage carefully before reaching into his bag and pulling out two cans of food.

“Eat somethin’.”

Your stomach betrays you instantly with a quiet growl. Joel hears it. Of course he does. A smug little look flashes across his face while he hands you the can.

“Knew it.”

You roll your eyes softly. “Don’t get cocky.”

Taxi suddenly perks up at the smell of food. Joel grabs another can from his bag, pops it open with his knife, and dumps the contents carefully onto a folded paper plate near the floor. “Found dog food near Seattle’s big ‘Fuck FEDRA’ gate.”

Taxi immediately starts eating.

You blink. “I checked there.”

Joel smirks slightly. “Yeah, well. Smuggler rule number one.” He settles back against the booth beside you. “There’s always another stash.”

You shake your head while eating a spoonful from your can.

“So…” you mutter thoughtfully between bites, “Joel Miller rescues us, patches us up, finds us shelter, feeds us…” Your eyes flick toward him. “Anything you can’t do?”

Joel looks at you over the rim of his coffee tin. “Convince you to come back to Jackson.”

“There it is,” you murmur.

“Damn right there it is.”

You stare down at your food for a second before quietly: “I can’t leave before this is finished.”

Joel exhales slowly through his nose. “Alright.” He nods once. “Then tell me the plan.”

You stare at him for a second like you’re waiting for the argument to come back. Joel shrugs one shoulder lightly.

“Pretty sure I could live another hundred damn years and still not win against that stubborn streak of yours.”

A faint tired smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“So I figured the next best thing is stickin’ around long enough to stop you from gettin’ yourself killed.”

His eyes meet yours then— steady and serious beneath the exhaustion.

“And help you finish this.”

You set the can aside and reach quickly for your backpack.

“Okay so—”

Joel steals the rest of your food while you’re distracted.

You whip your head toward him in disbelief. “Seriously?”

“You were done.”

“I was thinking.”

“You think better fed.”

You glare at him while he takes another completely unapologetic bite. Joel looks deeply unbothered for exactly two seconds before your expression finally cracks into genuine annoyance.

Then, with a quiet sigh like he’s dealing with the world’s grumpiest stray cat, he reaches into his backpack again.

“Relax, darlin’.”

He pulls out another can and tosses it into your lap. “Got another one.”

You look down at the label and immediately snort softly.

It’s actually your favorite.

“Wow,” you tease while turning the can in your hands, “that’s, like… suspiciously boyfriend behavior from you, Joel Miller.”

Joel immediately stops eating. Slowly lowers the spoon. “Take it back.”

You grin instantly. “What? Boyfriend?”

He exhales hard through his nose, already looking irritated in that deeply familiar way that only makes this funnier.

The second you laugh, Joel grabs your wrist and suddenly pulls you toward him hard enough that you let out a surprised noise, the can nearly slipping from your hands as you end up sprawled across his lap.

“Joel—”

“Y’know,” he mutters while leaning closer, one arm locking securely around your waist before you can even think about escaping, “I still think tying your stubborn ass to the back of my horse and draggin’ you back to Jackson’s a solid plan.”

“Wow.” You shake your head, grinning. “There’s the romance.”

Joel shakes his head under his breath before leaning closer suddenly, brushing a quick kiss against the tip of your nose.

“Romance,” he murmurs low while pulling back just slightly, “comes after we get your stubborn ass back to Jackson alive.”

“Deal,” you whisper.

Joel studies your face for another second like he’s trying to memorize it all over again before finally letting you slide reluctantly off his lap.

You settle back beside him while Joel reaches over to open your canned food for you. You lean forward and dig through your backpack before pulling out the stolen WLF radio.

“Let’s see what Seattle’s assholes are up to today.”

Joel’s entire posture sharpens instantly the second he sees it in your hands.

You twist the dial slowly. Static crackles loudly through the jazz bar.

“…patrol…” hissssss “…copy…” More static. You adjust it again. “…doctor…” You turn the dial carefully. The signal clears. “…repeat, Doctor Clouser’s requested package has been transferred to the hospital facility.”

Your stomach tightens instantly. Joel’s eyes lock onto yours.

Another voice answers through static: “Copy that, Ed. Use Route Six on your return. Scar activity’s spreadin’ east— avoid conflict if possible. And keep the lower quarantine level sealed. Doctor says nobody enters without clearance after last night’s incident.”

You and Joel stare at each other.

Hospital.

Confirmed.

The streets around the hospital feel dead in the wrong way. You move beside Joel through flooded streets littered with shell casings, broken arrows, and bodies left where they fell. WLF soldiers. Seraphites. Some so torn apart by infected it’s impossible to tell which side they belonged to anymore. Taxi walks ahead quietly now, ears twitching at every distant sound. The city smells like wet concrete, blood, mold, and smoke. Joel keeps his rifle raised while both of you move through the remains of another firefight. A burned-out military truck still smolders near the curb, its doors covered in bullet holes and dried blood. One entire wall nearby is painted black with huge dripping letters: FEEL HER LOVE. The words stretch across the brick wall in massive white paint, dripping down the rain-soaked surface beneath crude Seraphite symbols carved deep into the concrete.

But someone answered it. Down near the corner of the wall, sprayed violently in black paint over dried blood splatter, another message cuts across the white letters: FEEL THIS, BITCH. Below it, bodies are piled carelessly against the wall. Seraphites. You recognize them instantly from the rough dark cloaks hanging from torn limbs and rain-soaked rope belts still tied around waists. Some still clutch hammers and crude blades in stiff dead hands. The blood beneath them hasn’t fully washed away yet. Fresh enough that the rain still carries thin red streams slowly down the curb nearby. Your stomach twists slightly. “Those whistling assholes,” you mutter quietly while stepping around shattered glass and blood pooling near the curb. “Saw ’em gutting Wolves yesterday. Creepy fuckers.” Joel studies the hanging bodies for another second, jaw tightening slightly. “Yeah,” he mutters darkly. “Spent twenty years thinkin’ I’d already seen every kinda fucked up thing this world could turn people into.” You glance back toward the wall covered in blood and hanging corpses. “Then Seattle said hold my beer.” Joel actually laughs under his breath at that. Low. Brief. Real.

Then his expression hardens again as he scans the street ahead. “Everyone’s killin’ everybody,” he mutters. “Wolves, Scars… whole damn city’s at war.” His grip tightens slightly around the rifle. “Means we keep our heads down if we wanna make it to that hospital alive.” You glance toward the massive building looming farther ahead between flooded streets and collapsed apartments. “Front entrance probably crawling with Wolves anyway.” “Yeah.” Joel immediately turns away from the open street. “Too exposed.” He gestures with the rifle toward a row of half-collapsed buildings running parallel to the hospital district. “We circle around. Stay off the main roads. Maintenance tunnels, supply docks, rooftops… there’s always another way in.” You nod once and pull your hood lower against the rain. Taxi falls quietly into step beside both of you as you disappear deeper into the ruined side streets surrounding the hospital.

The hospital finally comes fully into view between buildings ahead. Massive. Concrete gray against the dark sky. Floodlights glow faintly near the lower levels while fog drifts around upper floors. So close now. Your hand automatically drops to the revolver holstered at your side. Your thumb brushes the worn grip while you pull the cylinder open and reload quietly. “Joel.” “Hm?” You hesitate. Which already tells him this matters.

Rain drips softly from broken signs overhead while Taxi pauses ahead to sniff cautiously near abandoned cars. You finally look at Joel. “I know leavin’ was selfish.” Joel stills slightly but says nothing. You swallow once. “It wasn’t just for me.” His eyes lift fully now. “It was for us.” The words feel strange out loud. Too vulnerable. Too honest. You look back down at the revolver while continuing quietly: “You and me. Future Days and all that shit.” A weak breath escapes you. “Before Jackson I never even let myself imagine havin’ somethin’ like that. Then I met you and suddenly…” Joel’s mouth slowly curves into the faintest smug smile. “Suddenly what, darlin’?” You roll your eyes instantly. “Don’t--” Joel’s grin grows slightly. “C’mon now. Wanna hear this part.” You glare at him briefly. Then finally sigh. “…I fell in love with you, alright?” you mutter. “There. Happy?” Joel looks devastatingly pleased with himself. “Little bit.” You shake your head while fighting a smile. Then your expression softens again. “I just wanted peace for once.” Your thumb traces the revolver grip absently. “Wanted somethin’ that actually belonged to me.” Joel watches you quietly for a long moment. Then he lowers his rifle and steps closer. “C’mere.” Before you can react, one arm hooks around your waist and pulls you firmly against him. The revolver remains loosely in your hand while Joel wraps both arms around you tightly beneath your jacket. “I know,” he murmurs against your hair. Joel pulls back just enough to look down at you. “But Christ, baby…” His thumb brushes your cheek. “Wish you hadn’t disappeared after I told you I’d help.” Guilt flickers sharply through your stomach. “I know. When we get back,” you whisper softly, “I’ll fix your heart.” Joel snorts. “Baby, you got yourself one hell of a fixer-upper.” “Maybe you can teach me."

Joel raises an eyebrow slightly. “Teach you what?” “How to fix old things. Worked pretty well with the guitar.” “Yeah?” he murmurs low. “Guess you’re a fast learner.” "Fuck yeah, I am." Your chest hurts from loving him. And that realization terrifies you a little. Joel squeezes your waist once before both of you continue moving again toward the hospital. Closer now. Too close. The streets gradually grow quieter the farther you go. No patrols. No distant shouting. No gunfire. Nothing. Joel slows first. You feel it too. The wrongness. You glance toward him. “…You feel that?” Joel nods once slowly. “Too quiet.” His grip tightens slightly around the rifle. “Don’t like it.” Neither do you. According to the radio traffic earlier, the area around the hospital should’ve been crawling with Wolves. Instead the streets feel abandoned. “We keep goin’ straight, we’re too exposed."

His eyes move toward the buildings lining the side streets near the hospital perimeter. “We circle around back first. Figure out where they got people stationed before we get anywhere near that place.” You nod, but Taxi suddenly growls low. Joel immediately raises the rifle scope. “Runner.” He points slightly right. “Two of ‘em.” You spot movement on the left side too. "There’s more over there.” Taxi suddenly bolts forward. “No— Taxi, wait!” The shepherd ignores you completely and charges ahead. You immediately move after him. Joel grabs your arm hard. “Kat— stop!” “What—” “Trap.” Your eyes drop instantly. Thin wire stretches low across the street between two wrecked cars. Shit. A runner slams into it first. BOOM. The explosion detonates loud enough to shake nearby windows. Fire and smoke erupt across the street while the infected body tears apart midair. Taxi yelps painfully as the shockwave throws him sideways onto wet pavement. “Taxi!" You rip free from Joel immediately. “NO!” Joel curses sharply behind you. Gunfire erupts the second you move. Not one shot. Several. “NOW!” someone yells from somewhere above. Fuck. Bullets slam into the pavement around your feet. Too close. Too precise. Joel fires back instantly. “Kat, NO!” But you’re already sliding across the pavement toward Taxi. The dog whines sharply on the ground, dazed and limping. “I got you,” you breathe quickly while reaching for him. More gunfire cracks overhead. But then— You realize something. They aren’t aiming at you. Every bullet hits beside you. Near your boots. Not kill shots. Joel notices too immediately from behind cover. “What the fuck…” Taxi struggles weakly beneath your hands while you kneel exposed in the middle of the street. Then a voice cuts through the chaos. Your real name. The name almost nobody alive still knows. You freeze. Cold spreads through your chest instantly.

Only two people ever called you that anymore. Slowly— You turn. Figures emerge near the hospital barricades ahead beneath floodlights. Armed Wolves surrounding them. And there— Him. Even from this distance you’d know that face anywhere. The same calm eyes. The same awful smile. Your stomach drops violently. “we were expecting you." he said "we" like.. pointedly… The world narrows instantly. Then you see another figure beside him. Bruised. Restrained. Gun pressed against his head. William. Your breath leaves your lungs. “…William.” Joel’s expression changes immediately the second he understands. This wasn’t coincidence. This wasn’t random. They were waiting. “Drop your weapon!” another Wolf shouts. Clouser smiles wider. “You came all this way for him, didn’t you?” His hand tightens against William’s shoulder possessively. “See? Here he is.” William’s eyes meet yours from across the street.

And suddenly for one horrible second you feel like you were little girl again. “Come now, sweetheart,” Clouser calls smoothly. “Wouldn’t want him dying before your reunion.” Joel’s rifle rises instantly. “Kat,” he says sharply. “Get your ass back here. I’ll cover you.” But you barely hear him anymore. Your heartbeat pounds too loud. William. Alive. Your eyes flick toward Taxi lying injured beside you. Then toward Joel behind cover. Then back toward Clouser. One shot. That’s all it would take. You’ve made harder shots before. Much harder. Your hand slowly drifts toward the revolver at your back. Joel sees it instantly. His expression changes immediately. “No.” You barely hear him. The world tunnels. One target. One bullet. One chance. You draw the revolver in one impossibly fast motion and fire. BANG. The bullet tears straight through Clouser’s head— Or almost. The shot hits the side of his skull violently, ripping through his ear and grazing along his temple instead of killing him outright. Blood sprays. Clouser collapses sideways screaming. Chaos erupts instantly. You almost laugh from the sheer rush of seeing him finally bleed— Then another shot slams through your shoulder hard enough to spin you backward onto the pavement. Pain explodes white-hot across your body. Joel’s voice roars somewhere distant. Gunfire erupts everywhere now. Joel immediately returns fire from cover, dropping one Wolf before being forced back behind concrete barriers under heavy fire. But even through the pain he sees you move. Still alive. Still conscious. Thank God. Clouser screams furiously from the ground while Wolves scramble around him. “STOP SHOOTING, YOU FUCKING IDIOTS!” Blood pours down the side of his face while medics drag him partially upright. “WE NEED HER ALIVE!” Your revolver skids across wet pavement out of reach. You lunge for it— Too slow. Three Wolves hit you at once.

You slam one in the stomach with your elbow hard enough to fold him in half before kicking another directly off you. But there are too many. Hands grab your wrists. Your legs. One Wolf twists your injured shoulder hard enough to force a cry from your throat. Joel immediately rises again from cover. “GET THE FUCK OFF HER!” He drops another Wolf with a headshot before bullets force him back again. Taxi snarls viciously from the ground, dragging himself toward you despite the pain tearing through his injured leg. “Hold her down!”

A Wolf slams your arms painfully behind your back while another drives your knees hard into the pavement. Zip ties cinch brutally tight around your wrists. You fight anyway. Thrashing. Kicking. Spitting curses through gritted teeth while they struggle to pin you properly. One soldier catches your boot directly across the face with a sharp crack. “Fuck—!” “Hold her still!” “Watch her hands!” Too fast. You waited too long.Should’ve moved faster.Should’ve had a better plan. Then rough hands yank you violently upright. Your boots drag through rainwater while Wolves force you across the flooded street toward him. Clouser’s eyes finally shift toward you. A faint smile twists across his mouth. Blood runs down the side of his face while rainwater drips steadily from his ruined coat. “…There she is.” Your stomach turns violently. “All those years hiding,” he murmurs. His eyes drag slowly over your face. “Just to walk yourself right back where you belong." “Fuck you!” You lunge toward him instantly. The Wolves wrench you back hard enough pain tears through your shoulders. “Easy!” “Hold her!” Clouser barely reacts. “Take her inside.” “No!” You twist violently again, panic flashing hotter now the second you realize what that means. “Get the fuck off me!” Then your eyes snap past them. “Joel!” Clouser pauses. His expression shifts slightly at the name. Slowly, his eyes drift past you toward the gunfire beyond the barricades. Toward Joel. Joel sees only you. “Kat!” And something inside him snaps completely.

He rises from cover without hesitation and opens fire again. One Wolf drops instantly. Another barely ducks behind a barricade before bullets rip apart the concrete beside his head. But there are too many. Gunfire explodes from three directions at once, forcing him back behind the ruined ambulance near the curb. Taxi barks frantically through the chaos, still trying to crawl toward you. Joel tries again anyway. Of course he does. The second he breaks cover, two Wolves rush him from the side. One slams into his ribs hard enough to drive him sideways into the wall while another hooks his rifle away violently. Joel elbows the first man directly in the throat. The second gets his nose shattered against Joel’s forehead. Then another Wolf grabs him from behind— Joel throws him over his shoulder hard enough to crack concrete— But someone finally jams a rifle against the back of his knee. “DOWN!” The shot doesn’t fire.

Instead the force behind it kicks Joel’s leg out from under him and drives him heavily onto one knee. Three rifles snap toward his head instantly. One pressed directly against his temple. Joel’s chest heaves violently as rain pours down his face. Still fighting. Still trying to look past them toward you. “Taxi!” he shouts hoarsely. The shepherd answers with another desperate bark somewhere nearby. One Wolf glances toward the injured dog lying near the street. “You want me to kill it?” he asks coldly. Clouser presses a blood-soaked cloth tighter against the ruined side of his head while staggering closer through the rain. “Leave it,” he rasps. “Thing’s practically dead already.” Taxi growls weakly anyway. Joel’s entire body tenses violently at the words. Then Clouser finally stops in front of him. Really looks at him. Recognition flickers slowly across his face beneath the blood. “…Well.” Rain drips steadily from his chin while he studies Joel almost curiously. “You’re Joel Miller.” Joel says nothing. His jaw clenches hard enough to twitch. Clouser lets out a faint disbelieving laugh through the pain. “Hm.” He shakes his head slightly. “Funny.” His ruined ear leaves blood running down his neck. “All this way…” His eyes darken. “Just to walk into your own execution.” Joel barely even processes the words. Doesn’t care. The only thing he’s still looking for is you. One of the Wolves glances toward Clouser questioningly. Clouser gives a small nod.

“If you touch her, I swear to God I’ll—” The rifle butt slams violently into the side of Joel’s head. Pain explodes white behind his eyes. Darkness swallows the rest of the sentence whole.

please don't forget that your thoughts and feelings about this story matter deeply to me so please share them with me. Thank you for being here. 💋

taglist : @kluvspedro @balhoneysweetstuff @lailathepedritofan @mirandablue1 @mariiearty @soupiemeowmeow @lamartell @berriesarepunk @demuresfangirlblog @rh1nestonecowg1rl @catofash @shinsegismylove @damnedcinderella @ultra-nina-bella @orcasoul @kaliispunk @sunfairyy @lovesbysblog @faith-alons26 @mellymbee @brittmb115 @anothergojostan @tpwk9740 @daydream-believer19 @yawnzzzzzzzz @pedroslut4eva @queenofodds @blackborndue @jisungandpedrolover @giulia1989ts @missladym1981 @a-girl-who-thinks-too-much @madnessofadaydreamer @marauvderss @mystickittytaco @bueschibaby @theanxietyqueen17 @smvtwitchmiller @picketniffler @iveofficiallylostmymarbles

I started this chapter like, aw Joel is probably worried, that poor old man coming right after his stubborn ass gf ahhh...

First of all, Seattle was beating EVERYBODY'S ass. WLF? Getting cooked. Infected? Getting cooked. Random deserters? Getting cooked. SOOOO TLOU 2 CODED!!!!! The city itself felt like it wanted everybody dead and somehow Kat still woke up every morning like alright let's go make worse decisions...

And Joel??? Oh my GOD.

And what the hell you think happens to me if you die?

SIR.

SIR???

I had to put my phone down and stare at a wall for a minute.

Then you followed it with:

She ain’t you.

OH SO WE'RE JUST STABBING PEOPLE NOW???

And don't even get me STARTED on

You’re mine to lose sleep over now.

Your Honor, I'd like to report a crime.

Because the thing is, THIS is why your Joel works so well. He doesn't suddenly turn into some smooth romance novel boyfriend. He's still grumpy. Still bossy. Still acting like everybody around him is stupid. He's just deeply, catastrophically, embarrassingly in love and handling it VERY poorly..

The whole chapter had me screaming because every time we switched to Joel's POV I was like HE'S GETTING CLOSER!!! and every time we switched back to Kat she was either getting shot at, chased, bitten, blown up, almost eaten, or making another life-changingly terrible decision.

And Joel finding her RIGHT before she got herself killed???

I CHEERED.

I ACTUALLY CHEERED.

Also can we talk about the fact this man followed her across the damn country and then had the AUDACITY to be mad when he found her??? That's so Joel Miller coded I can't even explain it.

And Taxi??? My sweet unemployed king??? My emotional support German shepherd??? Give him a treat. Give him twenty treats.

Anyway. Fantastic chapter. Incredible atmosphere. Incredible tension. Incredible Joel characterization. I laughed, I stressed, I got emotionally damaged, I got attacked by about fourteen different lines of dialogue.

10/10 experience.

‘Mrs. Castillo.’ The name felt new. Bright. Electric. And for the first time, it felt like it belonged to you. Naturally. You were his. And he was, irrevocably, yours.

You could hear it in their voices — the lift, the thrill, the barely-contained excitement. They weren’t just documenting a wedding. They were capturing a headline. Queen becomes Mrs. Castillo. There was something almost celebratory in the way they said it — as if they were witnessing the coronation of a new era, eager to be the first to frame it, to freeze it, to own the image of the moment your name changed. Harry’s hand rested firmly at your waist, steadying you as your heel caught slightly on the edge of your gown. He didn’t even look down — he just tightened his grip, instinctive, protective. His thumb brushed once against your hip. Richard stood tall near the columns, pride worn like armor. Scarlet beside him, poised and luminous, watching you like a general who had orchestrated a flawless campaign. Farther back — just beyond the reach of cameras — Eduardo observed in cold stillness. Expression unreadable. Detached. Yet standing there as if this were somehow his triumph too. Vivienne stood with Sienna — barely eighteen, wide-eyed and elegant in pale blue — her hand wrapped protectively around her daughter’s. Her eyes were shining. Composed, but soft. Mikey leaned toward a reporter and muttered something inappropriate enough to make you choke back a laugh.

You turned your head slightly toward your husband. He wasn’t looking at the cameras. He was looking at you. And for a second, the entire lobby blurred.

“Mrs. Castillo. I’ve heard that name all my life,” he murmured, barely moving his lips. His gaze dragged over you — veil, silk, skin. “But on you,” he said quietly, “it sounds different. Sounds like mine.”

You leaned up just enough for your lips to hover near his ear. “They’ll always know me as Queen,” you murmured. “But I suppose... some titles are better earned in private.”

His mouth curved slightly. “If you keep talking like that, we’re not making it to the suite.”

Heat rushed into your cheeks before you could stop it. “Harry,” you hissed through a barely-there smile, fingers tightening in the fabric of his tux sleeve. “Stop that. I can feel myself blushing in front of half of Manhattan.”

He smirked. “You started it, Mrs. Castillo.”

The applause continued. The flashes kept coming. And with every polite smile you gave the press, your pulse beat faster for reasons that had nothing to do with cameras.

Harry’s hand moved slightly lower at your waist as he guided you forward. Subtle. Possessive. And just impatient enough to make your pulse stumble.

You squeezed his arm once more — warning, teasing, breathless all at once. “Behave,” you whispered. His jaw shifted faintly. “You’re the one who likes it when I don’t.” "Oh look— my husband’s first official tease. And in front of the cameras.”

You both laughed — soft, private, almost conspiratorial — while the flashes continued around you. Together, you turned toward the private corridor leading to the elevators — toward your honeymoon suite.

The doors had closed behind you that night. Tonight, after all those years, they opened once more.

Walking into the lobby again — into this lobby — with Harry at your side felt almost unreal. Midnight had softened the space. The enormous Christmas tree still glittered beneath the chandeliers, but the energy had shifted — quieter now. Intimate. A few late guests drifted through the marble in velvet coats and tuxedos, voices lowered out of instinct rather than instruction.

Some paused. Some looked twice. Recognition moved subtly through, not loud, not intrusive. Just aware. Christmas carols floated faintly from somewhere deeper in the hotel, softened by distance and crystal.

You had avoided The Plaza for years... Deliberately. Carefully. There had been evenings when you crossed the street just to keep its silhouette out of view. When even the faint outline of its façade against the skyline felt like a bruise pressed too hard. Memories had teeth. And for a long time, they had bitten.

But now— Now, with his hand wrapped around yours, it was different.

The ache wasn’t gone. Not entirely. Just… smaller. Reduced to something distant. Manageable. A faint shadow instead of a wound.

Harry’s hand tightened, as if he could feel the direction of your thoughts without you saying a word.

You looked at him. He looked back. You didn’t need to ask. In his brown eyes, you already saw it — that quiet hesitation, the faint shadow of memory he didn’t voice. For a second, you saw your own reflection in him.

The same ache. But there was only one thing that could turn that into something else. Your smile.

You gave it to him — soft, certain. And the moment you did, he smiled back. Perfect reflection. When he lifted your hand and pressed it gently to his lips, the last trace of melancholy dissolved completely. The sadness gave way to something lighter. Warmer. Joy.

As easy as blinking. As natural as breathing. And somehow— In that simple exchange, something inside you stitched itself back together.

A senior concierge was already waiting near the private corridor — silver hair, immaculate posture, discretion in human form. “Good evening, Mr. Castillo,” he said smoothly. “Welcome back.”

Back. Your lips parted slightly.

Harry nodded once. “Thomas.”

Thomas’s gaze moved to you. “Ms. Queen.”

You knew him. Thomas had been here long before your wedding. A quiet constant of The Plaza. The kind of man who knew every diplomat, every heiress, every scandal — and never spoke of any of them.

“If I’m not overstepping…” Thomas began carefully, lowering his voice just enough to keep it between the three of you. “I still remember that night.” Thomas allowed himself the smallest smile. “I can assure you, this evening’s suite is entirely lily-free.”

Harry glanced at you. “See? Growth.” You nudged him lightly with your elbow.

Thomas cleared his throat gently. “In any case,” he added, voice warm but measured, “it’s a pleasure to see you here together again. And if I may — Merry Christmas, Ms. Queen. And… happy birthday.”

Your breath caught for a second. “Thank you, Thomas.”

He inclined his head, then gave the slightest signal with two fingers. Immediately, a staff member appeared. Silent. Efficient.

“Shall we?” Thomas said.

He walked with you toward the private elevator, maintaining just the right distance — present, but never intrusive. At the doors, he stopped.

“From here, we’ll allow you your evening. The staff remains at your service.”

Harry inclined his head. “Thank you, Thomas. For everything.” A look passed between them — quiet respect.

The doors slid open. You stepped inside. The moment they closed, something shifted. The world stayed outside.

Harry leaned back against the wall, one arm moving instinctively around your waist. The elevator began its smooth ascent.

You turned to him, playful now. “I wonder what’s waiting for me up there,” you murmured. “Should I be nervous?”

He smiled — slow. “Eighteen floors,” he said, glancing at the illuminated panel. “Seventeen.”

You laughed softly. “Sixteen.” “You’re counting?” “Fifteen. I’m building suspense.”

You shook your head. “Well, at least there won’t be lilies.” “Definitely not, baby.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh. “I still get annoyed when I think about that night. We never even stayed in our suite.” His arm tightened slightly. “Is that why you booked it again?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lowered his head, brushing his nose slowly through your hair — breathing you in. “Maybe,” he murmured.

His hand slid just slightly over the curve of your coat, settling lower. You laughed under your breath.

And just like that— The memory pulled you back, one more time. —

Harry had carried you through the hallway that night, your laughter echoing softly between kisses. Your veil slipping. His tux slightly undone. Everything blurred in champagne warmth and reckless happiness.

You hadn’t even made it two steps inside before he kissed you again — fast, heated, newlywed certainty in every movement.

Then— The scent hit. Sharp. Sweet. Overwhelming.

You pulled back abruptly. The suite glowed in candlelight. White lilies everywhere. Champagne breathing in silver buckets. Manhattan stretched beneath the windows like an audience.

“Harry— oh my God, what is this?” you breathed, still in his arms, eyes wide.

He followed your gaze. Candles. White satin. Champagne. And lilies. Everywhere.

Tall white arrangements by the windows. Smaller clusters along the console. Petals scattered across the table like someone had tried too hard to make it cinematic. “…Damn. This was supposed to be Lily’s surprise,” he muttered.

Ugh. Lily. Harry’s cousin had a talent for inserting herself into moments that didn’t require her — birthdays, holidays, press statements, apparently honeymoons. You’d never quite warmed to her.

And this— This was too much. The scent hit fully now. Thick. Sweet. Overpowering. "This is insane."

Harry gave a tight smile. “Irony at its finest.”

And that was it. The final thread. Your throat tightened. Your eyes burned.

He set you down gently. “Hey— hey,” he said softly, hands framing your face. “Baby. What’s wrong? You okay?”

You sneezed once. Then again. And then the tears came. "It was supposed to be perfect,” you whispered, mascara beginning to smudge. “I worked so hard to be perfect today. And now I’m crying on my wedding night. I’m ruining it." Another sneeze. "I can’t even breathe in here!”

It wasn’t the flowers. Not really. It was the day. The cameras. The smiles. The constant awareness of being watched. Of everyone speculating. Of headlines already forming. Strategic marriage. Power merger. Dynasty alliance.

But there had been nothing strategic about the way he looked at you. Nothing calculated about the way you chose him. This was never about power. It was love. You loved him. He loved you. That was it.

You stood there in front of him — veil half-removed, eyes red from both tears and allergy, exhausted beyond dignity.

Harry pulled you into his chest. “Ssh,” he murmured against your hair. “Look at me.”

You lifted your gaze.

“Nothing has to be perfect, baby,” he said quietly. “You’re exhausted. Of course you are. I feel it too.” His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye. “We don’t have to perform tonight.”

Your lips trembled. You glanced around at the lilies again, the scent thick in the air. Your nose itched, your eyes stung and watered, lashes clumping with tears and mascara. “I just want to go home,” you whispered.

Then you looked at him — really looked at him — your eyes rimmed red now, vulnerable in a way you rarely allowed yourself to be. “Can we go home?” Another sneeze escaped you; you covered your mouth quickly with your hand, embarrassed even through the tears.

He smiled — soft, certain — and kissed the top of your head. “Of course we can.”

You swallowed, blinking hard. “They worked so hard on this suite… I’m sorr—”

He silenced you with a kiss. The kind of kiss that pulled you back into your body. When he drew back, his brown eyes were warm — impossibly warm — looking at you as if nothing in the room mattered but you. “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he said quietly. “Nothing in this room matters more than you, my love." His thumb brushed lightly along your cheek. "Maybe one day we’ll come back, hm?” he said gently, tilting his head, smirking. “Anniversary, perhaps.”

You let out a small breath, the tightness in your chest finally easing. “That… sounds nice."

The elevator chimed. Eighteen. The doors slid open onto the quiet corridor. For a second, neither of you moved. Then Harry stepped forward, reaching for the key card. You caught his sleeve lightly. “Déjà vu, huh?” A slow look. “Yeah,” he said softly. His arm started to slide around you, but you stopped him — placing your palm flat against his chest. “I can walk.” “Mm,” he replied calmly. “You could.” The lock clicked. Before you could say anything else, his arm slid behind your knees and he lifted you effortlessly. You gasped, instinctively grabbing his shoulders. “Harry—" Heat flickered up your spine. “You seem very eager to keep me in your arms tonight, Mr. Castillo." He didn’t even hesitate. “There isn’t a universe,” he replied evenly, eyes steady on yours, “where I wouldn’t be eager to have you in them.” You laughed against his neck, fingers tightening in his jacket. The suite doors closed behind you.

And warmth spilled around you. Soft golden light. Garden roses. White camellias. The faintest trace of vanilla and cedar. Subtle. Intentional.

The ceiling shimmered faintly with nearly transparent helium balloons — champagne-toned, weightless, luminous in candlelight. Not childish. Not loud. Just elegant. A small Christmas tree glowed near the window. And beyond it— Manhattan. Alive. Glittering. Yours.

Harry set you down slowly.Your heels met the carpet. For a moment, you just stared. A quiet jazz melody drifted through the suite.

On the sitting table near the windows stood a chilled bottle of champagne, two flutes — and several neatly arranged shopping bags. Chanel. Dior. Cartier, and more.. Black and cream and gold against polished wood. And at the center, a small ivory box tied with a black satin ribbon.

You turned slowly toward him. “So, no lilies,” you mocked. “Not even in the building,” he chuckled. “I checked.” That did something to you.

“Harry. This is…” you breathed softly, taking in the room. “It’s more beautiful than I imagined. You’re spoiling me. Just you and me would’ve been enough.” Your fingers reached up, brushing one of the balloon ribbons trailing gently toward the floor. “There are even balloons.”

He stepped closer. "You always loved this,” he said quietly. “And I like things done properly, you know.”

Your lips curved. “Happy birthday, baby,” he murmured, opening his other arm, gesturing the room. “And welcome back.”

You smiled and leaned in to kiss his cheek, “Thank you, my love.”

Amid the music and the way his hand rested gently at your waist, you began opening your birthday presents one by one. After unwrapping each gift, your gaze wandered back to the elegant ivory box that caught your attention.

You picked it up. The name embossed in delicate gold lettering: Maison Close. Paris.

Your pulse fluttered. You loosened the ribbon, lifting the lid. Inside— Exquisite black French lace hosiery. Silk-sheer. Seam running elegantly down the back. Structured, sculpted, undeniably luxurious. Not loud. Not cheap. Intentional.

You looked up at him slowly. “Harry…”

His gaze never left your face. “For when I fail to behave again,” he said quietly. Heat rushed up your neck. “It may not rival that vintage Chanel,” he added, brushing a strand of hair from your shoulder, “but I believe in thoughtful replacements.”

You laughed softly. “Shut up. It’s beautiful. Thank you.” A beat. “Should I put it on now?” you asked suggestively.

His jaw flexed. “Hm... That would take time,” he said calmly. “And I have other plans.”

He took your hand and gently guided you toward the center of the suite, reaching for the remote on the table. The music changed, filling the air. Etta James began to sing "At Last," your wedding dance song.

Your breath caught. He drew you closer. One hand at your waist. The other at your back. You moved together slowly, naturally — like you had done this a thousand times. Like your bodies remembered even when life didn’t.

The city sparkled in the background, with candles flickering around you. Snow drifted past the tall windows. His chin brushed the top of your head. Your arms slid around his neck. He pressed a soft kiss into your hair.

You rested your forehead against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart beneath the tux. For a while, neither of you spoke. Just the music. Just the city. Just the two of you.

“I wish we could stay like this,” you murmured softly. “Forever.”

He didn’t answer immediately. He only tightened his hold.

When the song ended, he lifted your chin gently. His eyes searched yours. Then he kissed you. Slow. Careful. As if you were something fragile and priceless.

When he pulled back, he smiled faintly. “Let’s have a drink.”

He guided you toward the window table. The champagne cork popped with a soft echo. You clapped lightly, laughing. He poured. You clinked glasses.

Canelés sat neatly arranged on porcelain. He broke a small piece and fed it to you. You returned the gesture. Sugar and laughter and candlelight.

Below you, New York shimmered under fresh snow.

His phone vibrated softly on the table. He glanced at the screen. A small, knowing smile.“Oh,” he said lightly. “Before I forget.”

You looked at him curiously.

“For the record,” he said, chuckling, unlocking it, “this part wasn’t easy to coordinate.”

You gave him a suspicious look — then the screen turned toward you.

The video began with a shaky angle. Ceiling. Fluorescent lights. Someone’s sleeve passing too close to the lens. A burst of laughter. Then Harbor House came into focus.

“Oh,” you whispered.

The common room. Morning light spilling in through wide windows. A slightly chaotic Christmas tree in the corner. Paper snowflakes taped unevenly to the walls. It looked like it had been filmed earlier that day.

Ron’s voice came first, slightly out of breath. “Okay, stand still — Tom, not in front of the camera. Dana, are you recording?”

From behind the phone, Dana answered, “Recording.” “Okay, everyone ready?”

The camera shifted. And then you saw them.

Your hand flew to your mouth before you even realized it had moved. You looked at Harry — stunned — then back at the screen.

The children were gathered in a loose, messy line, some too close, some half out of frame. One little girl was already waving at the camera like it was a live broadcast.

Dana’s voice again: “On three.”

They straightened — or tried to. “One… two… three!”

In joyful, chaotic harmony: “Happy Birthday, Miss Queen!”

Your breath caught. One little girl in the pink winter coat spun in place proudly, shouting thank you. A boy in the back held up a stack of books with both arms like a trophy. Sally flashed her glittering ballet gloves at the camera. Someone else lifted the dinosaur book high above his head as if it were a victory flag.

Their voices overlapped — gratitude tumbling over itself, messy and sincere. “Thank you for the pink coat!” “Thank you for the books!” “The gloves sparkle!” “The volcano one really works!”

Laughter burst behind the camera. Then, almost instinctively, they gathered closer and shouted together again: “We love you!”

A few of them clapped. Someone knocked into someone else. The camera shook slightly.

Your vision blurred.

Ron stepped into frame then, smiling. “Uh.. easy buddy, easy… Um…kids… Happy Birthday, Miss Queen,” he said warmly. “The office misses you.”

Dana leaned in beside him. “It’s true. No one compliments my outfits when you’re not there.” She rolled her eyes dramatically toward Ron.

Ron blinked. “I compliment you.” “You said ‘functional,’” she shot back. “That’s a compliment in corporate language.”

The kids giggled behind them.

Ron looked directly into the camera. “And, uh — generous Christmas bonus, by the way. Much appreciated, boss.”

Dana leaned in beside him. “Oh, yes,” she added brightly. “Thank you very much, Mr. Castillo. Merry Christmas.”

Ron nodded solemnly. “Very generous. Very festive.”

A few kids giggled in the background.

Dana softened then, looking straight into the lens. “We hope you’re having the kind of birthday you deserve.”

Ron added, “Yeah. The big kind.”

There was a slight shuffle. The camera dipped a little — like it had been lowered but not turned off.

Dana turned toward Ron with a grin. “That was really good, right? We nailed it.”

She leaned in and kissed his cheek quickly. Ron blinked. “Mhmm—” “Did you stop recording?” she whispered. “Yeah,” he said confidently.

A beat. Dana squinted at the screen. “Ron.” “What?” “It’s still recording.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “Oh. Damn— I mean—” He grabbed for the phone, fumbling slightly. “I didn’t mean— I mean, boss—”

The video ended mid-laughter.

The suite fell quiet again. Only the distant hum of the city beyond the windows.

You were still staring at the dark screen. And this time, when you looked at Harry, your eyes were shining.

You looked at him through blurred vision.“Harry… this was beautiful.” Tears slipped quietly down your cheeks before you could stop them. He immediately pulled his chair closer to yours, the legs scraping softly against the floor. “Shh,” he murmured gently. “Don’t cry, love. I didn’t prepare all this to make you cry.” You waved your hands at your face, laughing through it. “Okay, okay — happy tears,” you insisted, smiling. “These are happy.” He reached up and wiped beneath your eyes with his thumb, slow and tender. Then he leaned forward and pressed the softest kiss to your lips. You took a breath, lifting your champagne flute and sipping, steadying yourself. “Alright,” you said, exhaling. “No more crying.” Your hand reached across the table and squeezed his. “Thank you. For everything. I think… this might be the best birthday I’ve ever had.” His expression shifted — something proud, something quiet. He brushed the back of his fingers along your cheek. A faint smile curved at his mouth. Before you could say anything his phone vibrated again on the table. He glanced at the screen. A flicker of something unreadable passed across his face. He stood, leaning down to kiss your temple. “One minute,” he said softly. “I’ll be right back.” You nodded. He stepped away toward the suite’s far end, answering the call quietly.

You lifted your glass again and turned toward the windows. Below, Manhattan shimmered beneath fresh snow. Central Park stretched out in soft white, carriage lights moving slowly along its edge. The city glowed — gold against winter black. For a moment, it felt suspended. Just you. The skyline. The echo of Frank Sinatra lingering in the air.

Harry adjusted his cufflinks when he came back, then sat down right in front of you — too close. His knee pressed between your thighs, claiming the space without asking. He leaned in. His mouth hovered just above yours, his breath warm against your lips. “So, tell me,” he murmured, his thumb tracing slowly along your waist. “Did I manage to please the birthday girl?”

He didn’t need to ask. You’d already shown him how grateful you were. And you knew him well enough to understand why he was asking. The look in his eyes gave him away — burning, patient, hungry. He’d been waiting for this moment all day. He wanted you. As much as you wanted him. He loved the game. And so did you.

You arched a brow slightly. “Hmm,” you said softly, your fingers drifting down the front of his shirt — then lower. “Still evaluating.”

A faint, dangerous smile touched his mouth. “Your Majesty is difficult to satisfy.” You leaned closer, brushing your lips near his ear. “Well,” you murmured smoothly, “I don’t approve of everything. I prefer quality.” Your hands slid along the sharp lines of his lapels. “Out of all those men,” you added playfully, eyes lifting to meet his, “I chose you. That should’ve told you something.”

His gaze darkened. “And when it comes to satisfaction…” your fingers slipped lower, grazing the line of his waistband, “I have a few ideas in mind.”

“In your mind?” he asked quietly, his lips only inches from yours now. “How often am I there, I wonder?”

You lifted one leg and draped it over his thigh. “More than you’d assume,." The movement closed the distance. Heat met heat. The shift in your breathing was immediate.

His hand slid up your leg, unhurried, fingers firm and deliberate. His dark eyes lifted back to yours. “I was hoping,” he murmured, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin, “that I wasn’t just inside your thoughts tonight.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips softly against yours — not a full kiss, you pulled back to take a sip from your champagne. “You enjoy this way too much,” he muttered. You tilted your head innocently. “Enjoy what?” “Making me suffer.” Your lips curved. “Suffer?” His jaw clenched, breath heavier now. “I’ve been sitting here,” he said lowly, “trying to act like a gentleman while you keep touching me like that.”

Your fingers drifted lower again. “Are you saying it’s working?” His voice dropped an octave. “I’m suffering down here.” That made you smile. “Tell me how you want me,” you whispered.

Harry didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned closer, until his mouth hovered just beside your ear. His breath was warm against your skin. “You really want to know?” he murmured.

You nodded, your earrings bouncing a bit as he pushed the diamond aside and whispered in your ear.

“I want to push you back against that glass,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something darker, rougher. “And fuck you while all of Manhattan glitters below us. I want them celebrating Christmas Eve down there, completely unaware that you’re up here taking me so well — your sweet pussy clenching and squeezing around my cock, your beautiful mouth screaming my name over and over.” His hand found its way beneath your dress, brushing over your panties. “And when we’re both sweating and moaning, you shaking in my arms, I fill you with my cum and whisper in your ear, ‘Happy birthday, baby.’” A dangerous pause. “‘My last gift of the night.’”

You swallowed, nails digging into his shoulders. “Oh God… that sounds dangerously, vaguely dirty. Filthy, actually. And I want it now.”

Harry let out a low, amused laugh. “Impatient,” he murmured. His fingers hooked lightly into the edge of your panties, tugging them just enough to make your breath catch. “First,” he said softly, voice dipping again, “I want to taste you, eat you out.” Your pulse jumped. “Naturally,” he continued, a wicked glint in his eyes, “I’ll need the stamina for the rest of the night.”

Your dress shifted as you lifted it slightly, cool air brushing against heated skin. The city lights beyond the glass felt distant now, irrelevant. “Harry…” you breathed.

He looked up at you from beneath dark lashes, expression slow and knowing. “You started this,” he reminded you quietly. “Teasing me. Testing me.” His thumb traced along your thigh, unhurried, possessive. “Now let me enjoy my birthday girl properly.”

Your fingers threaded into his hair as anticipation coiled tight in your stomach.

He smiled against your skin. “Relax, baby,” he murmured. “I told you. I take care of what’s mine.”

The jazz still hummed softly in the background. But all you could hear was your own heartbeat.

Harry crouched slowly, and reached for your heels first, unfastening them with surprising gentleness. One by one, he slid them off, his gaze never leaving yours. “You look far too composed, my Queen,” he murmured. “Let’s fix that.”

His hands glided up your calves, over the delicate lace of your stockings, his mouth following in unhurried kisses. The stockings made the softest hush as they skimmed his stubble, and the tiny friction felt unfairly good—gentle, teasing, impossible to ignore. Heat trailed behind his touch as he moved higher, slow enough to make you ache.

You leaned back in the chair, breath unsteady.

He pushed the hem of your jet-black silk gown, the fabric sleek and molded to your curves, you lifted your hips slightly without breaking eye contact. The charged look between you never faltered — playful, hungry, daring.

He eased the stockings down your legs with infuriating patience, savoring every inch. But when his hands returned to your hips, the gentleness thinned. His fingers hooked into your underwear and pulled you closer, sliding you to the edge of the chair.

Instinctively, you parted your legs and lifted them into the air. “Legs on my shoulders, baby,” he said quietly. You swallowed — and obeyed.

As Harry lowered his head between your legs, your heels skimmed the back of his immaculate tuxedo jacket, the fine fabric shifting beneath you. One hand clutched the edge of the chair for balance; the other twisted into the tablecloth, knuckles whitening as you held on. His hot breath washed over your wet folds, and you bit your lip as heat pooled low in your belly, impatience tightening with every second.

He kissed your skin first, slow and unhurried, his mouth lingering at your inner thighs—anywhere but where you needed him. Not yet. “Harry…” you breathed, half warning, half plea.

He answered with a satisfied hum.

You gasped when you felt his thumb brush your outer folds, and you braced yourself for a rough entry. It never came. Instead, his arm hooked around your thigh, anchoring you in place, and his mouth traveled in slow, lingering kisses along the sensitive spot inside of your leg while his thumb kept tracing gentle circles—patient, unhurried.

It was tender, almost unbearably so. And you found yourself craving the opposite: something harsher, something that would leave no doubt. You liked it when he claimed you—when he acted like the world had given him one single job, and it was you. You knew you’d never feel that kind of control with another man. Not ownership in the ordinary sense — but the kind that felt earned. Chosen. Claimed. It was something only he could give you.

The way he held you. The way he fucked you — possessively, like you were both his Queen… and his to command. You liked being his Princess. And the way he made you feel it? God, it turned you on, making you squirm under him every damn time.

You wanted him to take what was already his. You dragged your ankle sharply up his side and gripped his shoulder hard.

He nipped your delicate skin with his teeth, perfectly painful, “Patience, my Queen. You don’t rush a man who’s savoring you,” he placed another soft kiss, this time on the juncture between your cleft and thigh. “But it’s my birthday,” you protested softly.

He let out a low, dark chuckle. “Is that so?” he murmured, eyes dragging slowly over you. “Feels like I’m the one getting spoiled.”

You giggled and let your head fall back as he kissed your wet folds, open-mouthed and firm enough not to tickle, his thumb slipping through the outer reaches of your wetness to spread it further, fingers gently opening your folds to him.

“Can you blame me for taking my time?” he murmured, his thumb tracing lazily along your clit. “When you look this good — legs spread, dress pushed up, offering yourself like that — I’d be an idiot not to enjoy the view,” he said, his voice low and husky, sending a shiver down your spine.

His tongue came out to draw slowly up the centre of you, it was soft and exploring, alternating with soft sucking kissing and resolutely veering just around the edges of your clitoris. You flexed your hips upward, but he pushed you back down and you uttered a little groan at his exquisite, aggravating patience. He mouthed you as though he was drinking of you, savouring you, he devoured your pussy as if it were his life source. He licked a long strip along your slit, drawing high, choppy moans from your mouth. The stubble on his chin rubbed against your clit when he pushed his tongue deep inside you. You felt his nose nudge against your pearl. You cried out his name as your hips moved against him.

His tongue circled your clitoris, then sucked—pulling more moans from you—before slipping between your folds and pushing deeper. Every passing second brought you closer to climax, an addictive kind of heaven as you melted into him.

His hands slid over your ass, kneading your cheeks and letting you grind against his face, drawing a masculine groan from him. He continued to lick and suck, sweet little sounds of ecstasy spilled from your lips.

When his lips wrapped around your throbbing clitoris again, you trembled as he sucked lightly this time, and you cried out as you felt yourself nearing orgasm. You squeezed your eyes shut as he increased his pace once again, unable to bear the overwhelming pleasure as the tension in your stomach threatened to snap. It felt like you’re losing your mind, willingly drowning in a sea of pleasure.

Harry moaned loudly as he dipped his tongue into you again, savoring how slick you’d become—swollen, exactly the way he wanted. He drove you wild, repeating it again and again. He teased you with the brush of his nose before his mouth returned, unhurried and relentless. His thumb and forefinger spread your lips wider, and the friction of his chin against you made you shudder—then sob. His mouth grew more eager as he kept sucking and licking all over your sex. You shuddered right down to your bones, gasping out his name and rolling your hips into his mouth with the intensity of it.

"Oh, fuck, Harry,” you sobbed. “I’m close…”

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unblinking, his thumb never slowing, circling your clit over and over. “Come for me, Princess,” he said, voice low and steady. “That’s it. Let it go. I want to feel you shake.” The intensity in his gaze alone almost pushed you over the edge.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” you begged, grinding against his face as his tongue continued to fuck you. A ball of pleasure exploded through you, and you screamed his name as your juices spilled out, soaking his face, his tux, his shirt, and his bow tie. Somewhere behind you, there was a sudden clatter—forks skittering, plates cracking against the floor.

It took you a second to realize what you’d done. In the rush, your hand had fisted the tablecloth and yanked hard, dragging everything with it. You didn't give a fuck.

You were barely coming down from your high when Harry pulled away — but not before he licked you clean, drinking in your arousal from your pussy, thighs and ass. Then he lifted you slightly, his mouth trailing lower to your ass, his tongue cleaning you slowly and thoroughly.

“I fucking love the sound of my name when you cum,” Harry said, wiping the last trace of your slickness from his chin before licking his thumb clean. Then he rose, taking your hand and pulling you up from the chair

You barely had a second to steady yourself before he was on you.

He crushed his mouth to yours. Not gentle. Not tentative. Possessive.

One hand gripped your waist, the other sliding up your spine as he backed you a step, then another, until the world narrowed down to nothing but the heat between your bodies. Your laugh dissolved into a breathless sound against his lips. He didn’t rush. He devoured.

Your hands slid up his arms, over the expensive fabric of his tux, fingers threading into his hair as you arched into him, still tasting yourself in his mouth. You wanted all of him.

His fingers found the zipper at the side of your gown, dragging it down slowly. “Arms up.”

You obeyed, letting the silk slide from your body. He stepped back just enough to look at you.

“We’re not finishing this out here,” he murmured, his mouth brushing just beneath your ear. "I want you in my bed." He stepped back. His gaze dragged slowly over your body — you were just in your bra.

“God,” he exhaled softly. “You were stunning in that dress.” His eyes darkened. “But like this?” A faint, dangerous smirk curved his mouth. “Much better.” He took a step closer again, voice lowering. “Come here.” He opened his arms. “Up.”

You crossed your arms instead, lifting your chin slightly. “You want me to jump into your arms?” you asked smoothly. “What exactly are you offering, Mr. Castillo?"

His eyes darkened with amusement. “Oh,” he said slowly. “I’m offering to make you come.” A pause. “More than once.”

You tilted your head. “I’ll need numbers, Castillo,” you replied coolly. “Aren’t you good with numbers?”

He laughed under his breath, licking his lower lip as he considered you. “Mm… three,” he said. “Maybe four.” His gaze dipped lower, fixed on your exposed sex. “I’d promise more,” he added, voice roughening, “but we need to be able to walk tomorrow. And—”

He didn’t get to finish.

You launched yourself at him. He caught you effortlessly, a surprised laugh breaking from his chest as your legs wrapped around his waist.

“Five,” you corrected breathlessly against his mouth.

He grinned. “Deal.”

He kissed you mid-laugh, carrying you toward the bedroom.

When you reached there, Harry lowered you onto the bed — but he never broke the kiss. It deepened immediately. Hungrier. Less controlled.

You shifted onto your knees at the edge of the mattress, breathless, wearing nothing but your bra now. Your hair was slightly undone, lips swollen from him. The look he gave you made heat curl low in your stomach again.

He was still in his tux.

“Look at you,” you murmured against his mouth, fingers sliding up to his bow tie. You tugged it loose, smiling. “You’re like the perfect birthday present,” you teased softly. “You even came with a bow.”

Harry let out a low laugh. “I’m honored,” he replied dryly. “Not everyone gets compared to luxury packaging.”

“Let me handle this,” you said, fingers moving to the buttons of his shirt.

“I’m very ready to be handled,” he answered, spreading his arms slightly in invitation.

You giggled and worked his shirt open quickly, pushing it from his shoulders and letting it fall. Your palms slid over his chest, feeling the firm lines of muscle beneath your touch. The reaction in his eyes was instant.

You pulled him closer and kissed him again — deeper this time.

Your hands moved to his waistband, and eased his trousers down, guiding him out of them without breaking eye contact.

He watched you the entire time.

“Confident tonight,” he murmured.

“It’s my birthday,” you replied, tugging lightly at the waistband of his boxers to draw him closer. “I get what I want.”

His hands found your waist again, steady and possessive, and he leaned down to capture your mouth once more.

The kiss turned heated fast — breath mixing, hands roaming, control shifting back and forth between you. His hands moved to your back, fingers finding the clasp of your bra. You felt the slight pull — then the release. The fabric slipped from your shoulders, and his gaze dropped. He cupped your breasts just as your hand closed around his hard length.

You both moaned into each other’s mouths.

Then you shifted.

Your fingers digging in his ass just enough to guide him, pulling him closer. With a decisive push to his chest, you forced him back onto the mattress. “Lay down,” you ordered softly. “I’ll ride you,” you said, voice low and confident.

One brow lifted. “Hm,” he said slowly, settling back against the pillows. “I do enjoy when my Queen takes charge.” 

You laughed and climbed over him, straddling his hips, your hands sliding up his chest again. His eyes darkened — not resisting, just watching.

His hands settled on your hips to steady you as you hooked your legs around him, lifting yourself into position—yet he was clearly the impatient one. He grabbed your waist a little roughly, his fingers digging in, and lifted you onto him so you were straddling his lap, his thick shaft rubbing against your entrance so deliciously.

You placed your palms over his firm chest, lifting your hips again, arching your back slightly, moving with a slow, feline confidence — like a cat stretching before it decides to pounce.

You wanted to take your time. To savor it. To enjoy every second.

But Harry didn’t. His hand slid down and grabbed your hip — impatient, a little rougher this time.

Your breath caught instantly. The shift in control was sudden. He wasn’t in the mood to go slow anymore. And the way his fingers tightened made that very clear.

He lowered you onto himself quickly, filling you and stretching you wide open.

“Shit, Harry,” you moaned, consumed by the deep, delicious burn you were feeling.

He gave a few thrusts, bucking up into you rapidly. His breathing was harsh, and he emitted low, guttural growls.

“Oh baby, so fucking tight.” He gave a light slap to your ass. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this, taking me so well.”

You bit your lower lip hard and began to circle your hips, feeling him push deep inside you. He held onto you as you started to ride him, your hands roaming all over his body — his chest, his thighs, his shoulders. You touched your breasts, adjusted your hair as you bounced up and down on him.

You were putting on the sexiest show he’d ever seen.

He groaned, eyes dark and hungry, and the sound nearly made you combust. His low, masculine moan rang in your ears.

You felt yourself building, and Harry took control again, gripping your waist firmly. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding on tight as he began to thrust into you more forcefully.

Every movement hit perfectly, and you began to see stars. Your moans grew higher and louder until you were screaming his name. Your walls clenched around him, choking his thick cock and he let out a loud moan, almost a roar.

“Just like that, baby. Ride me. Use my cock to make yourself cum,” he encouraged.

It was all too much — the stretching, the pleasure, the fullness, his length somehow feeling even harder inside you and moved in and out with ease, and the sound of skin slapping against skin was loud and intoxicating. Suddenly, you climaxed with a loud scream, your body tightening all over as heat traveled across your skin.

“Fuck,” he growled, feeling your pussy clenching around him harder, biting into your shoulder as his hips jerked inside you until you were both finally still, panting.

Your head fell against his chest, breathing harsh.

He lifted you off him gently and laid you down. His hand moved between your legs, stroking you furiously. “Harry! Oh my—” Your second orgasm hit you hard, and you collapsed against the pillows, your back arching, toes curling.

You were still buried in the pillows, breathless, your body heavy and trembling — drunk on pleasure, warmth lingering under your skin — when suddenly Harry’s strong arms rolled you onto your stomach.

The movement stole what little air you had left.

He lifted your hips, guiding you upward. You braced yourself on your forearms, heart pounding, still sensitive from your release.

And that’s when you realized—

He hadn’t finished.

Not even close.

The control it must have taken. The stamina. The restraint.

You were in awe of it.

And if you were honest — no matter how exhausted your body felt — you still wanted more.

You couldn’t deny him when he touched you like that. When he handled you like you were his to move, to position, to claim.

Even if your legs were weak.

Even if your breathing was still uneven.

If he wanted you like this—

You would never say no.

Warmth flooded through you as Harry leaned down, his chest pressing firmly against your back. He slid his fingers between yours, lacing your hands together. Even in your dazed state, you squeezed him back.

His thrusts were slow but incredibly deep at this angle, and you felt every inch of him inside you.

“I fucking love you,” he whispered in your ear.

Lowering yourself onto your elbows, you used your free hand to reach up and cup the side of his face, pressing as much of him against you as possible.

“I love you, too.”

His hands returned to your ass as he straightened up behind you. He landed a harsh slap before squeezing your flesh; you gasped as your hips bucked. A hand on your back pushed you lower into the mattress, angling your hips higher.

Harry snapped his hips forward, contorting your body into an almost uncomfortable position. Then he began thrusting at a pace that felt impossible; his name left your lips like a mantra. The room filled with your cries, and you forgot where you were — even your own name.

That haze shattered when he slapped you again, twice in quick succession.

“Harry…” you whimpered desperately, lifting your head with effort. “Pull my hair.”

An obnoxiously smug chuckle left him, and you resisted the urge to scowl.

“As you wish, Princess.”

Your head snapped back when he grabbed a handful of your hair, pulling it — not harshly — while peppering your neck and shoulder with kisses.

“Ngh.” An unintelligible sound escaped you at the sensation, but the relentless movement of his hips stole any coherent thought.

The sound of skin against skin, the way your body reacted with every forward motion, the sinful rhythm between you — it all dragged you higher. You felt yourself clench around him.

He felt it too.

“Where did you want it, baby?” he asked, his movements unsteady.

You were so close to the edge that you didn’t even care anymore. “Inside me.”

“Yeah?” Harry growled. "You sure?"

“Harry, please.” You didn’t even care how desperate you sounded. “Give me your gift. Come inside me.”

He picked up his pace again, another quiet curse slipping from his lips. Then suddenly, your third orgasm tore through you like a storm ripping across open fields, shattering you from the inside out.

A few seconds later, Harry groaned behind you, surrendering to his own release, filling you up.

You felt your body melt into the mattress, your limbs too overstimulated to hold you up. Then you welcomed the warm weight of him collapsing over you.

He brushed your sweat-soaked hair away from your face and smiled down at you.

“Happy birthday… again,” he murmured softly.

Then he pulled you against his chest, pressing slow kisses to your temple, your cheek, your shoulder. His breathing had begun to steady, but there was still warmth in the way he held you — protective, satisfied.

You thought it was over.

Until his hand drifted lazily between your thighs.

Your legs were so weak, so pleasantly numb, that you barely registered what he was doing at first. But his fingers moved with quiet confidence — slow, circular, expert. He knew exactly where, exactly how, exactly what would undo you again.

Your breath caught.

A soft, startled sound escaped you — almost a silent scream swallowed in your throat. You gasped, fingers clutching at his shoulder as another wave crashed through you.

Your head fell back into the pillow, eyes rolling so far back it felt like the entire Plaza Hotel might collapse on top of you.

The pleasure was too much. Too sudden.

You barely had time to recover before exhaustion claimed you completely.

Your body went heavy, boneless against him. The last thing you felt was his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek.

And somewhere, distantly, through the haze of sleep, you heard him murmur against your hair:

“That’s four.”

Morning arrived quietly. Soft winter light filtered through the tall windows of the suite, turning the silk curtains a muted shade of gold. Manhattan felt hushed beneath you — Christmas morning wrapping the city in a rare, gentle stillness. You stirred first. For a few seconds, you didn’t know where you were. The ceiling was too high. The sheets too smooth. The air carried that faint trace of cologne and expensive linen. Then it came back to you. All of it. Harry’s arm was still draped around your waist, heavy and warm, his hand resting possessively against your hip even in sleep. You didn’t move. Your legs were still sore — your thighs tender in the most satisfying way. The memories of the last night flickered behind your closed eyes, slow and vivid. A small smile curved your lips.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You stayed tangled in the sheets, limbs lazily intertwined, savoring the sweetness of Christmas morning — unhurried, intimate, yours.

Eventually, Harry stirred. He pressed a sleepy kiss to your shoulder. “I believe,” he murmured against your skin, voice still rough with sleep, “I owe you one more.”

You laughed softly.

And true to his word, he woke you fully with a passionate kiss, devouring your lips. He carried you to the bathroom and into the warmth of the shower, steam curling around you both—soft morning turning into a hot morning as he brought you to your fifth orgasm.

Afterward, you ordered breakfast to the suite. Coffee. Fresh fruit. Warm pastries. Eggs you barely touched because you kept stealing glances at him instead. You ate slowly, recharging, wrapped in plush robes, the city glowing pale and quiet beyond the windows.

When it was finally time, you dressed, packed, and took one last look at the suite that had witnessed your birthday and your Christmas morning. Then, hand in hand, you left for Rhinebeck — ready for whatever the rest of the holiday had waiting for you.

The city thinned behind you as Harry’s black Mercedes moved north. Since it was Christmas morning — the world quieter than usual, storefronts dark, church bells faint in the distance. Frost clung to the bare trees lining the highway, and the Hudson ran gray and steady beside the road, reflecting a pale winter sun.

After breakfast, you had spoken with Emily and Chloe. Like every year, they’d called early to celebrate your birthday before the Christmas chaos swallowed the day. It had always been that way — since you were little, your birthday came first. Always.

Harry had a suitcase packed for you in the trunk. You’d most likely spend the night at the Rhinebeck residence with Eloise. After yesterday — after Harry had verbally buried Lucas six feet under — the last thing you’d wanted was to go home and endure your mother’s speech. You were grateful Harry had handled it.

Still, your mood had dipped. Lara hadn’t called. Scarlet hadn’t called. Not even Mikey. That stung more than you wanted to admit.

“Strange,” you muttered, staring at your phone. “Mikey’s not picking up.”

The Castillo residence came into view through iron gates and snow-dusted hedges. Harry reached for your hand. You hadn’t realized how deep in thought you were until his thumb brushed your knuckles.

“Baby.”

You turned.

He wasn’t looking at the road. He was looking at something in his palm.

A small velvet box.

Your breath stalled. “Harry…”

He exhaled once, thumb brushing the edge of it. “I— I just…” he murmured, searching for the right words for once.

“You kept it,” you said softly.

The memory came back without warning.

“This time,” he said gently, “I didn’t want abuela to suspect anything, so…”

He opened the box. Both rings lay inside. Simple. Elegant. Timeless. Like they had been waiting.

“I mean,” he continued, suddenly less composed than usual, “one day I’ll ask you… Again. Properly. When you’re ready. Not like this. I know this isn’t—” he paused, jaw tightening slightly. “It’s probably too soon.”

There was something in his voice. Not pressure. Hope.

You studied him for a long second, then leaned forward and kissed him softly. “I’ll look forward to that day,” you murmured against his lips.

“Just don’t make me wait too long. I’m thirty-one now. I’m not as patient as I used to be.”

He laughed and pulled you closer, deepening the kiss just enough to make your pulse stutter. “So,” he murmured, a playful smile dancing on his lips, “if I asked you right now…” A small pause. “…would you say yes?”

You laughed. “Harry, it’s my birthday and Christmas. I don’t think the day we get re-engaged should be today. What do you think?”

He shrugged, lips twitching. “Seems practical. Easy to remember.”

You smacked his shoulder lightly. “Shut up.” Then you held out your hand. “Put it on.”

The car rolled into the driveway.

Once parked, Harry took your hand carefully and slid the ring onto the ring finger of your right hand. It settled there like it had always belonged.

You stared at it. It almost felt like it was smiling back.

“Thank you for taking care of it,” you said softly.

Harry smiled and slipped his own ring back on, wiggling his fingers. “How’s it look? Feels tighter. I might’ve gained weight.”

You laughed. “It looks perfect.”

You leaned in for another kiss—just as the chauffeur opened your door.

“Welcome,” he said, and then, lowering his voice with a discreet wink, added, “Mrs. Castillo.”

Harry stepped in beside you, his arm sliding around your waist. He pressed a kiss to your cheek, voice warm with amusement. “This time, since we’re not fighting with each other, it’ll be easy,” he murmured. “What do you say?”

“Mm,” you smiled as you walked toward the entrance.

The front doors opened.

And then—

“SURPRISE!!!”

Confetti exploded over you the second you stepped into the main hall. Vivienne. Sienna. Eloise. Mikey. Scarlet. All standing there, applauding.

You froze. Then slowly turned to Harry with wide eyes.

He raised both hands. “I swear. I had no idea.”

Eloise swept toward you, arms wide. “¡Ay, mi reina hermosa! Ah, my beautiful queen!” she exclaimed, pulling you into a hug. “I invited your mother and your brother, Mikey.”

You hugged her back. “Eloise… that’s very thoughtful.”

Scarlet was smiling — genuinely smiling.

Eloise held your face between her hands, examining you. “There’s color in your cheeks. You’re glowing. And you two…” she looked at Harry knowingly. “Much better.”

“Sí, abuela. Don’t worry,” Harry chuckled, hugging her.

Sienna hugged you next. “Happy birthday, honey.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

Then Vivienne stepped forward and hugged you tightly — tighter than expected. She kissed the top of your head, which was very weird. “Happy birthday, darling.” Was she acting? You pulled back slightly. Her eyes looked suspiciously glossy.

Before you could process it, someone else grabbed you.

“Hi, Queen, dear! You’ve changed so much!” Lily.

She hugged you quickly — too quickly — then leaned in conspiratorially. “I know you’re pretending. Vivienne told me everything.”

You pulled back slowly. Your smile was flawless.

“Lily,” you said sweetly, brushing an imaginary crease from her sleeve, “what a delightful way to greet someone. Subtle as ever.”

She blinked.

You kept smiling. “But do try to look less excited about secrets. It gives you away.”

Her mother — Harry’s aunt Raquel — stepped forward next. You hadn’t seen her since 2018. That alone caught you off guard.

She hugged you warmly, almost dramatically. “Happy birthday, darling,” she said. “You look… radiant.”

“Thank you,” you replied smoothly, studying her for half a second longer than necessary. “It’s been a while.”

“Far too long,” she said, though her eyes flicked briefly toward Vivienne.

Scarlet appeared beside you then. “Mom,” you said quietly, something questioning beneath the word.

She didn’t hesitate. She wrapped her arms around you fully this time. “I gave birth to you,” she murmured softly against your ear. “You really thought I’d miss your birthday?”

Your throat tightened. “I wouldn’t dare,” you whispered back.

She pulled away just enough to cup your cheek warmly. “Happy birthday, my love.”

You smiled at her, feeling grateful.

Mikey barreled in next, nearly knocking you backward. “Best Christmas ever,” he announced loudly, winking at Sienna across the room. “Oh — and happy birthday, Grandma. What are you now? Sixty?”

You elbowed him sharply. “Maybe workshop a new joke this year.”

Mikey clutched his side dramatically.

Across the room, Raquel moved toward Harry with practiced elegance. “Harry,” she said warmly, arms opening.

“Tía, Aunt,” he greeted smoothly, kissing her cheek. “Bienvenida, Welcome.”

They smiled at each other — composed, familiar. You noticed the ease. Not surprise. Not tension. Just understanding. Interesting.

Vivienne adjusted her sleeve with quiet precision. “Well,” she said lightly, “what a… thoughtful surprise. We weren’t expecting extended family this year.”

Raquel’s smile sharpened just slightly. “My dear,” she replied, voice velvet-smooth, “this is the Castillo residence. Family doesn’t require scheduling.”

Vivienne held her gaze for half a second too long. “Of course,” she answered pleasantly. “How fortunate.”

Eloise clapped her hands from the head of the room. “Enough!” she declared. “Let’s eat before I change my mind about feeding any of you.”

The dining room glowed in candlelight. Crystal reflected gold against dark polished wood. Outside, the Hudson lay black and still beneath the winter sky, snow catching the terrace lanterns in soft halos.

Eloise sat at the head of the table. As she always did. Small. Perfect posture. Regal despite the faint tremor in her hands.

Her nurse finished checking her blood pressure and smiled politely at everyone around the table. “All good tonight,” she said warmly. “But we’re still limiting the salt… and absolutely no overindulging in sugar.”

Eloise lifted her chin. “Ay, por favor,” she said lightly. “It’s Christmas.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Let this old Castillo matriarch indulge for one evening.”

A soft ripple of laughter moved around the table.

The nurse shook her head, amused. “One evening,” she conceded. Her gaze shifted deliberately to you and Harry. “I’m trusting you two,” she added gently. “Moderation.”

Harry inclined his head. “Of course.” You smiled. “We’ll behave.”

Eloise narrowed her eyes at you both, then softened immediately. “Ay, mis amores,” she sighed fondly. “Fine. I will listen to you.” She tapped your hand lightly.

You sat at Eloise’s left — just like last time. Just like you always had.

Her fingers slipped into yours almost instinctively, squeezing as if confirming you were solid, present, here. At times her gaze drifted — softening, unfocused — as though she were looking at a memory layered over your face.

“You cut your hair,” she murmured suddenly.

You hadn’t. But you smiled. “Maybe just a little,” you said gently.

A beat later she blinked, returning.

“Look at this dress,” she added, touching the fabric lightly at your waist.

You were wearing a structured, belted dress — classic, tailored, deep winter ivory that caught the candlelight beautifully.

“Elegant,” she declared. “And the necklace — ay, preciosa.”

“Thank you. You’re too kind, always notice everything,” you replied smoothly, sincere. “You have the best eye. I loved your dress too — that shade is beautiful on you.”

Eloise straightened slightly, pleased. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

She smiled, pleased with herself. “Perhaps one day we’ll go shopping again. I miss the city.”

Your stomach tightened for a different reason now. In her mind, it had only been two months.

“Of course,” you said gently, a little steadier this time. “We’ll make a day of it.”

She patted your hand. “Good. You always knew how to choose the right things.” Then, just as softly, she leaned closer. “You’re happy,” she said.

It wasn’t a question. You didn’t look at Harry. You didn’t need to. “Yes,” you answered.

Across from you sat Scarlet, composed and unreadable, watching everything. Mikey beside her — already halfway through his appetizers — casually pushing unwanted bites toward Sienna.

“Try some,” he whispered.

“Thanks, but I don’t want that,” Sienna muttered, pushing the plate back.

Lily leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity. At the far end, Lily’s dad Derek barely looked up from his phone.

At the opposite head of the table sat Raquel — deliberately claiming visual dominance. Her husband beside her. Vivienne across from her.

The air between them was silk over steel.

The conversation hovered around age — carefully circling it. No one said thirty-one.

In Eloise’s world, you were still twenty-six. Time had paused.

And honestly… in a way, that worked in your favor. You still felt like you were somewhere in your twenties anyway — lighter, softer, not quite ready to let go of that version of yourself.

He leaned closer, lips brushing your ear. “However old you get,” he murmured, voice low and sure, “you just get better.” His fingers tightened slightly at your waist. “Like fine wine.” A faint smirk. “Only difference is… you get sexier with every year.” He pulled back just enough to look at you properly. “And don’t think I don’t notice.”

“Oh please,” you murmured softly. “If anyone’s aging like fine wine here, it’s you, Señor Castillo.”You smoothed your hand over his lapel. . “You get more attractive every year. It’s becoming a problem.”

You were still smiling at each other when, like every year, Mikey started harassing you with his terrible jokes. “Smile while you can,” he murmured. “This is the last year your skincare routine is doing all the heavy lifting.”

Lily laughed — a little too eagerly. Under the table, your heel connected sharply with his knee.

Mikey jerked upright. “Ah—!” he inhaled sharply, forcing a tight smile.

Sienna burst into laughter.

“See?” Mikey said loudly, pointing accusingly at you. “This is what I deal with at home. Physical violence.”

You took a calm sip of water. “He’s exaggerating.”

“I’m not,” Mikey insisted, rubbing his knee dramatically. “She’s been assaulting me since childhood. I deserve compensation.”

“Shut up. You deserved that,” Sienna said cheerfully.

Raquel murmured something under her breath — you thought you caught the word “kids.” Vivienne rolled her eyes. “Oh, you’re the expert, mama.” Still… you couldn’t be certain you’d heard correctly.

“I wouldn’t worry about her,” Harry said evenly. “There’s someone here who plans to admire her at every age.” His gaze didn’t leave yours. “You might want to focus on your own prospects.”

You smiled at him. Sienna did too — even Lily looked at Harry with clear admiration. Mikey stared at him for a moment, a hint of jealousy in his voice.“Easy there, Romeo.”

A few quiet laughs slipped around the table. Vivivenne sipped his wine with a proud smile. Scarlet didn’t laugh. Her gaze remained fixed on you.

On the way Harry’s fingers brushed your wrist. On the way you didn’t pull away. On the way he looked at you.

The way he used to — as if the room didn’t exist. As if you had never divorced. As if the years between had only sharpened something instead of breaking it.

If anything, it looked stronger now. She noticed everything. She lifted her glass — already her fourth — and finished it in one controlled, elegant swallow. Without looking, she signaled subtly to the staff. “Another.” The wine was poured immediately. Scarlet didn’t thank her. Her eyes returned to you. To him. To the slight lean of your shoulders toward each other — unconscious, instinctive.

It wasn’t an act. It was real.

Eloise settled the matter of age with finality. “You’re young. Marriage is sweeter when it’s still new. You have years ahead to grow into it together. Every year better than the last.” Her eyes dropped to your hands. “Hold on to each other tightly. Whatever happens, don’t let go.”

Scarlet lifted her glass and took a slow sip. Vivienne set her fork down just a touch too carefully. Raquel smiled faintly into her wine.

Dinner shifted.

The staff moved in quiet synchrony, placing plates with polished precision. Your New York strip arrived, medium, still steaming. Normally it was one of your favorites. Tonight, the scent felt different. Too rich. Too heavy. Eloise leaned closer. “Your favorite. I had it prepared especially for your birthday.”

You touched her hand. “You’re too kind. I’m completely spoiled.” You cut into it. The aroma hit you harder than expected. Your stomach tightened. You forced a bite. Swallowed. Barely.

Scarlet watched you while cutting into her own steak. Mikey ate with alarming enthusiasm.

Lily chimed in brightly, “Medium is actually the only way to preserve the flavor profile—”

Sienna reached for the salt. Mikey grabbed it to pass it over. Lily moved faster. “I’ve got it.” Mikey stared at her. “Wow. Long arms.”

Raquel lifted her glass delicately. “Vivienne, darling… are you certain red meat is advisable? For your heart?”

Vivienne didn’t look up. “How touching. After five years away you’ve returned concerned for my cardiac health — and somehow entitled to the head of my table. We are blessed.”

“Mom,” Sienna muttered.

Harry reached behind her, resting a calm hand on Vivienne’s shoulder. “Mama.”

Raquel muttered something sharp in Spanish. Derek remained glued to his phone. Eloise snapped gently, “Derek. No phones at my table.” He sighed, lowering it halfway. Raquel added sweetly, “Bitcoin correcting again?”

Derek frowned. “It’s a temporary pullback. I’m watching an entry point.”

Harry spoke evenly. “Highly volatile asset class.”

Derek finally looked up. “You don’t believe in it?”

Harry took a measured sip of wine. “I prioritize sustainable cash flow and long-term stability over volatility. Real financial security comes from reliable income streams first — speculation should come after. That’s what changes the game.”

Derek swallowed and forced a smile, retreating to his phone.

You couldn’t take another bite. Your stomach turned again. You set your fork down and leaned toward Harry. “Will you finish mine? I’m saving room for pie.”

He pulled your plate toward him immediately. “Of course, love.”

Eloise laughed. “Ay, cariño. You always loved sweets. Your mother used to scold you.” She glanced at Scarlet knowingly and touched her hand warmly. “Don’t be so strict. I’m nearly eighty and now I can’t have any. Enjoy while you can, mis amores.”

Scarlet’s lips tightened. “Sugar accelerates aging. And pigmentation.”

You lifted a forkful of pie and took a deliberate bite, chewing while meeting her gaze.

Harry leaned closer, fingers brushing your shoulder. “You okay?”

“Just my stomach,” you murmured. “It’s nothing.”

Scarlet noticed the closeness again. She finished her fourth glass in one controlled motion.

Vivienne smiled faintly, her voice warmer this time.

“Scarlet,” she said gently, lifting her glass slightly, “tell it. Christmas Eve. We haven’t heard the full drama yet this year.” She glanced at Eloise with a knowing smile. “It wouldn’t be Christmas without it. Right mama?”

Eloise brightened immediately. “Yes, yes,” she urged. “Tell it again.”

Scarlet’s expression shifted — not sharp, but composed in that particular way mothers do when stepping into a memory they’ve told a hundred times and still cherish.

“I was eight months pregnant,” she began smoothly. “There was a storm that night. Snow everywhere. And then suddenly—” she placed her hand lightly over her abdomen, “the contractions started.” She allowed herself the smallest smile. “Richard nearly drove into a snowbank trying to get me to the hospital. I thought we wouldn’t make it.”

Mikey snorted softly.“They forgot the hospital bag.”

Scarlet turned her head slowly. “That detail is unnecessary.”

Mikey grinned, leaning back in his chair and winking at Sienna. “Lara said dad was pale, he looked like he was the one in labor. Apparently he kept asking the nurse if he was breathing correctly.”

A ripple of laughter moved around the table. Even Derek smiled.

“My stubborn girl,” Scarlet murmured gently looking at you. “Always on your own timing. My brave one.”

The table quieted just slightly.

You met her gaze. “I had a good teacher,” you said softly. “Thank you for that night. For all of it.”

Scarlet held your eyes a moment longer than necessary. “You were worth it.”

Harry leaned in and kissed your cheek. “A Christmas miracle,” he whispered.

You covered your mouth, laughing. “Stop.”

Lily had been watching the two of you carefully. When Eloise became distracted, chatting with Scarlet about your childhood, she leaned closer. “Oh by the way… Since last night, everyone’s talking.”

You didn’t look at her. “About what?”

“Whitmore’s son. Lucas. The way Harry destroyed him publicly.” A beat. “You’re actually back together, right?” Your pulse stalled.

At the same moment Vivienne raised one brow. “Whitmores?”

Scarlet rolled her eyes. Mikey stiffened.

“Richard’s old friend, Mark?” Eloise asked gently.

You and Harry locked eyes for one second. Controlled.

Lily inhaled to continue—Mikey calmly pushed a tart into her mouth. “Eat. You said you loved this one.”

Raquel snapped, “Stop. You’ll choke my daughter. Derek?”

Without looking up he muttered, “One second, I’m entering a low-cap altcoin. High upside potential.”

Vivienne interjected smoothly, “Isn’t supervising your daughter your responsibility?”

“I beg your pardon?” Raquel’s eyes narrowed.

Vivienne continued quietly, “You reappear after five years and choose Christmas.”

You kept smiling at Eloise, nodding, listening — but your ear was on them.

“Your mother thinks you’ve only been gone a month,” Vivienne added. “Did you ever worry about her? About the company? About what we handled?”

Raquel set her fork down sharply. “Jesus Christ, I’ve had enough. Harry invited me. Even if I wasn’t here, I was informed.”

Eyes turned toward Harry. Including yours.

Vivienne looked at him. “Harry?”

He exhaled. “Mom, I—”

Vivienne stood. “Excuse me.” She left the room.

Harry moved to follow.

You caught his arm. “The woman you were speaking to on the phone… was that her?”

His expression shifted. “I’ll explain later.”

“Explain to your mother first.”

He nodded and followed her out.

You turned back to the table. Scarlet slid a wine glass toward you. “Darling. Drink. I’ve noticed you haven’t touched your wine. Only water.”

You pushed it back gently. “Mother, I’m fine.”

Raquel snapped at Derek and stood abruptly. Lily and Sienna resumed whispering about something trivial. Mikey returned to eating.

You turned to Eloise with a bright smile, talking about New Year plans — in her mind, it was almost 2019. She lit up. And just like that, the war dimmed. The candles flickered. Dinner ended. Nothing was resolved.

After dinner, Christmas in houses like this unfolded in controlled layers. Whiskey in cut crystal. Low fire in the hearth. Conversations splitting into quiet corners.

Vivienne, Raquel and Harry stood near the study doors, their voices lowered but firm. Legal language drifted just enough for you to catch fragments — dissolution of claim, removal of rights, severing Castillo entirely. Eduardo’s name spoken without affection.

You stayed beside Eloise.

You told her about a fashion editorial you had never actually worked on — the one you would have done if life had taken a different turn. Fabrics, silhouettes, Paris showrooms. She listened like it was gospel, eyes bright, fingers curled around yours.

Sometimes her focus slipped.

“Did I hug you already?” she’d ask softly.

“Yes,” you would answer, smiling.

“Well, I’ll do it again.”

Scarlet stood in the corridor speaking quietly to Richard on the phone. Mikey was explaining to Sienna why some gym-sculpted finance boy was “visually impressive but spiritually vacant,” while Sienna pretended to listen, sipping her drink with mild amusement.

Lily posed in front of the grand Christmas tree, angling her phone toward the lights. Every few minutes she drifted over. “Which one?” she’d ask. You’d study the screen patiently, offering thoughtful critiques as if it truly mattered.

Eventually, it was Eloise’s bedtime.

You rose with her.

Vivienne joined you as you walked her upstairs. You sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hand until her breathing evened out. She drifted off mid-sentence, still smiling.

You pulled the blanket up gently. Closed the door behind you.

When you turned—

Vivienne was still there. She touched your shoulder softly. Her eyes were glassy.

For a moment you thought it was about Eduardo.But what she said startled you.

“I’m sorry.”

You blinked. “For what?”

She exhaled — once, then again, deeper this time. “Scarlet told me everything.”

That was enough. You swallowed. Folded your arms loosely, instinctively guarding yourself. “Vivienne—”

She stepped forward. Opened her arms. And slowly, carefully, wrapped them around you. You froze for half a second. The last time she had hugged you like this — truly — was your wedding day.

You let yourself soften. Your arms moved around her.

“I’m so sorry this happened to you,” she whispered, her hand smoothing over your hair. “As a woman… I cannot even imagine the pain you carried.” Her voice broke slightly. “I was angry at you for years. And all that time…” she inhaled shakily, “you were the one carrying the deepest wound. Because of my husband.”

Her husband. Not even saying his name.

“I should have protected you better.” You felt her shoulders tremble. “Thank you,” she continued quietly, pulling back just enough to look at you. “For giving us another chance. For giving my son another chance. I tried for years to bring his light back. And you did it without even trying.”

Your eyes burned. “Vivienne,” you said lightly, blinking fast, “are you actually trying to make me cry in couture?”

She let out a breathy, tearful laugh. “You’re right. No more crying. We’ve all done enough of that, haven’t we?”

You nodded. She cupped your face gently. “Happy birthday, darling,” she whispered. Then her voice softened further. “And… thank you for not walking away.”

You stilled.

“I know my son,” she continued quietly. “He never stopped loving you. Not for a day. I saw every decision he made. Every step he took. I know him better than anyone. He was angry, yes — but only because he was hurting.” Her fingers tightened slightly around yours. “And you,” she added, studying your face carefully, “you didn’t replace him. You didn’t choose someone else. Thank you for never truly letting him go. You healed him."

“He healed me too,” you said softly.

Vivienne held your gaze for a long moment. Then she nodded once.

“Yes,” she murmured. “That’s how you know.” A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. “That’s true love.” Her eyes flickered briefly — toward the staircase, toward the house. “No board vote can create that,” she said quietly. “No fortune can buy it.” She brushed her thumb lightly over your knuckles. “Don’t lose it.” A pause. “In this world… that’s the only thing that’s truly rare.”

Scarlet’s voice echoed through the upper hall as you and Vivienne stepped out of Eloise’s bedroom. You had just crossed past the Christmas tree below and were heading up the staircase when you realized everyone had gathered along the upstairs corridor.

Staff stood nearby, visibly uneasy.

Vivienne’s voice cut through first. “Why are you all still here? The rooms were prepared. Weren’t they?” She looked at the housekeeper.

The woman hesitated, then nodded carefully.

You moved instinctively to Harry’s side. “Mother, what’s going on?” you asked, glancing at Scarlet.

“Raquel and Derek are being given the East Wing guest room,” Scarlet said coolly. “Apparently I’m assigned the Blue Room. I would prefer the Garden Room.”

Vivienne blinked. “The Garden Room was prepared for Sienna and me. But if you insist, we can switch. We assumed you’d prefer to sleep alone.”

Scarlet’s eyes narrowed. “I assumed I’d be staying with my daughter.”

Vivienne’s jaw tightened. “Eloise believes Harry and her are married. They’ll stay in the Hudson Suite. As always.”

“But she’s asleep,” Scarlet countered smoothly.

Raquel waved a dismissive hand. “Settle this among yourselves. I’ve traveled sixteen hours. Goodnight.” She swept past with Derek.

Mikey came up the stairs at that moment. “Cedar Room radiator’s dead. It’s Siberia in there. I’m not freezing to death.”

Vivienne pressed her lips together. “Ah. Wonderful. In that case…”

She looked at Lily.

“The nursery was mine,” Lily said quickly. “Single bed. Already claimed.” She disappeared down the corridor.

Silence settled.

Scarlet turned to you and lightly hooked her fingers around your wrist. “Fine. We’ll take the Garden Room. You two can… adjust.”

Harry instinctively reached toward you, but his hand stopped midair when Scarlet stepped between you.

Mikey lifted his hand. “Excuse me. Where exactly do I fit into this arrangement?”

Scarlet smiled sweetly. “You can stay with Harry. The Hudson Suite is the largest room, isn’t it?”

All eyes shifted to them. Sienna giggled. You frowned. “Mother.”

“Goodnight,” Scarlet declared, already steering you toward the corridor.

You looked back at Harry over your shoulder, pouting slightly.

He was already looking at you with sad puppy dog eyes.

Vivienne paused near her door. “Goodnight, my son.”

“Night, brother,” Sienna added softly.

Mikey called after her, “Sleep well, Sienna.”

Soon it was just Harry and Mikey standing in the vast hallway.

Harry looked him up and down slowly, visibly unimpressed.

Mikey immediately adopted an exaggerated wounded expression. “You’re not leaving me in the corridor, right? I have nowhere to go. No one wants me.”

Harry rolled his eyes and turned toward the Hudson Suite. Mikey stayed planted, tilting his head dramatically at him. Harry exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath. He kept the door open. “Get in. Before I change my mind.”

Mikey’s face lit up. “You’re a hero, man.” He slipped inside far too cheerfully, clapping him on the shoulder.

Moments later—

Harry changed into sleepwear with a frown. Mikey glanced at the bed.

“No.” Harry said and pointed to the chaise. “You’re sleeping there.”

Mikey grimaced. “Relax. I have zero interest in sharing a bed with you, Mr. Arrogant, Overachieving, Incurably Handsome Castillo.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What did you just say?”

Mikey pulled on his T-shirt. “Nothing. Just… what my sister used to call you.”

Harry’s gaze sharpened. “What else did she say?”

Mikey shrugged. “Let’s see. Asshole. Jerk. Traitor. There was a dartboard phase. She said most of it while throwing darts. Your face was… heavily featured.” Mikey looked up at Harry’s expression and his grin vanished. “Ah. Right. Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that. You won’t tell her I told you, yeah?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Who else would? She’s smarter than both of us.”

“Fair. Anyway. You’re together now. Minor detail. You’ll figure it out.” He climbed under the blanket on the chaise.

Harry muttered under his breath, “We’re not together right now because of you.”Then he slid into bed, leaning back against the headboard. The other side — your side — was emptyHe looked at it for a moment. Exhaled. Then something shifted in his expression. A small, decisive smirk. “Right. We need to talk about that. Important subject,” he murmured to himself. He reached for his phone.

In the Garden Room, your phone lit up.

Scarlet was applying night cream at the vanity. You were slipping into your nightgown.

Your phone buzzed.

You read it.

Harry: Library. Ten minutes.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

You: Why? What exactly are we doing in the library?

A pause.

His reply came almost immediately.

Harry: It’s important. Mikey snores. You’re supposed to be here in my bed.

You laughed softly. The three messages had nothing to do with each other — there was definitely something else underneath. He was making excuses.

Scarlet’s eyes flicked to you in the mirror. “Who are you texting at this hour? Go to sleep.”

“Just finishing my skincare,” you said lightly.

She settled into bed. Two seconds later she sighed sharply and sat upright again. “Come here.”

Her tone was firm.

You turned, but stayed standing. “Mother, what’s wrong? You’ve been tense all evening. With me. With Harry.”

“How wouldn’t I be?” she snapped “You’re inseparable again. At dinner, you left the table and went straight to him. And last night — at the party — he took you with him. You spent the night together, didn’t you?”

You crossed your arms. “Yes. I told you. We’re together.”

Her eyes fixed on you. “Are you using protection? Your gynecologist told me you hadn’t discussed it.”

You swallowed. “Mother, why are we—”

“How can you be so reckless?” Her voice cracked. “Even if it’s a small chance — it’s still a chance. And this time it could-“ she paused, exhaled. "I almost lost you once.” Her voice broke.

You sat beside her instantly. “Mom.”

Her eyes dropped to your stomach. "Are you pregnant?”

“What? No!” You felt anger mix with hurt. “Where is that coming from?”

“You didn’t drink. You didn’t eat your favorite steak.”

“My stomach turned. That’s all.”

“You didn’t take a test?”

“No. Because there’s no reason. It’s nearly impossible. Yes, we should be careful. I know. But you don’t get to treat me like this.”

She reached for your hand. “It's because..." Her eyes were glassy now. "I’m thinking of you,” she said quietly. “Only you.” Her voice trembled despite herself. “I don’t ever want to stand on the edge of losing you again. Do you understand me?” You felt your chest tighten. “I don’t care if I never become a grandmother,” she continued, her voice cracking. “I don’t care about that. I don’t care about anything except you walking into every room alive.”

That did it. Your composure fractured. “Mom…” your voice broke.

She pulled you into her arms before you could say anything else.

You held on just as tightly. “Don’t,” you whispered against her shoulder. “Please don’t say it like that.”

She pressed her cheek to your hair. “I almost lost you once, my baby,” she murmured. “That was enough for one lifetime.”

Your tears slipped freely now. “I’m here,” you said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For a moment, neither of you let go.

You wiped your tears away, sniffing. “I’m not pregnant. I’m fine. We’ll be careful. I promise. I’ll make an appointment with my gynecologist.”

She searched your face for a long moment.

“One more promise,” she said softly. “Tomorrow, when we’re back in New York, we take a test. Just to be certain.”

You nodded. “Whatever makes you sleep peacefully,” you replied gently.

You both lay back against the pillows, distance between you but no longer tension.

She began speaking quietly about when you were little — how you refused to fall asleep unless you were holding her finger, how you would wake just to make sure she was still there.

Her voice grew slower. Softer.

Eventually, it faded.

You turned your head and watched her for a moment. In sleep, she looked smaller. Less guarded.

You leaned over and kissed her forehead lightly.

“Thank you for bringing me into this world, Mom,” you whispered.

She was the person you loved most in it. Nothing and no one could ever take that place from her. Despite everything, she would always hold the deepest corner of your heart.

But there was someone else too. Someone you couldn’t imagine living without.

And judging by the fact that he’d been sending you messages for the past fifteen minutes— he seemed to feel exactly the same way.

Your phone glowed softly on the nightstand.

Three more messages.

Harry: I’m in the library. Come here. Please, baby.

You exhaled a quiet laugh and slipped into your robe, careful not to make a sound. Opened the door slowly. And stepped into the dark corridor.

You slipped down the stairs on the very tips of your toes, as if the house might wake and scold you for moving too loudly. At the bottom, you eased your feet into your slippers and started across the main hall. Everything was quiet—so quiet you could hear the soft hush of your own breath.

To your right, the enormous Christmas tree shimmered in the dark like it had swallowed a pocketful of stars. Tiny lights winked between branches, ornaments catching and throwing glints of gold. The whole house felt suspended in that in-between hour—half asleep, half watching.

The library was just off the main hall on the right, tucked beneath the Garden Room like a secret kept behind thick walls. As you neared the door, the air seemed to change—less pine and candlewax, more old wood and something heavier, older.

You stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind you.

The room was dim, lit by a few low lamps that left the corners in shadow. Books rose in tall, dark rows, their spines lined up like silent witnesses. The scent hit you all at once: dust, leather, and history—pages that had been turned by hands long gone. It didn’t smell dirty. It smelled lived-in. Like time itself had settled here.

You took only a few steps—

Strong hands caught you.

You were yanked back against a solid chest, spun before you could even gasp, and then Harry’s mouth was on yours—sudden, sure, hungry. The kiss stole the ground right out from under you; you realized your feet weren’t touching the floor only when you reached for balance and found nothing but him.

A breathless laugh escaped you, half startled, half thrilled.

“What are you doing, Harry?” you managed, voice trembling with amusement. “I thought we were just going to talk.”

Harry’s mouth slid from your lips to your neck, and he made a sound low in his throat—more growl than laugh. “Why are we only talking, baby?” he murmured. “Is this a talk show?”

You giggled. His hands dropped to your hips, impatient, rough. When his fingers found lace covering your ass cheeks, his manhood twitched, and he exhaled like it hurt—in the best way.

“Harry—stop,” you said, though you didn’t put any real force behind it. “We're not fucking in the library.”

“Why not?” he said lightly. “A library is the perfect place.”His thumb traced your jaw.

“Romantic in theory. Filthy in practice.”

“Books judge,” you shot back, glancing toward the shelves, breath still uneven. “I’m fairly certain Jane Austen would disapprove, the entire Victorian era would faint, and the Founding Fathers would draft an amendment against this.”

Harry let out a low laugh against your neck. “Good,” he murmured. “I’ve never been interested in pleasing dead people. I prefer living audiences.” You bit your lower lip at his words and you could feel a warm flutter in your stomach that made you feel hot.

Without letting go of you, he reached for the nearest shelf and pulled out a book with casual confidence, one arm still locked around your waist. Your arms were still looped at his neck like your body had decided you weren’t done holding on.

“What about this?” he asked, turning the cover toward you.

KAMA SUTRA.

Heat rushed to your cheeks so fast you could practically feel it bloom.

“Oh my God,” you hissed. “Is that still here? Put it back. Lose it.”

Harry’s grin widened as he flipped it once, as if sampling a joke. “There are some very interesting things in here,” he said, voice smooth. “Educational, you know.”

You rolled your eyes. “The thought of Eloise—or anyone—having read that completely turns me off.”

“Mmm.” He slid the book back into place, then looked at you like you were the only thing worth reading. His fingers found the tie of your robe. Unraveling it like he had all the time in the world. “I can fix that.”

Mikey woke because his neck was killing him — tthe chaise was clearly designed by someone who hated human spines. He squinted toward the bed. “Harry,” he croaked hoarsely, half-asleep. “Can I at least curl up at the foot of the bed like a civilized person?”

Silence. He blinked. Empty. Still empty. He frowned, rubbing his eyes. “Couldn’t sleep, huh? Hah. Divine justice, I guess.” Half-awake and thirsty, Mikey shuffled into the corridor, intending to find the kitchen.

Then he paused. Leaning slightly over the banister, he caught sight of Vivienne descending the staircase quietly.

If she wasn’t in her room and Sienna was alone—

His brain activated hormonally. He straightened immediately, suddenly very alert, and padded quietly down the hallway toward Sienna’s door.

That’s when he saw it.

At the very end of the corridor. A silhouette. A greenish face. Round. Shadowed. Faintly glowing beneath the dim wall sconces.

Mikey froze. The blood drained from his face. His jaw trembled. His back pressed flat against the wall as if he could merge into it. His fingers clawed at the plaster.

The silhouette shifted. He inhaled sharply. And screamed.

“ALIEN GHOST—”

The sound ricocheted violently through the entire estate.

Doors flew open.

Scarlet stepped out first. “What on earth—”

Lily’s door cracked open, yawning. “Who is screaming?”

Raquel appeared from the corner. “Mikey, calm down!”

Vivienne, who had gone downstairs to check something in the kitchen, heard the scream and hurried back toward the staircase—

—and stopped.

Because at the bottom of the stairs, emerging from the direction of the library—

were you and Harry.

Hair disheveled. Breathing slightly uneven. Your robe loosely tied. His black T-shirt dragged hastily into place.

Vivienne froze mid-step. “Um… you heard that too?”

“It has to be Mikey,” you said quickly. “I’d recognize that scream anywhere.” You adjusted the strap of your nightgown in a hurry, pulling your robe tighter around you.

“Why is he screaming?” Harry avoided eye contact entirely, already moving. He brushed past his mother without a word and took the stairs two at a time.

You followed, discreetly pulling your robe tighter and adjusting your damp panties, tugging them free from between your ass cheeks.

Vivienne cleared her throat and looked away.

Upstairs chaos continued.

Scarlet found Mikey half-collapsed near the railing, clutching his chest dramatically. “What is happening?” she demanded.

Mikey pointed a trembling finger. Raquel stood there.

Face coated in a thick, green clay mask. Cucumber slices in hand.

“You look like an extraterrestrial haunting the Hudson Valley!” Mikey wheezed.

“It’s a detoxifying mask.”

“Detoxifying from what? Humanity?”

Lily groaned. “An alien ghost? What are you, five?”

Scarlet pinched the bridge of her nose.

Raquel turned to Derek. “Am I terrifying, darling?”

Derek didn’t look up from his phone. “Minimal disturbance,” he muttered. “Within acceptable variance.”

“I AM HAVING A CARDIAC EVENT,” Mikey protested from the floor.

Sienna rushed forward, offering him a hand. “Are you okay? You’re literally pale.”

Mikey held onto her firmly, causing her to wobble beneath his weight. “I saw the afterlife, Sienna.”

Harry stepped forward, calmly peeling Mikey off his sister. “Enough,” he said flatly. “Back to bed. Everyone.”

His eyes flicked briefly to you. A subtle wink. You bit back a smile.

Scarlet’s gaze sharpened instantly.

“You,” she said, eyes locking onto yours. “Why weren’t you in bed?”

Vivienne pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a smile. She leaned toward Sienna. “Come along, darling,” she murmured, ushering her down the hallway. The two disappeared quickly.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you replied smoothly. “Needed some air.”

Scarlet’s eyes narrowed slightly — not convinced.

Harry, meanwhile, draped an almost lazy arm over Mikey’s shoulder and steered him toward the suite. “Come here, buddy,” he said coolly. “You screamed like the house was on fire.”

Mikey waved a weak hand, still pale. “I thought I was going to die,” he muttered. “Those beauty masks should be illegal.”

Harry snorted under his breath and nudged him forward.

Doors began closing one by one.

You slipped into the Garden Room, Scarlet’s gaze following you the entire way — lingering — until the door shut behind you both.

Breakfast unfolded in its usual fashion — playful barbs, knowing glances, commentary served alongside coffee. But this time, it felt less like strategy and more like family. Eloise sat at the head of the table, fingers wrapped around yours as she reminisced about your wedding — about relatives who “couldn’t make it,” about the flowers, about how radiant you’d looked walking down the aisle.

You laughed easily now.

Harry added quiet comments. Light ones. Teasing ones. It didn’t hurt anymore.

In this house, in this moment, it felt as if nothing had ever broken.

Scarlet watched the two of you closely. For the first time, there was no sharpness in her gaze.

Only something softer. Hope. Even if she didn’t trust it yet.

It was almost peaceful.

Until the butler approached.

He bent discreetly between Harry and Vivienne. Two words.

“He’s here.”

The air shifted. Not dramatically. Worse. Silently.

Everyone froze except Eloise, who was mid-sentence about seating arrangements from five years ago.

You kept smiling at her. Nodding. Listening.

Harry’s chair scraped back sharply against the floor.

Vivienne stood immediately, gripping his arm before he could storm off.

“Control yourself,” she whispered.

Eloise looked up. Harry swallowed whatever rage was rising in him.

“Abuela,” he said evenly, “I’ll be right back.”

His eyes flicked to you. Then he walked out with Vivienne. Raquel followed seconds later.

Scarlet leaned toward you. “If you’re done eating, we should go. I haven’t been able to reach your father all morning.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Across the table, Sienna and Lily were whispering over something on a phone, pretending not to feel the tension.

Mikey ignored Sienna for the first time; his eyes were fixed on you and Scarlet.

Then—

Voices.

Raised.

Echoing down the corridor. Eloise tightened her grip on your hand. “What is happening?”

You squeezed back gently.

Before you could answer—

Eduardo walked in. He didn’t hesitate. He simply entered the dining room as if he still belonged there.

The shock rippled outward. You turned to Eloise.

She was staring at him.

Not with anger. Not with recognition. With confusion.

Behind him came Harry. Vivienne. Raquel.

Every gaze shifted to Eloise.

Waiting.

Your heart felt like it was splitting open inside your chest. Eloise slowly turned to you. “Who is this man, Queen?”

The question shattered something deep inside you.

Her son. Her own son. And she didn’t know him. Your lips parted. No sound came out. Only tears. You stood slowly, instinctively placing yourself beside her chair.

Protective. Cold.

“I don’t know,” you said evenly. “A visitor, perhaps.”

Eduardo’s face darkened. “How dare you—”

Harry stepped in front of him instantly. "Stop. And get out. Now.”

Eduardo’s eyes burned. “I’m here to speak to my mother.”

Harry’s voice dropped lower. “Funny. You remembered you had one.”

While they clashed, you and Vivienne helped Eloise to her feet, her hands trembling. "He said... That man said... mother..." she murmured.

The nurse hurried in. “Eloise, look at me.” She snapped her fingers gently, trying to focus her.

But Eloise’s gaze was locked on Eduardo. Struggling. Trying. And then—

Her body went limp.

You caught her before she hit the floor. "Eloise!"

“Abuela!” Harry was there instantly, lifting her carefully into his arms.

Raquel shoved Eduardo back hard. “Get him out of this house!”

Staff rushed forward.

Eduardo resisted for a moment.

Then was forced back.

You barely saw it. You were already following Harry up the stairs.

—

Hours later.

The sedative had taken effect. The nurse stepped out softly. “She needs rest. Let it wear off.”

The door closed.

You turned and wrapped your arms around Harry.

“She’ll be okay,” you whispered. “She’s strong.”

Sienna clung to her brother, crying quietly. Vivienne and Eduardo were further down the hall.

Arguing. Her voice breaking. You hated Eduardo in that moment.

For ruining the morning. For appearing at all. For existing.

And then—

Scarlet appeared.

White as paper. “We need to leave. Now.” She grabbed your arm. “Mom, what—”

“Now.”

A housekeeper hurried with your coat.

Mikey stood near the car outside, face pale.

“Scarlet, what is going on?” Harry demanded.

Scarlet’s voice shook. “Someone leaked it.”

“Leaked what?”

“This morning the press was tipped off about Switzerland. About why you stayed. About everything.” Your blood ran cold. “They know about Ilan. About Eduardo. About him being Harry’s half-brother.”

Silence. Heavy.

At the same moment, Harry’s phone rang.

Ron.

Harry stepped away to answer. You watched him. Watched the color drain from his face as he listened. When he looked back at you, you didn’t need words.

Damn.

You moved toward the car in a haze, the world around you muffled and distant.

Harry caught up just before the door closed.

“I have to go to the office,” he said quietly, but there was steel beneath it now. Controlled. Focused. “This needs to be contained before markets open.” His hand came up to cradle your face for a second, thumb brushing your cheek. “Hey.” His voice softened. “Look at me.” You did. “We’re going to handle this,” he said firmly. “All of it. I’ve got this. We’ve got this.” His forehead rested briefly against yours. “Don’t worry, baby. We’ll get through it.”

Your throat felt too tight to respond.

It was too much.

You nodded.

That was all you could manage.

He pressed a final kiss to your forehead, closed the car door gently —

—and stepped back into the storm.

The car pulled away.

And everything that had felt whole just hours ago splintered behind you.

The drive back to New York felt unreal.

Mikey sat forward, scrolling rapidly on his tablet. Every few seconds his face tightened.

Scarlet kept shaking her head, whispering under her breath.

“How… how does this happen? Who would do this? This can't be real. What are we supposed to do now?”

You didn’t look at your phone. You couldn’t. Your heart was beating too fast already.

Headlines were exploding across financial blogs and gossip sites:

SWISS CLINIC BOMBSHELL: Was Queen Silenced After Assault Allegations? CASTILLO DYNASTY IN CRISIS: Secret Half-Brother at Center of Scandal HEIR, HALF-BROTHER, AND A COVER-UP? Inside the Castillo Family Fallout CORPORATE COVER-UP: Did Castillo Capital Bury a Private Crime?

Your name. Harry’s name. Ilan’s name. Eduardo’s name. All tangled.

Scarlet's phone rang.

Lara.

She answered. Her voice was trembling. “Scarlet!! Oh my God.. Richard...” The world narrowed. “He collapsed. It’s his heart. They’re taking him into surgery.”

Scarlet dropped her phone. It clattered against the leather seat. And then she fainted sideways into you. “Mom!”

Mikey swore loudly.

You caught her, heart racing. “Hospital. Now!” You yelled at driver.

Lara stayed on the line, voice breaking. “They’re prepping him for emergency bypass. I’ll meet you there.”

The car accelerated.

When you arrived, the press was already there. Of course they were.

Flashbulbs exploded in your face the moment the car door opened.

“Miss Queen! Is it true?” “Is this connected to the Castillo scandal?” “Were you assaulted by your ex-husband’s half-brother?” “Is it true you were sent to Switzerland to keep this quiet?”

You shielded your face instinctively as security forced a path through.

Scarlet had come to, barely.

Mikey snapped. “Get that out of her face!” He shoved the camera back — not enough to break it, but enough to send the journalist stumbling half a step. “Back off!”

Inside, you were rushed to a private elevator.

Up.

Surgery floor. They had already taken him in.

Emergency triple bypass. The word “critical” floated through the air like poison. Hours passed. Three. Four. Five.

Emily arrived first, breathless. Her mother, Hinata, behind her.

Then Chloe. Then Yuliana. You hadn’t seen her in years. She hugged you tightly.

Vivienne and Harry arrived shortly after. Harry didn’t leave your side. Not once. His arm stayed around you.

But his phone did not stop ringing. Markets had opened in Asia already. Castillo Capital stock had dropped 11% pre-market. Speculative sell-offs.

Institutional investors requesting clarification. Two major hedge funds had begun reducing exposure. Board members were demanding emergency calls. Media was linking Richard’s collapse to “corporate instability.” The narrative was building. Crisis begets crisis. Harry spoke in a calm and measured tone. “Yes, we’re drafting a statement.” Another call came in. “No, there’s no breakdown in governance.” Then yet another call. “We’ll tackle it at market open.” But even he couldn’t stop the momentum.

Six hours after surgery began, the sky outside the hospital windows had gone dark.

The hallway lights felt too bright.

Finally—

The doors opened.

The surgeon stepped out. You stood instantly.

“Doctor. My father?”

Your hands were shaking. Harry’s arm tightened around your waist.

The doctor’s expression was calm but serious.

“Mrs. Queen,” he began, turning first to Scarlet. “Your husband has survived the procedure.” Air returned to your lungs, Mikey squeezed scarlet's hand. “But,” he continued carefully, “this is his second myocardial infarction. The bypass was complex. We stabilized him, but recovery will be delicate.”

Scarlet’s knees nearly gave out. The doctor continued. “From this point forward, stress is no longer an option. No executive decision-making. No confrontation. No media exposure. I strongly recommend psychological support as well. His heart cannot withstand another episode like this.”

“How long in ICU?” you asked.

“At least forty-eight hours. Possibly longer. Then we evaluate.”

You nodded. You were already thinking structurally.

By midnight, exhaustion had settled into everyone’s bones.

Scarlet was still sitting upright in the chair outside the ICU viewing window, eyes fixed on the glass as if sheer willpower could stabilize the monitors inside.

Vivienne knelt gently in front of her.

“Scarlet,” she said softly, firm but kind. “You need rest.”

“I’m not leaving him,” Scarlet replied hoarsely.

Lara stepped in beside her. “You fainted in the car today,” she reminded her quietly. “If Richard wakes up tomorrow, he’s going to need you standing. Not collapsing again.”

Scarlet’s composure trembled.

“There’s nothing we can do tonight,” you said gently, crouching in front of her. Your voice was calm, even if your insides weren’t. “He’s in ICU. They won’t let us in. We’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

Scarlet looked at you for a long moment.

Then finally nodded.

Vivienne and Lara helped her to her feet. Not dramatically. Not weak — just worn.

“I’ll call you if anything changes,” you promised.

“You better,” Scarlet whispered, squeezing your hand.

They left together — Vivienne steady at her side, Lara guiding her carefully down the corridor.

The hospital felt quieter after they disappeared.

And then Gerard arrived.

Queen Financial’s CFO.

Late forties. Steady. Discreet. He had been your father’s right hand for years. He approached quietly.

“Miss Queen. Mr Queen.”

You turned. “Gerard.”

His voice was low. “The board is requesting interim direction. Investors are nervous. They need visible stability.”

Harry watched carefully, but did not interrupt.

Gerard continued. “We don’t just have a PR crisis. We have exposure.”

You frowned. “Exposure how?”

“Whitmore Holdings began accumulating minor positions this morning.”

Harry’s head lifted.

Gerard continued calmly: “They’re opportunistic. If they push past 9.9%, they’ll demand disclosure leverage. If they hit 15%, they’ll start influencing board votes.”

Your pulse sharpened. "So this isn’t about headlines.”

“No,” Gerard said evenly. “It’s about control.” A beat. “If your father is incapacitated and markets sense leadership hesitation, we become vulnerable.”

Harry asked, “Hostile?”

Gerard didn’t blink. “Potentially." He turned to you. “Ms Queen. The board will follow your father’s designated successor. That’s you. You need to step in. Publicly.”

You shook your head slightly. “I can’t. Not now.”

Gerard’s tone softened, but remained firm. “You don’t have to do it alone. I’ll stand beside you in every earnings call. But if you don’t lead this, someone else will. And Whitmore would enjoy that.”

Harry stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“He prepared you for this. I’ve seen it. You don’t just understand numbers — you see people. Markets. Optics.” A beat. “You see the whole field.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t know if I can carry all of it,” you admitted.

Harry didn’t hesitate. “You don’t carry it alone.”

That landed.

Mikey, who had been leaning against the wall unusually quiet, straightened. “Yeah,” he said, softer than usual. “And if anyone thinks they can push you around because things look messy right now, I’d love to see them try.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, shrugging. “I’ll sit in every damn hallway outside every meeting if I have to. I’m not letting Whitmore walk in like he owns the place.”

Gerard almost smiled.

Harry’s gaze stayed on you. “They’re betting on instability,” he said evenly. “Prove them wrong.”

Gerard’s call came just after sunrise.

The board wanted visibility. Stability. A statement before markets opened.

You ended the call and stood very still for a moment.

Mikey was pacing near the window, jaw tight. Harry was already watching you.

You turned away from them both and sat down slowly.

And that’s when it hit.

“Harry… what are we going to do?” you whispered. “This is too much.”

You stared down at your hands resting in your lap. They didn’t feel like yours. They felt small. Fragile. Useless.

Tears slid down your cheeks before you even realized you were crying.

You had never felt this powerless.

For one reckless second, you wished you had never come back to New York.

You should have stayed in Vermont. Stayed just the two of you. Stayed anonymous.

There, no one would have cared about stock prices. Or legacy. Or headlines. There would have been no shareholders. No reporters screaming your name outside hospital doors.

But neither of you had ever been that selfish.

You had families. You had companies. You had empires built on reputation.

And now—

You were the crack in the marble.

Outside, reporters swarmed like vultures. Even breathing felt like inhaling glass.

Harry’s hand closed over yours. His other hand lifted your chin gently, forcing you to look at him.

“We made a promise,” he said quietly. “No matter what happens nothing would come between us.”

You shook your head, tears blurring your vision.

“But this isn’t just about us,” you whispered. "Our families are hurting too.”

He swallowed. His jaw tightened.

And for a second—

You saw it.

The same helplessness you felt reflected back at you, but also he looked at you like he made a decision.

“Then there’s only one thing left to do,” he said, certain.

Your stomach dropped. You already knew. You didn’t want him to say it. You gave the smallest nod.

“I hate that I even have to ask you this,” he said quietly.

Harry looked at you and took both your hands in his.

“I told you I would never let you go,” he said quietly. “Not unless you’re the one who decides you don’t want me anymore. I meant that. I still do.”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“And I know you won’t let me go either.”

Your throat burned.

“For one second,” he added, softer now, “I wish we could disappear. Just leave. Somewhere no one knows our names. No boards. No headlines. No shareholders.”

The corner of his mouth curved faintly.

“Ridiculous fantasy for someone running a global firm. I’m aware.”

You let out a weak laugh. “I like when you say reckless things like that.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully. “I do it well, don’t I?”

You both laughed.

It faded just as quickly.

Reality settled again.

“So,” Harry murmured, locking his eyes with yours, “My Queen…”

A breath.

“Will you be my secret girlfriend?”

You blinked at him.

He continued, perfectly serious.

“Strictly off the record. No public displays. No holding hands in front of shareholders. Occasional strategic eye contact permitted.”

Despite everything, a broken laugh slipped from you.

“This is your idea of romance?”

“It’s the only version that keeps both empires standing,” he replied calmly. “Yours and mine.”

His thumb brushed your jaw.

“In public, we’re disciplined. Untouchable.”

A pause.

“In private… I’m still finding you in my bed.”

Heat flickered through your exhaustion.

You arched a brow. “Ah. A woman dreams of nothing more.”

He smirked faintly. “You don’t seem particularly disappointed.”

You leaned closer.

“I suppose I could accept the arrangement,” you said lightly. “As long as the benefits package is compelling.”

His hand slid to your waist.

“Oh, it is,” he murmured.

You smiled — tired, emotional, steady.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Off the record.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He kissed you — not urgent, not reckless.

Slow.

Certain.

A promise sealed quietly between you.

Outside, cameras waited.

Inside, you chose each other anyway.

And for now —

That was enough.

ps:  I removed the library sex scene from this chapter to keep the length under control — it will be posted separately as a drabble (yes, for very obvious reasons). From here on, the trajectory of the story shifts slightly. We’re heading toward the final arc, and there are more surprises waiting. Buckle up.

thanks for reading, likes, comments, reblogs are appreciated ❤️

AND PLEASE SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS WITH ME ❤️ IT'S SOOOO IMPORTANT TO MEEEE 🥰 taglist: @lailathepedritofan @pedroslut4eva @picketniffler @simpingforjoel @blackborndue @balhoneystuff @shinymusicpanda @queenofodds @kluvspedro @javiismyhsbnd @aurorathegreekprincess @daejangandimja @longlivekingminnn @jisungandpedrolover @javiismyhsbnd @aurorathegreekprincess @daejangandimja @longlivekingminnn @stylesispunkk @stylesispunk @joelmillerspnk

@temporalgauntlettrinity @vickie5446 @yourfavouritecrime @inept-the-magnificent @indiegirlunited @balhoneysweetstuff @orcasoul @blackborndue @mandolauren @catofash @shinsegismylove @anheloamores @joelmillerspnk @peelieblue @pasc4lfuzz @missladym1981 @eviispunk @mayflwrz @cozymochaa

@person-005 @deviscave @maried01 @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @copperhalfcent @noisynightmarepoetry @zanylightmilkshake @callmecath1 @15christyxoxo @deppydelta @annewithaneofthegreengable @kellyxo1 @msmorningstaarr @kauyu @sweetestharley @shinymusicpanda @comfortzonequeen @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @readingiskeepingmegoing @sesdeuxyeux @burninglovedreamsdepp @somedayheaven @krystal---meth @palomavz @luciebisaku @beezusvreeland @ro-nahime-things @crazysouthernlady @h4rkonn3n @pedge-page @themoviefangirl-blog @the-sophverse @sunnytuliptime @somedayheaven @readingiskeepingmegoing @sesdeuxyeux @burninglovedreamsdepp @somedayheaven @krystal---meth @palomavz @luciebisaku @beezusvreeland @ro-nahime-things @crazysouthernlady @h4rkonn3n @pedge-page @themoviefangirl-blog @hystericalanduseless9

He smirked. “You started it, Mrs. Castillo.”

There we go. The chapter had barely started and I'm grinning and blushing like a maniac 🤭

You turned slowly toward him. “So, no lilies,” you mocked. “Not even in the building,” he chuckled. “I checked.”

Awww hdushfusj dream man fr 😩💕

In joyful, chaotic harmony: “Happy Birthday, Miss Queen!” “We love you!”

literally gasped omygoshh why are there dust in my eyes?? 🤧

“I wouldn’t worry about her,” Harry said evenly. “There’s someone here who plans to admire her at every age.” His gaze didn’t leave yours.

i just died from sugar overdose

“For giving us another chance. For giving my son another chance. I tried for years to bring his light back. And you did it without even trying.”

aww mann i cant read, the text is blurry 🥺

“Goodnight,” Scarlet declared, already steering you toward the corridor.You looked back at Harry over your shoulder, pouting slightly.He was already looking at you with sad puppy dog eyes.

GAAHHH why are they so cuteee

“I don’t care if I never become a grandmother,” she continued, her voice cracking. “I don’t care about that. I don’t care about anything except you walking into every room alive.”

Angel stop making me cry please. the way your write every character is so well thought out. Scarlet's paranoia and love for her daughter is just.. perfect (for lack of better words because I'm literally speechless rn)

“Books judge,” you shot back, glancing toward the shelves, breath still uneven. “I’m fairly certain Jane Austen would disapprove, the entire Victorian era would faint, and the Founding Fathers would draft an amendment against this.”

pfft help she's so funny 🤣

i need abuela to be okay

oh my gosh Richard too??

“Will you be my secret girlfriend?”

oh. oh. 🤭

Inertia by @half-moon16 - Javier and F!Reader work together at the DEA, there's tension there, the question is who will set thing into motion and cross the line between co-workers.

Crosshairs by @rosharanfiction - There's something about Jackson’s newest resident that gets under Joel’s skin. It’s not just Javier Peña’s cocky attitude that Joel can’t stand - it’s his tight pants and his too-smooth voice, and especially the way he’s sleeping with half of Jackson.Its a Javier Peña x Joel Miller (so you know you're gonna get 2 things, grumpiness and hotness)

Haunted by @cozymochaa- Javier is sent for undercover work to take down the cartel. He finds his in with the drug lord's secret daughter, but quickly learns that Reader nothing like your father. The lines between his job and his desire to protect her start to blur, forcing him to make a difficult decision.

Life with Javier Peña by @pascalispunkczechia. Written in the form of journal entries from Javier’s point of view. It's a collection of beautiful little slice of life moment between Javier and his wife.

Somewhere Only We Know by @milla-frenchy : Friends to lovers between Javier and Reader it's story about two people who are very dear to each other, but too scared to turn their friendship into something else. They search for each other in other people and places until fate brings them back together at the right time

Ezra

I don't have any Ezra multi chapter WIPs to rec... but do I have one coming 😉. For now I'm going to Rec a lovely little one shot that came out recently.

Little Dove by @bergamote-catsandbooks - Ezra and Cee make it off the green, but Ezra is hurt and feverish. He reflects on his past choices as Cee tries to keep him awake. (I tired to get them to make it a series, but alas some things are perfect as they are... short and sweet.)

Frankie Morales

More Than Letters- (@almostfoxglove)- A love story about pen pals that somehow lost their way. Filled with angst, miscommunication, lost presents, yearning, heartbreak and hopefully a happy ending.

The Boyfriend Act by @capuccinodoll - Frankie x f!reader - A beautifully Frankie story. Santiago's sister and Frankie Morales have never gotten along, but faced with an ex's wedding and a big overly involved family the two make a deal to pretend to be together, which should work... so long as they don't kill each other first...

Small Things of a Whole by @sawymredfox

Beautifully written snippets of a tender relationship between Benny and Frankie.

The Devil's Pilot by @vodkaandpizza (shameless self-rec😉) - Ex-addict Frankie Morales is doing his best to be a good father to his daughter. On the straight and narrow and out of the military he gets a job flying a helicopter for the San Antonio DEA. As a result he meets a smart-mouthed, fast-talking investigative reporter who also happens to be the step-daughter of legendary DEA Agent Javier Peña

... What could possibly go wrong?

Clint Flood

(guys we need more muti chapter clint fics!)

Somebody Else by @rosharanfiction - Reader is a waitress at a diner by day and a call girl by night. The regular she's been crushing on, a lonely single dad named Clint books his regular waitress for the night in an attempt to get used to intimacy again since the tragic loss of his wife.

(It's completed, and a one-shot, but the author might be making another part -or is that wishful thinking- and it's my favourite Clint fic so it counts ok?)

The Man and the Moon by @vodkaandpizza - Clint finds himself in a tiny northern Canadian harbour and gets a job as a cook in the harbour marina's restaurant. When autumn comes and the seasonal resident leave for the city a mysterious woman shows up on a beach across the from the marina. Clint sees her every night as the seasons change he gets to know her and the rest of the locals a whole lot better.

Marcus Acacius

The General by @juletheghoul - Marcus Acacius x f!reader - It's hot and steamy, and then they start having feelings and I also have feelings and I love them and want to be with them.

Mistress of puppets by @myownwholewildworld - Concubine Marcus x Queen reader - This is more a collection of stories, and this me hoping we get more of them. I am obsessed.

The Lesser Of Two Evils by @orcasoul - General Marcus Acacius x reader (Gladiator II) - OFCReader is and enemy of both Rome and the Germanic people. She is living a life of servitude and despair, until her life is upended by a mysterious Roman General...

This Never Happened by @rosharanfiction - Modern AU - Reader hooks up with a man -with great hair - in a bar right before she starts her new job as an attorney for a real estate developer. Which would have been fine if that man didn't turn out to be her new boss...

Pero Tovar

Fate Unbound by @avastrasposts - Pero is a thrall during the 12th century Viking era. He makes a pact with the daughter of his captor, turning foes into unlikely allies. It's beautifully written and has great historical elements. Her Pero is excellent as well.

Harry Castillo

The Ex Education by @missadangel - Reader married Harry when they were young. They and in the same weathy circles in New York. When it didn't work out reader left the city to heal. Years later her Family's fallen hard times which land reader working for her Ex husband... what could go wrong...

Oberyn Martell

I Seek A Prince Of Poisons to Brew for Me a Flame by @oonajaeadira - F!Reader has two agendas on your mission to the palace at the Water Gardens of Dorne. One is business. One is a secret. But Ellaria and Oberyn have their own plans for her.

Joel Miller

Finding hope in you by @shadowqueen2024 - After Reader's husband died on one of the supply runs Tommy organized, leaving her and her 5-year-old daughter alone she is lost. Then Joel and Ellie settle down in Jackson after their trip to the Fireflies. As a favour to Maria, he meets reader and her daughter. It’s slow burn with angst.

Unexpected by @orcasoul - An unplanned pregnancy stirs up trouble for Reader and Joel as they work through fears new and old.

What if @bluestar22x - Joel x f!reader - Imagine, a Choose Your Adventure, set in Jackson, where you can fall in love with Joel, decide what happens in every step? It sounds too good to be true? Well it exists! And it needs to get more attentions!

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not by @auteurdelabre - A soul mate AU where OFC and her cousin have the same tattoo... and so does Joel Miller. that's okay OFC doesn't care about could mates, but her little cousin is ecstatic to have found hers...

From the Ground Up by @ak-vintage - After getting laid off from her job and forced to start over again, Reader is forced to move back in with her parents where she gets a jobs working at her Dad's bet friend - Joel's construction business. (A great story with the characters are fully fleshed, and a well set the plot. )

Healed by @whocaresstillthelouvre - Joel x f!reader - Joel survies his encounter with Abby and Reader - Jackson's newest resident is tasked with healing him. (Oh this is so soft, so beautiful. It's the peace and quiet Joel deserves. Reading it is like drinking a warm beverage in a cosy blanket. -@bardot49 with a poetic referral)

Nothing Left by @nonbinairyboi - Nonbinary!reader who hasn't spoken in years settles in Jackson. When Joel and Ellie show up they can't help but be drawn to the curious duo. (This is such a well researched, beautifully written story. The subjects are heavy, but they are treated with so much care and love. - @bardot49)

Dividers by @diviniyea and @dividers-are-us-are-us

Thank-you to everyone who helped put this together with great recs!: @bardot49 @bergamote-catsandbooks @awkwardpaws @grogusmum @galway-girlatwork @hystericalanduseless9 let me know if you rec's something and I missed it!

Writers let me know if you want anything removed!

We'll se how this goes. I will hopefully be putting together a classics one. But I really wanted to highlight great flics being written right now and hopefully get the writers some great engagement to put some motivation in those typing fingers! Never underestimate the power of a comment!

The voice rips through the gray Seattle afternoon between ragged breaths as two men shove past abandoned cars, shoulders slamming hard enough into dented metal to shake loose fragments of broken glass.

Another gunshot cracks across the street.

Not close. Far. Sharp enough to split the city open.

The bullet tears past the first man’s head so close he feels the heat of it scrape his ear before it punches into the rusted hood beside him—

CLANG.

Sparks burst violently off metal. “Fuck!” he gasps, stumbling sideways.

Another shot. The second man’s head snaps backward in an explosion of blood and bone.

Red sprays across the survivor’s face.

For half a second the body keeps running. Then collapses violently against the pavement with a sick crack. The remaining man chokes on a scream.

“Aah— Jesus fucking Christ!”

He runs harder.

Adrenaline floods his legs so violently they barely feel attached to him anymore. His boots slam through puddles as he forces himself forward between abandoned FEDRA trucks swallowed by vines and collapsed barricades overtaken by moss.

Another shot cuts through the rain-heavy air. This one hits. The bullet punches straight through his thigh.

“AHH— FUCK!”

He drops instantly, shoulder smashing against wet asphalt hard enough to tear skin through his jacket. Pain detonates through his leg while blood spills hot between trembling fingers clawing desperately at the wound.

He tries dragging himself toward the nearest overturned truck.

Breathing too hard. Too loud. Too terrified.

He glances back.

His friend’s body lies twisted in the middle of the flooded street twenty feet away, rainwater slowly carrying diluted ribbons of blood toward a clogged drain.

Then—

Nothing. Silence. No third shot. The man’s chest heaves violently.

Why didn’t she kill me?

Shaking hands fumble at his torn pant leg, yanking the soaked fabric high enough to reveal the bullet wound shredding through the side of his thigh.

Clean shot. Missed the artery. Deliberate.

Then—

Footsteps. Soft against wet grass nearby.

Slow. Controlled. A revolver cocks. The metallic click echoes louder than the gunfire. The man jerks for the pistol holstered at his hip instinctively—

BANG.

The bullet tears straight through his hand. He screams.

The gun flies uselessly across the pavement as he throws himself backward in panic, scrambling away on elbows slick with blood and rainwater.

“You fuckin’ psycho bitch!” he screams hysterically, clutching his ruined hand against his chest. “I told you everythin’! What the fuck else do you want?!”

The footsteps stop. A figure emerges slowly through the drifting rain. Black jacket darkened by water. Sniper rifle hanging loose against your back. Expression cold enough to freeze blood. You crouch slowly in front of him and press the revolver against the center of his forehead.

The man’s breathing turns ragged instantly.

“Listen— listen to me, okay?” Blood bubbles faintly at the corner of his mouth as panic makes him speak too fast. “I swear to God we ain’t WLF anymore! We left! We’re headin’ south, alright? Santa Barbara! We told you where the hospital is! I wasn’t lyin’!”

Your eyes narrow slightly. No sympathy. No hesitation.

“You shot my fuckin’ dog.”

BANG.

The back of his skull bursts against the pavement. Silence crashes back over the street. Rain taps softly against abandoned cars. Thunder rolls somewhere far beyond the skyline. The faint ringing left behind by gunfire hums inside your ears. Without another glance toward the corpse, you holster the revolver. At your boots lies an unfolded map stained dark with rainwater and blood.

Earlier, while you questioned them, one of the Wolves managed slipping free from the zip ties around his wrists and bolted.

Taxi lunged before you could stop him. The gunshot came immediately after. Too fast. Too close. The bullet only grazed his front leg.

Lucky.

You crouch beside the map beneath the weak glow of your flashlight and study the markings carefully.

Hospital.

A rough circle near a cluster of taller buildings farther north. Your jaw tightens slightly. “Thirty miles,” you mutter quietly.

The map folds neatly before disappearing into your back pocket. Behind you, Taxi lets out a low whine. Your head turns instantly.

“There you are.”

The shepherd limps toward you through wet grass, ears tilted back slightly in annoyance more than pain.

You kneel beside him immediately, gently lifting the injured leg into your lap. “Hey.”

Your voice softens despite yourself. “What did we talk about, huh?”

Taxi huffs.

“You don’t throw yourself in front of bullets.”

He barks once.

You snort quietly while wrapping fresh bandages around the graze wound.

“I had it handled.” Another bark. Then a softer whine. “Yeah, yeah.” You lean down and press a kiss against the top of his head. “Good boy.” Taxi leans briefly into your shoulder before you stand again, slinging the rifle back across your shoulder.

“C’mon,” you murmur. “Let’s find somewhere to sleep.”

Your eyes drift toward Seattle looming against the storm-dark horizon. Huge. Silent. Waiting. “We move again tomorrow.”

Taxi barks once. Together, you walk past the cooling corpse left behind in the rain. Your boots splash through shallow puddles. Taxi’s paws thud softly beside you. Neither of you looks back.

The café sits dark between two collapsed storefronts, half-hidden behind overgrown ivy and years of rain damage. The faded sign overhead swings lazily in the wind. You stop across the street first.

Always across the street.

Your eyes move slowly over shattered windows, rooftop lines, alley entrances. Listening before moving. Watching before breathing.

Seattle feels wrong at night. Too quiet one second. Too alive the next.

Taxi stands beside your leg, ears twitching toward the dark building. “You smell somethin’?” you murmur.

The shepherd huffs softly but doesn’t growl.

Good enough.

You cross the street carefully, boots splashing through shallow rainwater before stopping beneath the old café awning. Rain drums softly against rotten canvas overhead.

The front door doesn’t budge at first.

Swollen wood. You shove your shoulder into it harder. The hinges groan.

Then the door finally jerks inward with a burst of stale air carrying old coffee, mildew, and wet dust.

Your flashlight cuts through darkness slowly.

Tables overturned. Broken mugs. A mold-covered pastry display near the counter. Dead vines crawl across one wall where rainwater leaks through cracked ceiling tiles.

Taxi slips inside first, paws silent against warped hardwood.

You wait. Listen. Nothing.

No clicking. No breathing. No shifting somewhere deep in the dark.

Still, your hand stays close to Joel’s revolver at your hip.

You slip inside the café quietly and pull the door shut behind you before dragging a rusted metal chair beneath the handle.

Not enough to stop somebody determined. Enough to buy you a few seconds.

Habit.

Your backpack drops beside the counter with a tired thud while you crouch near the entrance, pulling thin wire and two empty cans from one of the side pouches.

Taxi watches silently from the doorway.

You glance toward him briefly while tying the wire low across the handle. “Better find more of these tomorrow,” you mutter. “We’re officially running outta food.”

Taxi blinks once. “Yeah, don’t look at me like that. You eat more than I do.”

One of his ears twitches.

The cans clink softly together while you secure them beside the wall. Crude. Fast.

Enough to wake you if infected—or worse—wander inside during the night.

Only after that do you finally move deeper into the café. The beam of your flashlight catches an old employee sign hanging crooked near the kitchen entrance.

MANAGER

The office door sits half-open beyond it. Small room. No windows except one narrow pane overlooking the rain-soaked street outside. Rain taps steadily against the cracked window overlooking the street outside, the sound muffled beneath distant thunder rolling somewhere deep over Seattle.

Taxi limps in after you, nails clicking softly against warped hardwood.

Your flashlight beam moves across the room slowly.

Peeling wallpaper curls away from damp walls. Water stains spread dark across the ceiling above. An old chandelier hangs crooked overhead, half its glass bulbs shattered, long dead electrical wires spilling downward like black vines tangled through hanging ivy creeping in from the broken corner of the ceiling.

The whole place feels abandoned in a tired sort of way. Not violent. Just forgotten.

Your eyes land on the couch against the far wall. Dark leather. Old. Still intact somehow. “Well,” you mutter under your breath. You walk over and drag your palm across the top cushion first. Dust coats your skin immediately. You grimace faintly before smacking your hands together a few times, watching gray powder drift through the flashlight beam. “Jesus.”

Taxi huffs softly behind you.

“At least somebody around here’s clean.”

The shepherd blinks at you without remorse. You drop your backpack beside the couch before finally sitting down. The leather creaks beneath your weight. Then your eyebrows lift slightly. “Hm.” You lean back deeper into the cushions. “Actually kinda comfortable.”

The room answers only with the soft groaning of old pipes somewhere inside the walls.

Your gaze drifts toward the desk near the window. A little metal plaque still sits crooked near the edge beneath layers of dust.

LEONARD MITCHELL - GENERAL MANAGER

You stare at it for a second. “Nice office, Leonard.”

Taxi circles twice before climbing carefully onto one of the smaller armchairs nearby, turning until he finds a comfortable position despite the bandaged leg. He lets out a tired grunt before finally curling into himself.

Your mouth twitches faintly at the sight.

Then silence settles over the room. Heavy.

A leather couch rests against the far wall beneath dusty shelves stacked with old paperwork and mold-swollen binders. The room smells old.

Thunder rolls softly somewhere far outside while rain streaks down the office window in silver lines. For a moment, neither of you moves. The city groans around you. Old pipes. Distant wind. Something metallic banging somewhere far down the street. Seattle never really sleeps. Neither do you.

You finish wrapping Taxi’s leg before leaning back against the couch with a tired exhale. Your rifle rests within arm’s reach. Revolver beside your thigh. Knife still strapped near your boot. Taxi stares toward the office door, ears twitching sharply. You both listen. Nothing. Just distant movement somewhere outside. Far enough away. The sound fades slowly back into the storm. Taxi lowers his head first. You follow a second later. Neither of you fully relaxes. You doubt either of you remembers how anymore.

You lean your head back against the couch and stare upward. The ceiling above is cracked open in places, tangled electrical wires hanging loose between patches of water damage and creeping ivy. Rain leaks steadily somewhere deeper inside the café.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

You close your eyes for a second. And immediately think of him.

Of course you do.

Your chest tightens before you can stop it. This office—cold, damp, rotting around the edges—is so far away from the warmth of Jackson it almost feels unreal. So far from his bed. From the heavy warmth of his body pressed against yours beneath thick blankets. From the way his arms wrapped around your waist in his sleep like some stubborn instinct he couldn’t turn off even unconscious. From the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back. From the rough scrape of his beard against your shoulder. Even the occasional snoring that always dragged a laugh out of you eventually.

The corner of your mouth lifts before you can stop it. Then the smile fades just as quickly. A deep breath leaves your lungs.

You reach for your backpack beside the couch, unzipping it slowly. Metal clicks softly together inside. Ammo. Knives. Canned food. Taxi lifts his head again immediately, watching you with quiet attention like he already knows exactly what you’re looking for. Your fingers eventually find the sketchbook buried beneath everything else.

You hesitate for a second before opening it.

Joel stares back at you almost immediately.

A rough pencil sketch from Jackson. Then another. And another. The lines change slightly between pages—different expressions, different angles—but it’s always him.

Two weeks. That’s all it’s been. And somehow you already miss him enough it physically aches.

Your throat tightens. You stare at the drawings longer than you mean to. Unable to stop yourself from wondering what happened after you left. You tried not to think about it on the road. Tried not to imagine the morning after. Joel waking up. The empty side of the bed. The drugs wearing off. That look on his face when he realized.

You swallow hard.

The thought hits like a punch straight to the ribs.

You’ve never worried about people before. Except William. You’ve feared losing him before. Feared ending up alone again. But Joel... is different. Joel makes your chest hurt in ways bullets never could. Makes you understand why people in old movies ruined themselves for love.

The idea of breaking his heart somehow feels worse than breaking your own.

Your eyes burn, your heart clenching.

God.

So this is what loving someone feels like. Not the happiness part. You already knew that part. It’s him laughing quietly against your neck in bed. It’s his hand finding yours without thinking. It’s the way your body relaxes the second he walks into a room.

No—

This part. The ache. The fear. The terrifying realization that someone else now has the power to break your heart just by existing somewhere you can’t reach. Your gaze drops back toward the sketchbook. Joel’s face follows you everywhere now. You barely recognize yourself anymore because of it. You have something to lose now. Someone.

If this goes wrong… If you fail…

You may never hear his voice again. Never feel his arms around you again. Never see that tired little smile he gets when he looks at you like you’re something dangerous he decided to keep anyway.

A bark suddenly cuts through the silence.

You blink hard. Only then noticing the tear that slipped free and landed against the page. “Shit,” you mutter softly, wiping it away quickly.

Taxi climbs down from the chair immediately, limping over toward the couch.

“I know,” you whisper quietly. “I miss him too.”

Taxi rests his head against your knee. Your fingers slide automatically through the fur behind his ears.

“But I have to do this.”

The shepherd lifts one paw slowly onto your leg. You stare at him for a second. His eyes look strangely human sometimes in the dark. “You think I broke his heart?”

Taxi whines softly. Your chest tightens harder. “I couldn’t let him come with me.” Your voice turns quieter now. “Ellie needs him. Jackson needs him.” You swallow thickly. “And… maybe I just showed up and fucked that old man’s life all up.”

Taxi barks once immediately.

You let out a small breath through your nose. “Yeah. I know.” Your fingers continue stroking slowly through his fur. “He meant what he said.” Your voice nearly cracks. “But that’s not the problem.”

You stare down at Joel’s sketch again.

“Being the daughter of someone like Clouser feels like carrying rot around inside your chest.” Your jaw tightens faintly. “As long as he’s alive, I’m never gonna stop feeling it.”

Rain rattles softly against the broken windows outside.

“I can’t build a future with Joel while all this still exists.” Your eyes lower slowly. “Not while I keep lookin’ at Tommy, Maria… Dina, Jesse, Benji, Ellie…” Your throat tightens. “They deserve to feel safe around me.”

Silence stretches for a moment.

Then quieter: “I think…” You blink slowly. “I think I finally know what having a family feels like.” The words hurt to admit out loud. “And I can’t let him take that away from me.”

Taxi lifts his head and licks the side of your jaw suddenly. A weak laugh escapes you before you grab his muzzle gently. “Hey.” You rub your thumb along the bridge of his nose. “When I go back…” Your voice softens almost into a whisper. “I want my head clear.” Your fingers move slowly through his fur again. “Maybe then I’ll know how to be someone better. A better girlfriend.”

The word feels strange but warm.

“Assumin’ he forgives me.”

Taxi presses closer immediately.

You finally set the sketchbook aside before sliding down fully against the couch cushions, pulling him close against your side.

His fur still smells faintly like rainwater, old forest, dirt, and gunpowder. For years, that smell alone meant safety more than any human being ever could.

But now—

Now there’s another scent your body misses more.

Worn leather. Gun oil. Damp flannel dried near a fire. Sawdust caught in rough hands after long afternoons working wood in Jackson.

Him.

Your eyes drift slowly toward the cracked office window overhead. Beyond fractured glass and tangled ivy, the night sky barely peeks through Seattle’s storm clouds. A few weak stars flicker faintly between them.

You stare at them quietly.

And for the first time in years—

You make a wish.

Just one.

To see him again. To hear his voice again. To come back alive long enough to fall asleep in his arms one more time.

Your fingers tighten gently in Taxi’s fur.

Then slowly—

Exhaustion finally pulls you under.

Horse hooves echo hollow against cracked highway.

Slow now. Careful.

Joel keeps one hand near the reins while his eyes scan the massive quarantine wall rising through the rain ahead.

Seattle.

Even from a distance, the city feels wrong.

Too big. Too quiet.

Fog crawls low between abandoned checkpoints and collapsed military barricades swallowed whole by ivy and moss. Old FEDRA fencing stretches along the road in rusted lines, parts of it torn open long ago by something stronger than time.

Rain taps steadily against Joel’s jacket. The horse shifts uneasily beneath him the closer they get. “Easy,” Joel mutters quietly, patting its neck once.

Ahead, the massive outer gate hangs crooked on broken hinges, chains swaying softly in the wind. Faded quarantine warnings still cling to metal signs eaten away by rust. Across the center of the gate, someone has painted a message in massive white letters now streaked by rain and time:

WLF TRESPASSERS KILLED ON SIGHT

The dripping paint almost looks like bone beneath the gray Seattle sky.

Joel squints upward toward the walls towering over him.

Dead guard towers stare down empty streets. Or at least they look empty. Seattle reminds him too much of places where people disappear. His jaw tightens.

The horse carries him slowly through the open gate. Immediately the city swallows sound whole.

No birds. No distant voices.

Just rainwater dripping from collapsed buildings and the faint creaking of old structures somewhere deeper inside the streets ahead. Joel’s eyes move constantly.

Cars. Windows. Rooflines. Habit.

Then—

Something catches his attention near the mud alongside the road. Fresh tire tracks.

Joel pulls the horse to a stop instantly.

The tracks cut sharply through rainwater and dirt before disappearing farther into the city.

Fresh. Very fresh.

Joel slides down from the saddle with a grunt, crouching low beside them. WLF vehicle. His fingers brush against wet mud before his gaze shifts farther ahead.

Then he sees it.

An abandoned pickup truck half-crashed against a storefront farther down the street. “Shit.”

Joel stands quickly and moves toward it, boots splashing through puddles. The closer he gets, the more obvious it becomes. Bullet holes shred the side panels. One tire blown out. The gas tank leaking slowly beneath the truck into rainwater mixed with oil and blood.

Joel’s eyes narrow immediately.

Not random.

Forced stop.

His hand brushes against the hood. Still faintly warm beneath cold rain. “Goddamn…”

Then he notices the steering column hanging open beneath the wheel. Wires ripped loose. Hotwired. A humorless breath escapes him through his nose. “Course she did.”

His eyes drift across the street automatically. Searching. Reading. Tracking. Then he sees blood. Not much. Drops leading toward a nearby alley.

Joel follows carefully.

One hand already resting near the revolver—your revolver—on his hip. The alley opens into another ruined street farther ahead—

And that’s where he finds the bodies.

Three WLF soldiers sprawled across wet pavement. One near an overturned patrol truck. Another collapsed against a wall. The third barely recognizable anymore.

Joel slows immediately.

His stomach tightens. Rain runs steadily down the corpses, washing blood into the gutters. Then he notices the bites. Deep tears through exposed throat. Another through the forearm. Jagged canine marks.

Taxi.

Joel exhales slowly through his nose. “Attaboy.”

He crouches beside the nearest body carefully. Then spots the spent casing laying near the corpse. Joel picks it up between rough fingers, rolling it once against his palm.

Sniper round. Your sniper round.

One clean shot. Two heads. Straight through the glass.

Precise. Efficient. Smooth. Exactly your kind of work.

“Goddamn it, Kat,” Joel mutters quietly. “You can’t take ’em all down at once.”

He rises slowly, eyes scanning the street again. Unease settles heavier in his chest with every passing second. He plants both hands briefly against his hips, jaw tightening hard.

Ten straight days riding from Jackson. Ten days barely sleeping. Ten days chasing your ghost across half the damn country—

And still he’s late.

The bodies tell him immediately. Spacing. Angles. Timing. Experience never lies.

You’re ahead of him. One day at least. Maybe more.

Joel’s back screams when he straightens fully, exhaustion dragging through every muscle in his body, but he ignores it automatically. Pain barely registers anymore. Rain continues falling steadily around him while Seattle groans somewhere deeper ahead.

Waiting. Watching.

Joel stares toward the dark streets disappearing farther into the city. “Can’t be late,” he mutters quietly. More to himself than anyone else. “Gotta find her before it’s too damn late.”

Then he turns back toward the horse. And rides deeper into Seattle.

Morning comes gray and wet.

Not bright. Not warm. Just a thin, colorless light spreading over Seattle like the city is too tired to wake up properly.

Rain still clings to everything. Broken windows. Rusted signs. The hoods of abandoned cars. The sagging awnings over dead storefronts. Every surface shines dull and cold beneath the low sky.

You move north with Taxi at your side.

The hospital doesn’t appear right away. Nothing in this city gives itself up that easy.

The map says it should be somewhere ahead, past a mess of flooded streets and half-collapsed buildings, but Seattle keeps folding in on itself. Roads blocked by wreckage. Alleys choked with vines. Military barriers left behind like broken teeth.

And people.

Too many people.

By noon, you’ve already run into more WLF deserters than you expected. Small groups. Two here. Three there. Scared. Armed. Dirty. Running from something behind them and terrified of whatever might be ahead.

The first few don’t tell you much before they die.

The next group gives you the name you're looking for.

After that, you stop killing first.

You start listening.

That is how you end up crouched on the second floor of a half-collapsed building, one hand resting against Taxi’s neck while voices drift up from below.

The ground floor beneath you is split open in places, the concrete caved inward toward a lower level thick with spores. Pale fungal growth climbs the walls down there in swollen veins, pulsing through the damp like something still alive. The air below looks yellow in the weak light, heavy and ruined.

You keep Taxi close. No way in hell you’re taking him through that.

Below, four WLF soldiers move through the street, unaware of you above them. “What the hell is goin’ on?” one of them mutters. “This is what, the sixth group?”

“Sixth if you count the ones from yesterday.”

“Jesus.”

“Isaac made an example outta the last ones. Had ’em executed in front of everybody. Thought that’d be enough.”

“Guess it wasn’t.”

“It’s that fuckin’ doctor.”

Your whole body stills.

The man beside him lowers his voice. “Clouser?”

“Yeah. People don’t wanna stay and die for Scars or for some bullshit vaccine that ain’t ever gonna work.”

“Wasn’t the whole point of taking FEDRA down to build a liberation front?”

A bitter laugh. “Does this sound like liberation to you?”

“You sound like you’re about to run too.”

“Hey. You hear what he’s been doing to pregnant women? Kids?”

The silence that follows feels heavier than the rain.

“Rumors.”

“You sure about that?”

“Fuck.” Another voice exhales shakily. “Isaac should’ve killed that old bastard when he had the chance.”

“He still sending his A-team to the hospital?”

“Yeah. The ones he trusts.”

Rain taps softly against broken concrete overhead. Then another voice lowers slightly. “Hey… you know Jordan?”

“The Firefly guy?”

“Yeah. Him.” A pause. “Heard that immune girl everyone’s looking for? Supposedly she’s Clouser’s daughter.”

Silence. “…Bullshit.”

“And apparently she was with the other immune girl for a while. Somewhere in Wyoming.”

Your stomach tightens instantly.

“Word is Isaac’s planning to send a group out there soon.” The man snorts quietly. “Abby might lead it.”

“No fuckin’ way Isaac lets Abby leave Seattle right now.”

“Why the hell would she even care?”

A longer silence follows.

Then quietly: “That smuggler from Salt Lake? The one who killed all those Fireflies in the hospital?”

Your pulse stutters.

“He’s supposedly in that town too.”

Silence crashes over the group immediately afterward. Even from above, you can feel the tension shift.

“…That’s too much coincidence for my taste.”

“Think that crazy doctor’s making half this shit up.”

“Or that Jordan guy.”

“Alright, enough gossip.” Boots scrape concrete. “Get back to your posts and keep your eyes open.”

That is enough. More than enough.

Your grip tightens around the rifle. Taxi’s ears twitch. You glance down at him and press two fingers to your lips.

Stay.

He understands. You’ve taught him this too many times to count.

Stay unless you whistle.

Stay unless you scream.

Stay unless he sees you bleeding too much.

That last part is always the problem.

Because Taxi listens until fear takes over. And fear makes him stupidly brave. You point toward a patch of tall weeds and vines growing through a broken section of wall. He lowers himself reluctantly, still watching you. “Good boy,” you mouth.

Then you move.

Silent across the cracked upper floor, stepping over broken tiles and rotted office chairs, rifle raised. The building groans softly beneath your weight.

You line up the first shot from above. The suppressor does its job, but barely. A soft, ugly pop.

One soldier drops. The others turn too late.

Second shot.

Third.

Fourth.

Each one clean.

Each one fast.

By the time the last body hits the pavement, the street is quiet again except for rainfall and Taxi’s low breathing behind you.

You stay crouched for a moment, listening.

No infected. No returning fire. No shouting.

Good.

You climb down carefully. The air grows colder near the broken ground floor. Spores drift lazily below through the collapsed opening, glowing faintly where thin daylight touches them. The fungal growth along the walls looks old and thick, spread in rootlike patterns beneath peeling paint.

You avoid the edge. You’ve seen enough basements like that. You search the bodies quickly.

Ammo. A dull knife. Nothing useful.

Your last suppressor is already ruined, and the one currently screwed onto your pistol is close to useless. The metal is hot from overuse, the sound less clean than it should be.

One left after this.

One.

You’ll need to save it for something that matters.

You’re about to move on when you find a photograph in one of their jacket pockets. Not an old one. A fresh one. Instant film.

You hold it between two fingers and wipe rain off the glossy surface with your thumb.

A group of people smile back at you. Young. Tired. Alive.

Behind them rises a massive structure, round and crowded, with stands and lights and lines of people moving in the background.

A stadium.

Not a checkpoint. Not a small base. A real settlement.

Crowded. Organized.

You don’t know any of their faces. You don’t care to.

But the place itself matters.

You unfold your map and compare it quickly, marking distance with your thumb and eye. The stadium sits too far west to be your target.

The hospital is north. Far enough away from the stadium to make sense. Far enough to hide things.

You crouch beside a cracked wall, using a rusted pipe as a flat edge while you sketch a rough route across the paper. Streets. Blocks. Waterlogged underpasses you’ll avoid. Higher ground where possible.

Ten miles, maybe. Two hours if the roads don’t fight you. They will.

A burst of static crackles from one of the dead men’s radios. Taxi lifts his head instantly. You freeze.

“Cooper, you copy?” The voice is rough, irritated. Static. “Cooper? Linda? Come in.”

You stare at the radio. Taxi gives one sharp bark. You raise your hand. “Shh.”

The radio crackles again.

“Cooper, listen up. We found a deserter group wiped out near your last checkpoint. Clean shots. Somebody hunted ’em. Doesn’t look like Scars.”

Your jaw tightens. Yesterday’s bodies.

“Answer me, Cooper. Goddamn it. We’re coming to your position.”

Taxi growls. Not the low warning he gives for people.

Different. Deeper.

Your eyes flick to him immediately. That growl means infected. But then you hear it too. Not infected. Footsteps. Multiple. Close.

You move to the broken window and look down through hanging ivy.

Five people. Armed.

WLF.

And a dog.

“Shit,” you whisper. The dog has its nose low, pulling against the leash. Taxi’s lip curls. “So that’s what you smelled.”

Your mind works fast. Two exits. One dangerous. One worse.

The patrol is already too close. The dog will catch your scent any second. You crouch in front of Taxi and grip the fur at the sides of his neck gently, forcing his eyes to yours. “You stay in the grass,” you whisper. “I’ll pull them away.”

Taxi whines.

“No.” Your voice hardens. “You can’t come with me. I don’t have a damn gas mask for you, understand?”

Below, the WLF dog barks.

“Hey, what is it, boy?” one of the soldiers calls. Too close.

You point sharply toward the weeds leading along the collapsed wall. Taxi hesitates. “Go.”

He goes, but he hates it. You can see that in every line of him.

You drop low and begin crawling along the upper ledge, aiming for the vines that spill down toward the lower level. If you can get to the other side, maybe you can circle out before—

A snarl erupts behind you.

You twist just as the WLF dog lunges out of nowhere.

Too fast.

You barely throw yourself sideways before its teeth snap where your arm was. Then Taxi hits it like a damn wolf.

The two dogs crash into the floor in a violent tangle of teeth and muscle. “Taxi!” you hiss.

Too late. The WLF dog yelps as Taxi’s jaws lock around its throat. Voices explode below.

“Trespasser here!”

“No—Jesus, that’s Lenny! He's dead!”

“There’s another dog!”

“Shoot it! Shoot it!”

Taxi shakes once. The WLF dog goes limp. “Stay there!” you snap at him. “Goddamn it, stay!”

Gunfire tears into the wall beside you.

You dive behind a broken concrete partition as bullets chew through plaster overhead. Your heart slams against your ribs. One soldier breaks off toward Taxi. Another moves to flank you from the rear. The man behind you rounds the broken wall too fast.

You move faster.

You catch his wrist, twist, slam him chest-first into the concrete, and drag him back against you with your revolver shoved beneath his jaw. The others freeze the second they see you.

“Drop it!” one of them shouts.

Your hostage spits blood. “Shoot her!”

“Shut the fuck up,” you growl against his ear. You shift backward, dragging him with you toward the collapsed edge. Behind you, the lower floor waits.

Dark. Yellow. Thick with spores.

The woman in front stiffens. “Ari—no!”

Good.

That matters. That means they won’t shoot through him. You press the barrel harder under his jaw. “Back up,” you shout. “Or I paint the floor with his head.”

“You got nowhere to go,” another soldier says, weapon trained on you.

You understand what he means.

The spores. The drop. The infected below. No mask. No escape.

For them.

Not for you.

You tighten your grip on Ari and take one more step back.

He realizes a second too late. “No—no, we’ll both die!”

“Maybe,” you say.

Then you throw your weight backward.

The fall is short but brutal.

Air rips out of your lungs as you hit broken concrete and roll hard, dragging the man down with you. Dust and spores explode upward around you in a sick yellow cloud.

Above, voices scream.

“Ari!”

“Fuck!”

“No, no, no—”

You roll behind a collapsed support beam just as bullets cut into the ground where you landed. “Leah, stop!” someone yells. “You’ll die too! We don’t have masks!”

“I’m gonna kill that bitch!”

“She’s already dead! Come on!”

“Isaac’s orders—nobody goes into spore zones. You saw what happened to Ramirez!”

“Fuck!”

Bootsteps retreat above. You stay still until the last one fades. The spores hang thick around you. You inhale once through your nose.

Damp. Earthy. Rotten.

It tickles faintly. Nothing more. Like mildew in an old basement.

Ari is somewhere in the dark, coughing violently. “God…” he chokes between ragged breaths. “Goddamn…”

You glance toward the sound instinctively.

Then freeze. The wall behind him moves.

No. Not the wall.

Cordyceps.

Pale fungal shelves bloom across concrete and brick in thick layered growths, veins spreading outward like diseased roots through the entire lower floor. Some of it is old and dry, cracked apart like dead bark.

Some of it still glistens wet beneath your flashlight. Fresh. Breathing.

Bodies cling half-swallowed inside the growth. Arms. Ribcages. Open mouths permanently fused into the fungus climbing over them.

The entire building smells damp and rotten enough to taste.

Then—

Click.

Click-click-click-click.

Your blood runs cold instantly. The sound echoes from deeper inside the dark.

Clickers.

The explosion upstairs must’ve drawn them down here.

And now Ari’s coughing is doing the rest.

Another clicking cry bursts through the building.

Closer.

Wet fungal chatter bouncing sharply through concrete halls while something shifts rapidly in the dark ahead.

Ari hears it too. “No…” His breathing turns panicked immediately. “No no no—”

CLICKCLICKCLICKCLICK.

Another answers somewhere nearby. Then another. The entire lower level suddenly feels alive. Movement everywhere.

You crouch lower immediately, barely breathing while Ari drags himself backward across the floor, one ruined leg useless behind him.

“Please—” he gasps. “Please help m—”

The first clicker lunges. Fast as hell. Ari’s scream cuts violently short beneath tearing flesh and wet crunching bone.

You look away instantly. Not because you feel bad. Because he’s already dead.

More clicking erupts nearby. The feeding sounds alone are enough to turn your stomach. You lower yourself silently and begin backing away through the darkness instead, keeping low beneath hanging cords of fungus spreading across the ceiling. Slow. Controlled. One careful step after another.

Then—

CLICKCLICKCLICK.

A clicker jerks its head upward somewhere behind you. You freeze instantly while it listens, twitching sharply toward the noise. Then Ari’s dying screams echo deeper in the room and the infected bolts away from you immediately.

You exhale slowly through your nose.

Lucky. Very fucking lucky.

Keeping your flashlight lowered, you slip silently between collapsed cubicles while wet ripping sounds echo behind you. Bones snapping. Flesh tearing. You don’t look back once.

The faint glow of daylight finally appears ahead through thick hanging vines near a collapsed loading exit. Fresh air. Rain. Freedom.

You push through the overgrowth and stumble outside into the cold Seattle evening just as another horrible shriek erupts somewhere deep inside the building behind you.

The city air never smelled so good.

You suck in a breath.

The street is empty. Too empty.

“Taxi,” you call softly.

Nothing.

Your heart climbs straight into your throat. You whistle once. Sharp. Low. Still nothing. “Taxi.”

This time it comes out rougher. Panic starts crawling up the back of your neck while you scan every broken window and dark doorway around you.

No.

No, no, no—

“Taxi!”

Then a bark echoes from above.

You spin just as Taxi comes barreling down from the broken upper level through a sagging stairwell, ears back, tail low, alive.

Alive.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe.

You drop immediately, grabbing his face between both hands while he whines and pushes into you. You check him fast. Neck. Chest. Legs. No blood. No new wounds.

You exhale so hard it almost hurts. “Okay. Okay.” You press your forehead briefly to his. “You’re okay.”

Taxi licks your chin and a broken laugh slips out of you.

“Yeah, we definitely need to make you a gas mask.”

He barks once like he agrees.

You stand slowly, wiping rain and sweat from your face. Through the gap between buildings, beyond a broken bridge and the skeletons of old towers, you finally see it.

A distant building rising above the gray. Hospital lettering barely visible through the rain.

Your chest tightens.

There. Finally.

You take a long drink from your canteen before letting Taxi drink from your cupped hand too. “You ready?” you ask quietly.

He looks toward the hospital. Then back at you.

You sling the rifle over your shoulder and fold the map away. “We’re close. Let’s go.”

Seattle, Day Two.

Dusk settles over the city in bruised shades of blue and gray by the time you reach the hospital district. The rain weakens into a thin mist drifting between buildings, but Seattle still feels soaked through to the bone. Somewhere far off, gunfire rattles across distant streets before fading back into silence again.

The hospital rises above everything else. Massive. Cold. Its upper floors disappear into fog while floodlamps burn pale through rain-streaked windows below. Even from here it dominates the skyline like something watching the entire city.

Close enough to see. Still too damn far away.

Between you and the hospital stretch blocks of ruined streets, flooded intersections, and whatever the hell WLF has waiting in between. Too many lights. Too many guards.

You crouch behind an overturned bus with Taxi pressed close beside you, eyes moving carefully across the perimeter. Watchtowers. Patrol routes. Barricades. Armed Wolves everywhere.

“Jesus,” you mutter under your breath.

Taxi’s ears twitch.

Then—

A whistle echoes somewhere nearby. Sharp. Seraphites.

Your head snaps toward the sound instantly. Another whistle answers deeper in the street before shouting erupts.

“CONTACT!”

Gunfire explodes seconds later. WLF soldiers sprint across the street ahead while arrows whistle through the rain. One Wolf jerks backward with an arrow through his throat. Another drops seconds later. Chaos spreads fast.

Exactly what you need. Not to win. To disappear.

Your eyes lock onto a WLF transport truck sitting crooked near the curb thirty feet away. Driver dead. Engine still running. Headlights cutting pale beams through the mist.

Perfect.

You glance toward Taxi. He already looks ready. “We need that truck,” you mutter. Then you’re moving. You sprint low across rain-slick pavement while bullets crack somewhere behind you. The city erupts into noise around you— Wolves shouting, whistles answering back, glass shattering somewhere farther down the block.

You wrench the truck door open and climb inside fast. Taxi launches in beside you just as you slam the gear forward. The truck lurches violently. “C’mon, c’mon—”

Tires screech across flooded streets. Then somebody notices. “HEY!”

Gunfire slams into the truck immediately. The windshield spiderwebs near your shoulder. “Shit!”

You duck instinctively while jerking the wheel sideways around abandoned cars. Taxi barks wildly beside you every time the truck fishtails through standing water.

“Taxi, get the fuck down!” you shout over the engine. “Down, boy!”

He finally ducks lower as another engine roars somewhere behind you through the rain. They’re following.

You glance into the side mirror briefly—

And your stomach drops.

It’s them. Ari’s squad. The woman from earlier leans halfway out the passenger window with a rifle in her hands.

“That’s her!”

Gunfire erupts again. Bullets punch through the truck bed beside Taxi.

“Fuck—!”

You slam the wheel hard around a collapsed ambulance while the hospital looms closer between buildings. So close. Almost there—

Then headlights catch something too late.

A collapsed barricade stretches across the flooded street ahead.

“Shit.”

You wrench the wheel sideways but the truck clips the barricade hard enough to launch metal screaming across pavement before smashing broadside into a storefront.

The world snaps sideways. Glass explodes. Pain detonates through your shoulder. For a second all you hear is ringing.

Then Taxi barks. Loud. Panicked.

“I’m okay,” you choke out immediately, forcing yourself upright. Smoke curls from beneath the crushed hood outside while voices already close in.

“MOVE!” “THEY CRASHED!”

You kick the warped truck door open and force yourself out. Taxi jumps down beside you instantly. You grab your rifle and run toward the nearest half-open building entrance beneath a flickering neon sign drowned in vines.

You and Taxi disappear inside just as bullets rip through the doorway behind you.

Darkness swallows you whole.

The air changes immediately. Wet. Rotten. Wrong.

Your flashlight snaps on. Broken shelves and collapsed walls stretch endlessly ahead inside what used to be some kind of office building. Too quiet.

Your stomach tightens instantly.

“…shit.”

Taxi growls low beside you.

Then something moves. Fast. A shape darts between walls ahead before disappearing again.

Stalker.

Of fucking course.

One of the Wolves swings his flashlight toward the hallway just in time to catch two clickers sprinting straight at them through the dark. “FUCK THIS!”

Gunfire erupts instantly.

Muzzle flashes strobe violently across fungal walls while the infected slam into the group. One Wolf screams as a clicker tackles him sideways into broken office furniture.

Another fires wildly while backing toward the exit. “Pull back!”

A stalker explodes out of the darkness behind them. The scream that follows cuts brutally short. The remaining Wolves don’t hesitate after that. “GO GO GO!”

Boots thunder back toward the entrance while infected shrieks and wet tearing sounds swallow the lower floor behind them.

Your flashlight catches movement sprinting low across the ceiling beams overhead.

“Taxi!”

The shepherd lunges before you finish the word. A stalker crashes into him midair with a shriek. The two slam across the floor together in a snapping mess of teeth and claws.

You raise your rifle—

Another infected explodes out of the darkness straight at you. You barely get your knife up in time. The stalker slams you backward into the floor hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. Its fungal face twitches inches from yours, jaw snapping wildly while rotten saliva drips onto your sleeve.

“Get the fuck off me—!”

You jam the knife upward.

Miss.

The creature shrieks directly into your face. Somewhere deeper inside the building, gunfire mixes with screaming.

Taxi snarls viciously nearby.

The stalker pins your wrist harder against the floor—

Then suddenly—

BANG.

The infected jerks violently. Warm blood sprays across your throat. The body collapses instantly on top of you.

Dead.

For one second you can only hear your own breathing.

Then boots step into view beside your head. Worn leather darkened by rainwater steps into view beside you. Jeans soaked dark at the hems. Holster strapped low against his thigh.

One large hand gripping a revolver steady at his side—

Your revolver.

Your pulse stumbles instantly. Then you see the watch. Cracked glass. Worn leather strap.

His broken watch.

The one that never leaves his wrist.

Your breath catches so sharply it hurts. No. No fucking way. Your eyes lock onto his hand again. Calloused fingers. Faint scars across rough knuckles. You know that hand.

God, you know it.

That hand held your face like something precious. Fixed your weapons at the kitchen table late at night. Curled warm against your waist in bed. Your chest tightens so hard it almost hurts.

The man crouches immediately beside you, grabbing the dead stalker by the shoulder and hauling it off your body with a grunt.

Then flashlight beam finally cuts upward across his face.

Rough beard. Wet curls. Dark exhausted eyes already locked on yours like they’ve been searching for you for days. For a second your brain genuinely refuses to process it.

You just stare at him. Breathing hard.

Rainwater still dripping from his jacket onto the floor.

He looks tired. Older somehow. Terrified. Relieved. All at once.

Still unfairly handsome.

“…Joel?”

Your voice comes out barely above a whisper.

Another stalker scream echoes somewhere nearby.

Neither of you looks away.

Joel’s jaw tightens hard enough you see the muscle jump beneath wet stubble The stalker crashes into Joel so fast.

One second he’s crouched in front of you, rough hands hauling the dead infected off your body while rainwater drips from his curls onto your jacket—

The next—

Movement explodes out of the dark behind him. Fast. Too fast.

“Joel—!”

He twists instantly, revolver already snapping upward on instinct. Nothing. Just a hollow click.

Empty.

For the first time since you’ve known him, you actually see it—

Pure panic.

Not fear for himself.

For you.

Because the creature is already on him.

Its mouth opens wide enough you see strings of rotten saliva stretching between fungal-split teeth. Its face barely even looks human anymore beneath the blooming cordyceps splitting through skin and jawbone.

Joel shoves against it hard, but the stalker slams him backward into the wall before he can reload.

“Fuck—!”

Its teeth snap inches from his throat.

Joel’s forearm jams against its neck violently, muscles straining beneath soaked flannel while the infected screeches directly into his face.

The sound is horrible. Wet. Not human.

Taxi lunges across the room barking viciously, claws scraping across concrete as he tries to reach Joel. Your body moves before your brain does. You throw yourself into them. The impact knocks all three of you sideways.

The stalker turns instantly. Its jaws slam down around your forearm, just as you planned. Pain detonates through your entire body. “AHH— FUCK!” The scream tears itself out of your throat raw and sharp as teeth sink deep through muscle. You feel them puncture skin. Feel the pressure of its jaw locking harder the more you fight.

Warm blood floods instantly down your wrist.

Joel freezes. Actually freezes. His face drains of color so fast it terrifies you more than the bite itself.

“No—”

The word barely leaves him. The stalker thrashes violently against your arm, snarling through flesh still trapped between its teeth.

You could pull away. But you don't. Instead, you force your arm deeper.

Joel’s eyes widen in horror. “Kat, NO!”

Pain burns white-hot through your entire arm as the infected tears harder into flesh, fungal teeth sinking deeper with every violent jerk of its head. Taxi loses his mind somewhere beside you, barking viciously.