Untitled

Oh darling, I'm so sorry, your father killed your dear uncle. But I'm here now.

Is that up to scratch?

No?

Perhaps…

Sweetheart, your uncle Richie was found dead this morning. We believe your father is responsible. We're doing all we can.

Still not enough?

Let me rephrase it then. Let me give you the harrowing, unfiltered reality…

Your diabolical father had murdered your uncle in cold blood yesterday. Shot him in the chest at point-blank range, then left him to bleed out alone in the dirt. The rotten, soulless bastard has vanished. Slipped away. Gone missing.

Missing.

That's right. Your father had either charmed his way out of Birmingham or made a deal with the devil himself at some deserted crossroads between counties.

Awful Arney was gone. Like dust in the wind. Like a wave breaking over the perfect pipe dream before dragging it back to the sea.

And there was not a single, goddamn, bloody thing Tommy could say nor do to stop your heart from racing itself raw within your chest.

You were not just sat in that bay window again, tears tracking down your flushed cheeks as you waited for one of your husband's men to return with news that would relieve your heart. You had outright, outrun, and outmanuvered every single one of Tommy's attempts to comfort you. When frankly, darling, you needed more than even he knew how to give right now.

“ How's she holding up?” Arthur murmured quietly beside Tommy, as they stood behind the threshold of your resolve, threading thinner with each passing minute.

“ She's not” Tommy answered carefully, quietly, not to spook you from the solitude you had sought. The distance you'd put between you and everyone else as disbelief had you asking how your own father could do something so fundamentally, unforgivablly fucked up.

“ She's drowning, Arthur. Gone somewhere In that head of hers i can't reach” Tommy watched as you sat perfectly poised, just like uncle Richie had taught you. Just like you had been raised to conduct yourself.

It was beautiful. Believable. It was a desperate lie, unmasking itself bit by bit as your fingers fought each other under the guise of stillness. Pulling and twisting. Searching for something to hold onto, to anchor your aching heart that had gone adrift.

“ Arthur” Tommy turned, voice dropping low, stripped clean of the calm he'd worn for your sake. “ Find him. Find the bastard and bring him to me”

“ Tom, we've got men looking as far as Huddersfield” Arthur kept his words just as hushed, as your solemn figure sat looking out at the winding roads of Warwickshire. “Ain't a single fucking trace of him anywhere, brother”

“ Then go north” Tommy's order came clipped, every pretense of control leaving him as anger coiled up his spine. “ Burn down every county line from here to Glasgow if you have to”

“ He's been talking. Making connections” he leaned in with a low whisper, keeping how truly depraved your father was, safely from your knowledge.

“ Scotsmen from the Smethwick brewery. Glaswegian groups that answer to no one but their own. Billy Boys, Arthur. He's been talking with the Billy Boys”

“ Christ” Arthur exhaled a raspy breath deep from within his lungs, as he dragged a hand over his hardening face.

“ Go. Before he sells his own daughter out. Before he trades my wife for another pretty penny” the words came with complete and utter disgust, leaving a bitter taste of bile at the back of his throat.

“ Right. Leaving” Arthur murmured, turning on the heel of his boot, fingers snapping at the Peaky soldiers stood waiting on their orders as Tommy turned his attention back to you, pained with questions that demanded he be patient.

What would he have to do for you to trust him after he'd given you every reason not to?

To let him close the distance when for a month he'd put miles between you?

To let him hold you. To let him shoulder even a fraction of your heartache?

To let him be your husband?

I could shout. I could curse Cupid sat high in heartbreak heaven for not intervening. For not granting you one moment of relief away from mourning.

Believe me, faithful reader, I'd wish for nothing more.

But even I can't force your feet to move in front of you. For you to seek the only man left in your life and let him take the weight off your heavy heart.

For as you sat separated by nothing but the terms of your arrangement in adjacent rooms, while night drew in once more, blanketing the bereaved. Arrow House mourned another man.

The lilies under her alcoves remained.

Heavy cloth draped over every reflection remained.

But sitting still, alone and aching in grief, was a heavy toll for anyone to pay. Even for you, whose stubborn resolve had finally drawn its last desperate breath.

With one quiet foot after the other, you crossed the room to the wooden door that had remained a line drawn since the day of your wedding, as you tentatively pushed it open into darkness.

And there he was. Sat on the edge of the bed. Jacket gone, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, elbows to his knees, head bowed heavy under the weight of another impossible day, as a cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers.

Your husband. Your Tommy.

Head lifting slowly between slumped shoulders, he turned.

And there you were.

Stood by the door, hand to the handle, every inch of you looking as uncertain as you did the day you said ‘I do’.

His wife. His girl.

“ Come here, darling” his voice was a soft sanctuary as he held his hand out for you to take, to trust him and let him be what he'd tried to be in his own broken way.

Your husband.

Feet crossing before you had time to think, Tommy met you halfway, fingers curling gently around yours, steadying you before drawing you down onto the bed and into his chest as the dam broke and the tears for an uncle lost, finally freed themselves in the safety of your husband's arms.

“ Tommy…” you wept, his name breaking apart on your lips as grief finally gave way and you pressed your face into his shirt.

“ It's alright” he murmured softly, anchoring you further into him with a gentle hand to the back of your head. “ You're alright”

“ You stay here, eh? You stay right here with me, sweetheart" He hummed quietly into your hair, lips pressing a fierce kiss of tenderness to the crown of your head.

And so you did.

You stayed. He stayed. You let your husband hold you, let him take the weight off your shoulders and give you both a moment where your marriage finally felt like it meant something more than a merger on a contract made a month ago.

And as the night sky slipped into a quiet twilight of twinkling stars over Arrow House, Tommy threaded his fingers through your hair, stroking softly until you settled fully beside him on your marital bed.

“ I’m sorry” the words caught in his chest, raspy, gravelled, a month in the making, and finally coming to surface.

“ I've made a lot of mistakes” he continued quietly, allowed now in the comfort of dark, in his own bed, beside his wife, to be something other than what the world demanded of him.

“ A lot of wrongs I'm trying to make right…” His fingers gently curled a lock of your hair, as the slow pitter-patter of your heart steadied something in him he didn't know was still running rabid.

“ If you let me” he murmured, head tilting down to yours resting in the crook of his neck. “ Will you let me? Darling?”

But no response came. No hitch in your breath at the confession you'd once convinced yourself you'd never hear.

Because you. Yes, bloody you. Were out for count weren't you?

Your husband had done such an expert job at relaxing you, calming the chaos within, that you'd completely missed the monumental moment where Thomas Michael Shelby, notorious hard man, had said ‘sorry’.

Goodness gracious, girl. Of all the times you should be sleeping, now is not one of them.

“ Of course…” a rasp of disbelief, of quiet amusement rattled in his chest as he shifted enough to see you, eyes shut, deep in sleep.

Christ.

“ I bleed my bloody heart out…” he murmured, a fondness curling at the corner of his lips as he drew you closer. “ and you've gone and dozed off”

“ You sleep then” he drawled, settling deeper into the duvet, as the weight of the world eased, just for a moment, so he could finally hold his wife.

“ Sleep, sweetheart”

Richie had been a good man. An honest man. A father figure to a woman whose lot in life handed her a deadbeat dad.

A business man. A just man. An Uncle that had spent a lifetime keeping you safe, until the day he placed your hand in your husband's.

And Tommy, for all his flaws and fractured morals, intended to give him the send-off he deserved.

The most honourable of farewells. One final salute before the drums beat slowly. Before they played the fife lowly. Before they sounded the Last Post and lowered him down.

A soldiers burial.

“ The watch is over now, Rich” Tommy murmured beside your uncle's body laid out upon the cold mortuary slab, hat in hand, head bowed.

“ I'll take the next watch” he promised, pledged not to the dead, but the living Richie had left behind. To you.

“ Stand down, soldier” his hand settled firmly on your uncle's shoulder, before he straightened, eyes drifting to the window, west to Warwickshire and the woman that waited there. The woman who had made him a husband.

“ I've got her now”

Hat fixed low, Tommy turned on his heel to the undertaker stood respectfully waiting for each mark your husband would make to your uncle's funeral.

“ That man…” Tommy murmured, slipping on his leather gloves, as the stitching creased under the stretch of his hands. “Is a soldier of the Great War. And will be honoured as one”

“ Church service. Buried beside his brothers in arms. Key Hill Cemetery”

“ Horse-drawn hearse, sir?” The funeral directors pencil poised over paper, each request to be recorded with meticulous care.

“ Horse drawn hearse. Oak coffin. Draped in the Union Jack. Dressed in his uniform. Full military honours” Tommy reached into his coat for his cigarettes, his own medals long gone to the cut and every curse he'd given them.

“ Very good sir” the undertaker listed each request, as Tommy watched word for word, making sure without an ounce of uncertainty that nothing had been overlooked.

“ Find me the best bugler in the West Midlands” he nodded to the notes, cigarette smoothing over his lips before it slipped into the corner of his mouth. “ I want the Last Post played properly”

“ You have my word, sir” the funeral director closed his book, a heavy silence settling over them with the weight of what had been decided.

Satisfied every honour had been accounted for Tommy turned to leave, only to come to a slow stop, hand heavy on the handle of the door.

“ Flowers” the word came quieter, as his eyes drifted past the undertaker to the still form behind him. “ My wife requested flowers”

The only request you had made that morning before he left for Bradley & Sons.

The only flowers a man would ever receive in his lifetime, set to be laid in front of his grave.

“ Roses. After her mother”

Rose.

Now, I may have previously stated that as much as I would've liked to, I couldn't physically force your feet to move when we all watched, hearts breaking as you chose solitude before finally letting your husband hold you.

Well, I've changed my mind.

And even if I did sprinkle a little hop into your step, gave your toes the gentlest of tugs to get you going, I hereby revoke, as of this very moment, your walking privileges.

Because leaving you alone in Arrow House, with nothing but your own thoughts for company and a husband nowhere in sight to anchor them, has you wandering these halls like a woman personally intent on tempting fate with every step she takes.

So, for the love of God, sit down, girl. Before you give this woman in the prime of her life, pebbles in her bloody gallbladder.

But no matter how fast I pen these furious words, you still refused to listen.

You continued your little conquest into the labyrinth of Arrow House, with every member of staff indisposed, leaving no one to witness the lady of the house who, as I write this, had decided a solitary stroll across the lawn was the remedy to her woes.

Dressed in nothing but a silk gown and slip to shield you from the crisp air, you welcomed the winter breeze if only to cool your cheeks from the heat of a hundred unshed tears burning your face.

But as your bare feet grounded themselves in the earth, feeling a brief moment of steadiness, the sound of tyres rumbling along mud and stone cut through the calm.

“ No. You need to go around the front” you muttered, marching across the lawn towards the delivery truck, as three men, burly and broad stepped out.

“ Deliveries are to the front door” you repeated your husband's order, one out of the many rules he'd inundated you with mere hours after your wedding a month ago.

“ Ye’er sure about that, lass? We've orders to pull around the back” the biggest stepped forward, accent thick enough to catch the edge of every sentence.

“ Yes, I'm fucking sure” your response came clipped, irritated that you'd even been questioned.

“ Would ye listen to the lip on this wee one, McConnel” the stockiest smirked, eyes flicking to his friend as he stepped forward, boots sinking into the grass.

“Yer husband ken you talk to strangers like that, lass?” The third man moved closer, crossing the unspoken line of politeness.

“ Aye. Blasphemy’ a sin. And Mr McCavern sees to sins…poppet”

Poppet.

A pet name. A sweet, honeyed British term given to daughters by their mothers…their fathers.

Your father.

Eyes widening, heart picking up faster than your feet could carry you, the realisation that your father had sold you out to the Scots for another penny, left you too slow to flee from the heavy frame that seized you from behind.

“ Get off me, you bastard!” You screamed as you were lifted from the ground, silk gown slipping off your shoulders in the struggle.

“ Dinnae fret, lass. Ye’ll not be harmed” the biggest fought to keep you under control as you kicked, twisted and turned.

Thrown into the back of the truck, your screams for help were quickly silenced by a reeking rag clamped over your mouth until you went limp at the limbs, and the world turned.

Fingers sweeping down to collect your muddied silk from the ground, McConnell thrusted the garment into the chest of the stocky fellow Scotsman, along with a carefully written note and a single worded order.

“ Quick”

Barely an hour had passed, when the sound of Tommy's Bentley pulled up in front of Arrow House. The swing of the front door announced his arrival before he'd even stepped in, and the house answered as it always had.

“ Mr Shelby” Frances appeared, dutiful as ever, greeting him as she gathered his affairs into her arms.

“ My wife?” he immediately asked, eyes scanning the foyer, as they took note of anything that looked even a fraction out of place.

“ Resting, sir” your loyal housekeeper replied without question, without hesitation, knowing no different.

“ Deliveries?” Tommy asked, demanding a rundown of the day already, as a cold draft from the back door drifted through the halls into the foyer.

“ Out back, sir”

“ Out back? Since when?” Tommy's head snapped towards hers, the colour draining from her face, leaving her a ghostly white as the realisation hit her.

Arney. Since Arney had changed Tommy fucking Shelby's orders is when.

He didn't wait for further explanation. Didn't ask. Didn't interrogate. He took two steps at a time to the master bedroom as his chest heaved violently, boots thundered heavily until he reached the wooden door left ajar.

Heart hanging on a thread with a sickening feeling of dread, of a threat he hadn't yet accounted for, Tommy pushed the bedroom door open and found…

Nothing. Nothing but your muddy dressing gown and a note neatly pinned to it.

Fingers closing around the edge of the paper, his eyes flew across each word, trying to make sense of it, when his chest suddenly folded in on itself so violently it stole the very air from his lungs, until there was only one sound left in him.

“My wife…” his voice broke, note slipping from his fingers as he began to turn, began to move into motion.

“They’ve taken my fucking wife!” he roared, tearing out the room with a ragged breath, as the paper settled steadily behind him on the floorboards with no urgency at all but the echo of a nursery rhyme.

My Bonnie lies over the ocean. My Bonnie lies over the sea. My Bonnie lies over the ocean. Oh, bring back my Bonnie to me.

*I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter in the comments below 🖤*

[Next Part (final)] coming soon!

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He’s relieved to see you standing off to the side of the theater’s large double doors, waiting for him, by the look of you. And in that little black dress and heels, perfect for every curve, he more than appreciates the view.

His smile is almost involuntary when you notice him, your eyes brightening.

“Hey,” you say, “I um, wasn’t sure you would come.”

Dean kisses your cheek, lingering there at the scent of your perfume.

“Mmm, you smell nice,” he whispers.

You try to temper your smile, but it’s no use.

“Behave,” you warn. Though you notice the bouquet of red roses he’s holding, and you soften. He plucks one of the stems out of the bunch and presents you with a single rose.

“Gotta save the rest of these for the star of the show, but don’t think I forgot about you, sweetheart,” he says.

That crooked grin of his should come with a warning label.

You take the rose, biting your lower lip. Your mouth opens, even though you don’t know what’s about to come out. But any reply you could’ve made is completely derailed—by the voice of your ex-boyfriend.

He greets you by name, and you turn around on reflex. While you’d been a bit uncertain about Dean, you thought could’ve banked on the fact that Nick wouldn’t be here. He certainly takes note of Dean when he approaches, holding out his hand in greeting.

“Nick Vaught,” he supplies.

Dean glances at you briefly. He knew who this man was before he spoke, just by the more guarded look on your face.

“Dean Winchester,” he offers, along with his hand to shake.

Nick quirks a brow and points at Dean in recognition.

“Winchester. HunterCorp. You took over for your father, right? I remember reading the press release, after Ashland broke into the Fortune 500,” Nick says. His arrogance shines through in his tone and the subtle raise of his chin.

“Yeah, we almost worked with an F500 company, Roman Enterprises,” Dean says, sharing a knowing look with you. “They tried to sell me a gun that would take your hand off on the reload. So as far as I’m concerned, being a top seller doesn’t always mean quality. But congrats. I’m sure you guys earned it.”

One thing Dean also has down is a fake ass grin. You cover a smile with your fingers. His hand slips to the small of your back.

“Should we go in, find our seats?” he asks you. You start to nod, but—

“Wait a minute,” Nick says. He watches the closeness between you and Dean shrewdly, but focuses on you. “I get that you work for HunterCorp, but why does the CEO care about my kid’s play?”

You almost sigh. This was why you almost didn’t tell Nick about tonight, but you knew Emma deserved at least the attempt to have her father see her.

“We’re seeing each other,” you say, matter of fact, and without the embarrassment you thought you might have, despite the judgy raise of his brows. You decide not to tack on the whole executive assistant part.

“Right, right. So you’re fucking,” Nick says flatly.

It earns him a frowning look from another parent walking into the theater.

You gape at him, until a glower overtakes your face. “Jesus Christ, Nick.”

Dean’s expression hardens, but he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, his guiding hand becomes more protective and he presses you toward the door.

“Come on. You don’t owe him an explanation,” he says in your ear.

“I don’t need one. It’s fucking obvious,” Nick says, gesturing at you two. He snorts in amusement. “Though I shouldn’t be too surprised. Guess you just have a type for authoritative men.”

“Watch your mouth,” Dean snaps. His voice is quiet, but deep enough to be a real warning.

Nick’s lips press together in annoyance.

You’re already close to seething, but unlike him, you have some fucking decorum. You look around to make sure no one’s watching you all too closely before you speak.

“There’s actual parents around, and this is your daughter’s school, if you haven’t noticed,” you hiss. “Which to be fair, you probably haven’t, since you’ve never actually been here before. Hope you enjoy the fucking show.”

You pivot on your heel, and Dean follows after you. Though he glances over his shoulder, finding Nick standing there testily with one hand in his pocket and a tonight’s playbill in the other.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, as you lead Dean down the row to the seats you reserved. Your dad is already sitting in one of them.

“We were bound to meet sooner or later,” Dean replies wryly. “Grade A asshat.”

“You have no idea,” you say. Though you pause and give your dad a small wave when he sees you. “By the way, you’re meeting my dad too.”

Dean pauses. “Wait, what?”

“Please,” you say. You grab his hand for solidarity, and because you want to, offering him a slightly nervous smile.

Amused, he can’t help but humor you. He steels himself a little as you two shuffle down the second row. He shakes hands with your father and exchanges pleasantries. Though when you stumble slightly on how to introduce Dean, your father is the one who actually helps you fill in the gap.

“Are you the brave soul who’s been dating my daughter?” he asks.

Dean shakes his hand firmly. “That would be me.”

The other man eyes him for a moment, seizing him up. After a moment, he nods.

“Good. You know you’ve got a gem on your hands.”

Dean gives you a sly smile. “Oh, I know very well.”

A blush blooms warmth in your cheeks. You take your seat between them and help Dean situate the bouquet on the floor. The rose he gave you rests in your lap.

It’s just in time for Nick to take his seat at the end of the opposite row. He glances over at you two, but soon ignores you to take a look at the program.

You heave a long breath through your nose. Dean takes possession of your left hand, earning your attention. He presses a kiss to your knuckles. You smile, though doubt begins to creep in regardless. You lean in closer to him.

“You sure about this?” you ask softly. “You know this can’t be the thing where you get bored after a week and send me a Tiffany bracelet as a consolation prize. You can’t do it to Emma—”

“Hey,” Dean says, stopping you quietly, but firm. “I already told you…this is more than that.”

You stare back at him with a measure of surprise. He understands it, considering his track record, but he knows he’ll just have to convince you. When he thinks of you and the kid, he sees the life his father used to trade for long hours at the office and a heart attack at 52. Dean’s come to realize that if he’s not careful, he’ll end up just like his old man.

So he smiles and leans in to steal a kiss. You can’t help but melt into it, and into him.

Your father watches out of the corner of his eye with a smile of his own.

While Emma isn’t Matilda herself, she plays a very adorable Lavender, one of Matilda’s best friends—complete with a purple dress and glasses you found at Target. Through a lot of motherly pride and shedding a few tears, you’re able to get a few discreet pictures of her on your phone.

After the play, you’re half dreading and half looking forward to the moment she runs out from the backstage area with her teacher (who hilariously played Miss Trunchbull) and the rest of her class. Emma’s back in her normal clothes, and most of the makeup was cleaned off with wipes, but she still somehow has glitter in her hair when she attacks you with a hug.

“Baby you did so good!” you say. You’re smiling from ear to ear as you two sway back and forth.

“Good job, kiddo,” your father says, ruffling her hair. Emma gives her grandpa a big hug next.

“I remembered all my lines. And I held the lizard, but he was slimy!” she exclaims.

You laugh, though you still can’t believe they used a real newt to drop into Miss Trunchbull’s drink.

“Well, you’ve got some more people who came to see you—”

“Hey, Em,” Nick says. He makes a subtle point to step into his daughter’s line of vision before Dean, who just waits behind.

He knows what Nick is doing, but it’s also kind of fair that he sees his daughter first. Dean is…what, a family friend? He doubts you’ve told her more than what Emma already knows him to be: Mommy’s work friend.

Emma’s face brightens. “Daddy!”

She hugs his waist. He holds her back, petting her hair.

“You saw me?” she asks hopefully.

“Of course, honey. You did a great job.”

“What was your favorite part?” she asks.

Nick stumbles there slightly. Your lips quirk. Before intermission, you happened to look over and saw him scrolling through his phone. You suppose you can give him partial credit for sitting through the whole thing.

“Uh, well, it’s hard to pick. Everything was so good,” he says. “Hey, would you want to come over to hang out with me tonight?”

“Nick,” you cut in sternly. He gives you some side-eye, but he’s focused on Emma. She looks a little unsure though.

“What? She’s never stayed over with me before. Tonight’s a special night,” he says.

“That’s because,” you say, but you stop yourself short with an annoyed frown. You don’t want to say in front of your daughter that the reason why she’s never slept over at his apartment is because it goes against your full custody agreement, what he wanted to begin with.

“Well, you know very well why,” you say, holding Emma by her shoulders. “I think it’s time for us to say goodnight.”

Nick is about to protest, when his cell rings in his pocket. His jaw clenching, he checks his phone and swears under his breath.

He looks down at his daughter and gives her an apologetic look.

“This is an important work call that I need to take, but I love you, and it was good to see you, honey.”

“You’re leaving?” she asks, her eyes filling with disappointment. Nick hesitates, but glancing up at your unyielding face, then back to hers, he just strokes her on the head.

“I’m sorry, Em. I’ll see you again soon,” he says. He answers the call right before it stops ringing. “Hey, no, cancel that. I want to see the new reports first. Get it to me within the hour.”

His voice drifts down the hall as he walks away. It leaves a crestfallen little girl in his wake.

But she finally notices Dean. He’s been standing off to the side with a dozen roses behind his back. When he smiles at her gently, she’s able to smile again too.

“Hey, sweetheart. Finally get to move up the line to say hi to you. Looks like I’m in the presence of a little celebrity,” he says. He takes a knee so that he can be eye-level with her when he gives her the bouquet.

Her eyes go wide as she accepts them. “Whoa, there’s so many.”

You smile, sharing a look with your dad while you blink past a telltale sting in your eyes.

You squeeze Emma’s shoulders. “What do you say?”

“Thank you,” Emma says, swaying a little with her pretty roses.

Dean laughs and playfully thumbs at her cheek. “You’re welcome.”

She giggles.

Dean glances up at you and your dad as he gets back up to his feet. “So, can I take you guys out to celebrate? I know a nice place not too far.”

“Food sounds good to me,” your father says.  

“How nice are you talking?” you ask. Unlike Dean, you don’t come from money. Your family’s idea of a night out consisted of Red Lobster, Outback, or the Dairy Queen around the corner.

“How about the Ruth’s Chris down the street,” Dean offers. He sees the look of reservation on your face and takes your hand in reassurance. “Come on, it’s on me.”

You bite your lip. “You sure?”

“The man’s sure, sweetheart. Let’s get moving,” your father says, rubbing his hands together before he steers Emma toward the exit. “God knows I haven’t had a good steak in the last decade.”

He helps Emma hold her flowers on the way to the parking lot, allowing Dean to keep his hold on your hand as you followed behind.

“This is dangerous you know,” you say in amusement. “You’re gonna give my dad a taste of the high life. He’ll think it’s free steak and bourbon forever.”

“Hey, if that’s what the guy wants, I’m not above bribery,” Dean remarks.

You laugh and lean into his side, wrapping your arm around his. He presses a kiss to the side of your head, smiling all the while.

Two Years Later

Dean scans the very detailed document on his laptop with a critical eye.

“Okay, Yale graduate. MBA. Internships, the works. Strong start.”

Kevin Tran, the latest candidate, pushes up his glasses.

“I also maintained a 4.56 GPA weighted average, 4.78 cumulative,” he says. “Um, I can tell you more about how my roles in finance have intersected with business and sales, or first I can give you the highlights from my internships. Would you like that in chronological order or in order of relevance?”

Dean clears his throat and takes another sip of iced tea. Kevin watches him do it with some nervous energy as he tries not to fidget in his seat.

“What do you think, sweetheart?” Dean asks.

He glances over at you, where you sit in your own leather chair. This may be Dean’s office, but yours is now down the hall. As Operations Manager, you oversee HunterCorp’s logistics, budgets and resources, quality assurance, and office management. You’re literally the connective piece between Sam and Dean, and every department in the company. But you’ve been spread a little too thin for the past few months, juggling your new responsibilities with the old. Now, Dean needs your replacement.

You peruse Kevin’s resume again and flip the page. Your engagement ring catches the light.

“Let’s start with internships.”

AN: How'd you like Dean stepping up? You think he'd make a good stepdad? 😘

I am working on a longer Dean AU series at the moment. I'll be telling you guys more about it next week, but until then, please let me know what you thought about this little mini series!

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Dean glances down at each packet. He snorts and tosses the first one into the metal garbage bin beside his desk. Sam frowns.

“What was wrong with that one?”

“He’s a dude. Don’t you think we’ve got enough of a sausage fest going on around here?” Dean says, gesturing wide at the multi-floor building that makes up HunterCorp. His father’s enterprise, distilled down to two sons who, on their best day, have very different opinions on what makes for a good executive assistant.

Sam utters a longsuffering sigh.

“Man or woman, you need a real assistant, Dean. Someone competent enough to deal with your demanding schedule and…personality.”

“What’s wrong with my personality?”

“And I need you to have an assistant so I can focus on my real job. You know, running the entire Legal department.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I know how to do my job, okay? I think I’ve picked up the slack pretty damn well since Dad died.”

Sam pauses, acknowledging that with a nod, and a heavier note.

“Yeah. You have.”

“So while I’m throwing money away hiring for a wholly unnecessary assistant, who I’m gonna have to tolerate looking at every day, I might as well be looking at somebody hot,” Dean says.

Another exhale leaves Sam’s body, along with the brief buoyant feeling of admiration for his brother.

And now we’re back where the neanderthals live. 

Sam gets a text from Reception that has his pocket buzzing. After he checks the message, he nods to himself. Here we go.

“All right. The first one is on her way up now, so do me a favor and get yourself together,” he says. “For example, it’s a little early for the booze, don’t you think? It’s 10:00 a.m.”

Dean pauses. The crystal decanter in his hand is halfway to pouring his first fifth of whiskey.

Second breakfast, if you will.

He gives his brother a flat look, one that’s accusing him of being an eternal wet blanket. But he begrudgingly concedes the point and puts both the decanter and the tumbler in a cabinet under his desk.

Classy. Sam rolls his eyes.

A knock at the door stops him from commenting out loud.

Clearing his throat, he walks over to let you in.

“Hi, Sam…and Mr. Winchester,” you say, shaking hands with the slightly taller brother. Then you turn to Dean Winchester, CEO of HunterCorp. He stands and leaves his desk to greet you.

In the time it takes him to cross the room, he takes you in within the breadth of a few seconds. More than the professional pantsuit and your pretty face, he notices your bright smile, the slight bout of nerves in the way you shake his hand. He finds himself smiling back.

“Uh, hi,” he says eloquently. “Call me Dean. Can we get ya some water, coffee, iced tea…”

He doesn’t even think they have iced tea, but he’s willing to make Sam go and find some.

“No, thank you. I’m fine,” you reply.

“Okay, then. Just, uh, take a seat.” He gestures to the open seat in front of his desk before he returns to his own plush leather chair. It squeaks as he swivels back in place. He shares a nod with Sam, who heads out of the office. The door closes behind him.

Dean glances down at the list of questions Sam prepared for him to ask each candidate, a sheet of paper that lies over your resume. He brushes the questions aside and focuses on the information printed under your name.

His brows raise in interest. “You graduated from Stanford University like my brainiac brother?”

The sound of your light laugh draws his gaze from the page, up to your face.

“Yeah, we were actually friends. It’s just been…a while,” you say, clearing your throat a little.

Dean inclines his head. His understanding grows along with his suspicion as he reads.

“Look at that, a Marketing major. Looks like you had a couple of promising internships too.”

“In college, yes.”

“And you were a Communications Specialist at Ashland for…eight months in 2021?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Again, you nod, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle in your pants. Your gaze falls away from his.

This time, Dean thinks you know full well what he’s getting at when he sets down your resume.

“That was five years ago,” he says. “You haven’t worked in five years since getting out of college?”

“It’s a bit complicated,” you admit, though you sit a little straighter. “I gave birth to my daughter, Emma, in November of 2021. My ex…was not supportive. My mother was also having some heath issues, so I moved back home to help my father take care of her. They took care of me too.”

Your fingers flex and interlace together in your lap. Dean notices the subtle fidget, but otherwise you’re calm and professional as you admit to something so personal. He can respect that you didn’t try to bullshit him.

“Hmm. Complicated,” he nods, then hesitates. “How’s your mom doing now?”

Your lips tug, but not at a smile. “She passed away a few weeks ago.”

Dean dims further as he inhales deeply. “I’m sorry.”

You give a tight nod, your throat swallowing.

“Look, since you’ve been honest with me, I’m gonna be real with you,” he says. “I run a company of 300 employees, 20 departments, 10 floors. I work 60-hour weeks minimum. I meet with department heads, shareholders, business partners and prospective clients on the daily—the kind of schedule that would make your head spin. I know you’ve done what you had to do, but I’m not sure you’re ready for a job like this. And that’s besides the fact that I’m not convinced I even need an assistant who’s probably just going to slow me down by sticking her nose into my process and asking questions I don’t have the damn time to answer.”

You tighten up at that, understandably taken aback. Your lips purse, but instead of tossing him a fuck you then and walking out, like he half expects, you sit with his words. You think it through, and you give him exactly what he doesn’t expect. 

“I may not have been clocking into an office for the past few years, but I haven’t been a stranger to hard work, Mr. Winchester. I’ve done nothing but fulfill the role of an assistant,” you say, and your gaze never leaves his when you say it. “Appointments, calls, messages, emails, paperwork, finances, data reports, coffee, power lunches, drycleaning—whatever you need, however quickly you need it, I can get it and I can make it happen. If there’s someone you can rely on, it’s a single mother who knows how to get shit done.”

Dean understands now. He understands the pain hidden in your eyes, and the too-tight set of your shoulders that hold the weight of responsibility. Urgency. A hint of desperation.

You need this job, maybe a little too much.

He should let you down gently. You’re not the kind of girl he’s looking for.

But whenever his mind and his gut are in conflict, he usually heeds his gut. That’s worked out well for him so far.

So he shrugs, and he stands up, holding out his hand to you across the desk.

“Like I said, call me Dean.”

Two Weeks

He groans into the ceramic mug at the first sip. Jesus Christ, you make a good fucking cup of coffee. That’s not even in the top five of the talents you possess, as it pertains to his business and your ability to learn quickly, talk minimally, and begin to anticipate his needs.

You dress nice, you’re always on time, and hell, you smell good too. Like body lotion and just the right amount of perfume. Obviously he can’t comment on any of these things, unless he wants a visit from Meg in HR. But it doesn’t stop him from noticing you, his heart thumping whenever you come in close to show him a document or ask him a question about a report.

Instead of rolling his eyes or snapping that you should have someone who’s not running this entire company explain it to you—like he did the last assistant who didn’t even survive three days—Dean finds an ounce of patience to spare for you.

He sits there and explains the difference between an M1911 handgun and a shotgun, and why the background checks take two months for one model and a few weeks for the other one is just a difference of state law, not HunterCorp’s manufacturing techniques.

Sam is rather fucking gloaty about it too—mainly at the fact that his top candidate made it through Dean’s initial hiring plans.

“Admit it, she’s good,” Sam says later in the day, while the two of them eat lunch together in his office. You just had it delivered ten minutes ago, still piping hot.

“She’s all right, for being your little college friend.” Dean slurps his lo mien and casts his brother some side-eye. “Is that all she was, or did you two occasionally sneak off for a little rec room break on the side?”

Sam gives him a flat look. “No, I was with Jess by then.”

“Just asking.” Dean shrugs. Secretly, he’s pleased. “You know anything about the ex-boyfriend, Father of the Year?”

Sam snorts in derision. “Some asshole in Sales while she was at Ashland. From what I heard, they were dating for six months or so, and she got pregnant. He, uh, tried to get her to end it.”

Dean frowns, and actually pauses eating to raise his head.

“She told you that?” he asks.

Sam holds back on answering for a suspicious moment, his eyes shifting down at his food.

“Made a couple calls to some contacts I have over there,” he says.

Spies, in other words. Dean nods in understanding. His brother’s always been the smart one. That’s what everyone used to say, including their father.

Two Months

You’re not sure if you should do it.

You have a sensitive report in your hand, fresh off the printer. You really think Dean should see it before he gets any deeper into his negotiations with Roman Enterprises, but he’s meeting with them right now in the big conference room, with Dick Roman himself, as well as the rest of his sales and legal representatives.

This isn’t the first meeting Sam and Dean have undergone with the company; Roman Enterprises been courting HunterCorp into a partnership on a new product, but this could be the day that makes the big swinging dicks in the room shake hands (even if that little visual almost makes you snort).

Dean’s never expressly warned you about entering a meeting uninvited, but it’s still nerve wracking as you stand outside the door. You can hear familiar voices, including the nasally tone of Alastair, the one who gives you the creeps whenever he slithers through the office and gives you a “charming” once-over.

But you also hear Dean. His voice is deep and smooth and confident. It gives you the little confidence boost you need to twist the knob and push the door open.

Just as you predicted, with a sinking feeling, all eyes turn to you when you enter the conference room. Sam and Dean and their lead sales manager, Cas, look over at you in varying degrees of surprise (Cas with disapproval). Dick Roman remains impassive, if slightly amused when you squeak out an, “I’m sorry.”

It’s Alastair’s gaze you feel on your profile when you quickly make your way around the large conference room table and over to Dean. You lean over to hand him the paperwork.

His lips purse when he notices the line of Alistair’s gaze—on your ass.

Dean then frowns at you, and your express delivery.

“What’s this? You think it could’ve waited?” he asks in a low whisper.

“Look,” you whisper back, pointing to the section you starred. It’s a report that Roman Enterprises failed to disclose about their product, a double-chambered gun that can store silver rounds and witch-killing bullets as well as salt rounds: the perfect gun for a hunter.

The problem is the safety and performance report. The one Dean has up on his laptop doesn’t match the one now physically in his hands—the one that says two out of three units of this gun fail to chamber correctly on reloading, resulting in a backfire on the user.

Dean’s brows furrow. “Where did you get this?”

“Is something wrong?” Dick asks. He straightens in his seat, his demeanor a fraction sharper.

Dean glances up at him, then at Sam and Cas, who wear similar looks of confusion. Sam raises his brows expectantly.

“Sorry, one moment,” Dean says to the room, before redirecting his attention to you.

You’re all too aware of being the rabbit caught in the proverbial trap in this room of nearly all men, but you rest a hand on the table and lean in near his ear.

“Their weapons analyst sent this to me,” you explain. “He almost got his hand blown off. Said they didn’t want to go back to the drawing board and waste time when they had us as a prospective distributor.”

Dean blinks in surprise. A fucking whistleblower just outed his own company, but he supposes he can’t blame the guy. If he had half a hand, he’d sue everybody.

“Okay, thank you,” Dean tells you.

It sounds like a dismissal, and truth be told, you’re ready to get the hell of this room. You make a quick escape and shut the door carefully behind you.

Dean watches you leave, but then he collects the report you gave him and passes it along to Sam, with a pointed look that says read it now. Sam doesn’t need the prompting. He shares it with Cas, and they both eventually come to the same frowning conclusions as Dean.

“You gonna fill us in on what that little skirt just gave you that has all of you so fucking sour?” Alastair remarks.

It makes Dean bristle. “That’s my assistant. Have some fucking respect.”

Dick shoots his associate a warning look, as well as a placating hand before he folds both of his on the table.

“Apologies. I’d like to move forward here. How about we discuss oversees shipping—”

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Dean says. He shares a look with Sam. He’s disappointed, but he nods in agreement all the same.

Dick’s head tilts. His fake-ass smile twitches at the corners. “Excuse me?” 

Dean closes his laptop and slides your report across the table.

“We deal with all kinds, but there’s nothing I hate more than a liar,” he says. “Cas will see you guys out to your line of Teslas out front.”

You’re sitting at your desk, stress-eating with a snack bag of popcorn while you answer emails, even though your mind is racing as you imagine what might be going on in that conference room.

You perk up in your seat when the door swings open, and the entire team of Roman Enterprises files out with steam practically coming out of Dick’s ears. You’re more than happy to see the back of Alastair. Cas follows them closely, while Sam and Dean are the last ones lingering outside the door.

They speak for a moment there in the hall, though you’re too far to hear what they’re saying. Dean eventually rubs a hand over his stubble-covered cheeks and jawline as he heads toward his office, and toward you. He gives you a wry look when he steps through the glass doors of the reception area, squeezing your shoulder as he passes by.

“Good job, sweetheart.”

That’s all he says as he disappears back into his office. You can’t help the warm blush blooming across your cheeks, but you do get up to follow him.

“Um, Dean…”

He turns to you as the door of his office closes behind you. You fold your hands in front of you, an almost contrite expression across your face.

“I’m sorry. That just cost you a lot of money, didn’t it?” you ask.

Dean shakes his head. “Don’t be sorry. What you saved me is one bitch of a headache, and probably millions in legal fees. So thank you.”

You smile, making him smile in return.

“Okay, um, would you mind if I leave just a few minutes early today?” you ask. “My father usually picks up my daughter after school, but he has a doctor’s appointment. I can come back after she’s settled.”

Dean frowns. “What time does she usually get out of school?”

“Three. She’s in kindergarten.”

He considers it for a moment. “You know, we have a daycare. Cas brings his kids here too.”

You do know that, all too well. Cas is married to Meg in HR, and they have two, very odd twin daughters. You think they’re stealing ink from the printer and using it for “ink blot tests.” You didn’t know that eight-year-olds knew what those were.

“We do. But I, uh…I can’t afford it,” you admit, with some embarrassment. You’re still helping your dad pay off your mom’s medical bills, and even her funeral. It’s not easy to afford to live and provide for a child, but it seems like it’s almost as expensive to die.

Dean taps his fingers on his desk. He shrugs and rounds his desk to sit down in his comfortable chair.

“How much does it cost?” he asks.

“$500 a month. I’m already trying to get her into a private school…”

Dean does the math in his head, easy. Then he sends a quick text to Meg in HR.

“Well, now you can afford it. I’m gonna raise your annual salary by $10K,” he says. “That should cover the tax deductions and extra gas mileage.”

Your mouth falls open in shock. It closes, then opens again before you’re able to make words pass through them.

“Um, w…what?” you ask.

Dean leans back in his chair and smiles. It isn’t often he gets you flustered.

“Consider it an early Christmas bonus,” he says.

You laugh, slightly breathless still in wonder. “It’s the middle of July.”

Again, Dean shrugs. “Just say thank you.”

You bite your lip in amusement, but you nod. Your gaze on him is sincere, and a little shiny with emotion. Your daughter’s definitely getting into private school now.

“Thank you,” you say.

Dean watches you walk out of his office, along with that brief look over your shoulder before you close the door. His smile fades.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

He sits up in his chair and goes for that stash of whiskey under his desk. If he wasn’t already an alcoholic, you sure were on your way to making him one.

Three Months

Dean blows out a sigh, then rubs his eyes at the strain of just how long he’s stared at a screen and tried to make these goddamn numbers work.

The building is probably empty by now. Even his brother left two hours ago to go home and have dinner with Jess. Dean’s reluctant to go home to his empty apartment. So here he sits, the workaholic that he is, as the sun fades behind other buildings and casts his apartment into darker shades. He switches on the desk lamp.

A knock on the door kicks his thoughts out of alignment, like an old engine sparking out, into crispy defeat.

“Yeah,” he calls out without looking up. He does though, when you come into view.

“Hey, I’m heading out,” you say.

He can see you’re ready to go, packed up and on your way downstairs to pick Emma up from daycare. He still hasn’t met the kid. He’s surprised himself with the idea that he wants to, though he’s never asked. Never wanted to intrude on your life outside of work. Never wanted to get too close to it.

You’re a single mother living with your father, and that’s complicated enough. You don’t need a man like Dean upsetting the delicate balance. And he doesn’t think he can give a woman like you what you need…besides the fact that you’re his employee.

“All right. Make sure Benny keeps an eye on you heading to your car. It’s getting late,” he says.

“Not that late,” you say with a smile. Though you’re a bit concerned when you step further into his office. “When do you typically head home?”

“Uh, around eight or nine, usually.”

“That’s pretty late. You don’t have anyone waiting on you?”

“Not unless you count the beers in the fridge,” he remarks, sending off another email to a sales rep to get his ass in gear if they’re going to make quota for Quarter 3.

By the time Dean looks up, he sees your small frown. Concern.

It rubs him the wrong way (or maybe the right one), so he clears his throat and waves you over to his computer, opening up a tab he was looking at earlier.

“Hey, do me a favor. Tell me what you think of these. I have to go to some tech expo this weekend with Sam,” he says.

You look over his shoulder at the rows of ties on the screen.

“Well, first of all, don’t get them off Amazon. Go to a men’s store,” you say with a short laugh. “Second, what color is the suit?”

“Uh, just black,” he says in amusement.

You hum in contemplation. The man does look good in his usual slacks and nice buttoned-down shirts, but picturing him in a full suit and tie is an enticing image.

“This burgundy one looks nice. Or the blue one with the pattern,” you suggest.

“You don’t think it’s too loud?”

“No, I think it would look nice with a black dress shirt. Or hey, a black vest with a white dress shirt underneath.” 

“A vest?” Dean intones.

“Yeah, with your shoulders, you’ll look really sharp when you pair it with the suit jacket,” you say.

“My shoulders, huh? What about ‘em?” he asks in amusement, verging on the edge of flirtatious, before he realizes what he’s doing.

You both pause then.

You eventually find something approaching a respectable response, if not really a professional one.

“Just…you have a strong frame for a suit. I’m sure whatever you pick will look good,” you say. Though you turn away to grab your purse from where you left it leaning against his desk on the floor. Your face is blushing hot all the while. “Um, have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you too,” he nods, clearing his throat. He tries not to watch you leave, but he can’t help himself. The natural sway of your hips is too hard to ignore, as is the way you walk away from him on those heels.

Once the door is firmly shut, he tips his head back against his chair and groans. He hates himself for hoping, even fantasizing, that one day you’ll come back and straddle him on this goddamn chair and fuck him with those heels still on.

He bangs the back of his head repeatedly against the chair, as if that could rid him of his pig-like thoughts.

Fuck. Me.

Four Months

Dean steps into his office after four hours of solid back-to-back meetings. If he had to sit through even five more minutes of Crowley’s condescending ass explain 15 subsections of a contract, as if Dean didn’t know how to fucking read, then he was going to throw his laptop into the nearest window.

He expects to find the quiet refuge of his office, and very quickly his stash of Angel’s Envy. What he gets is a kid sitting in his chair, eating his Doritos. She doesn’t look older than five or six, swinging her little legs as she swivels in his nice leather chair.

The sight is so dumbfounding that Dean stops not two steps through the doorway, his hand still lingering on the doorknob. He frowns.

“Hey,” he says. Not in a nice way. In a who the hell are you way.

“Hi!” The kid smiles and waves at him with fingers coated in Cool Ranch Dorito dust.

Dean’s head tilts. “Uh, hi.”

“You said that,” she says.

His lips twitch upward. He points at her, and the chair she’s sitting in.

“That’s my seat,” he says, with some censure in his voice. “You wanna get down?”

She blinks and pauses, realizing she might be in trouble.

“Sorry.” She slides down carefully without letting go of her snack. She wears a private school uniform: a plaid skirt, navy polo, and a matching headband. Her pink Peppa Pig sneakers give away her personality though. It matches her backpack, which boasts a Minnie Mouse keychain and a princess sticker of Belle in her yellow ballgown.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Emma,” she replies.

Dean’s brows raise high in recognition, then they furrow.

“Interesting. Where’s your mom?”

“She had to talk to Miss Nancy, so she told me to stay here.”

Miss Nancy. Gotta be the daycare lady, Dean thinks.

“Here? As in, my office?” he asks in suspicion. “Or did your mom tell you to hang out at her desk?”

Emma guiltily glances down at her feet instead of at him, like Sammy did when he was four, and didn’t want to admit he broke their dad’s watch.

Here, it looks like Emma got bored and wanted to go into the big mysterious room. She continues eating her Doritos.

Dean can’t help but smile. “Did you find those in my desk drawer?”

She blinks up at him with the face. Like when Sam got caught looking through their dad’s old collection of baseball cards with peanut butter and jelly stains on his hands. That puppy dog look had Dean taking the fall—and the week-long grounding.

Emma tentatively offers him her snack. “Want one?”

The look on her face tells him that she’d rather not share, but it’s a clever little manipulation with those big doe eyes. Girls learn quick, don’t they?

Dean shakes his head and pulls out a nearby guest chair after setting down his laptop on the desk.

“It’s okay. You can sit here if you want,” he says.

The chair is a little high, so she reaches for the edge of his desk to help her. Dean offers her his hand instead. She’s happy to settle her little Dorito grime-covered hand in his and have him help her into the chair.

“Thank you,” she says, with that cute little voice. He almost laughs.

“You’re welcome,” he says. You’re definitely going to owe him for this one.

Dean sits at his desk and contemplates just what the hell he’s going to do with this kid for the next few minutes. At least, he hopes it’s just a few minutes. Does he need reinforcements? Should he call Sam up here? Cas?

“Are you and Mommy friends?” Emma asks.

Dean considers her question with a quirk of his head.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. I work with your mom.”

“She said you’re her boss.”

“You know who I am?”

“Yeah. Your face is on her phone when you call,” Emma says. When she finishes the chips, he can tell she’s looking for a garbage can. He takes the empty bag from her and tosses it in the small bin under his desk. He wishes he could pour himself a much needed adult drink, but he thinks you’d have something to say about that later.

He settles on the bottles of water you keep putting in his other drawer. He grabs one for the kid, and even opens the cap for her, like he used to do for Sam when they were little.

“Uh, how was school?” Dean asks. Because what else do you ask a kindergartner?

She shrugs. “Okay.”

Fair enough, he thinks. He never liked school much, but he has to keep this conversation going somehow.

“Just okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. I don’t like math, but Music was fun. We’re learning how to play the recorder. Oh! And I drew Peppa after school. Wanna see?” she says, pointing at her backpack.

Dean raises a brow, but he grabs her backpack off the floor and hands it to her. She unzips it and rifles through her notebooks and her modest collection of crayons. She then pulls out her prized drawing to show him. It looks more like a ball of pink squiggles to him. But he looks harder, and he can see the eyes and the mouth and the nose are close enough to the character on her sneakers.

“Hey, that’s pretty good,” he indulges her, earning her shy smile.

“Thank you,” she says. But her face soon falls. “I wanted to draw her yellow crown, but a boy took my crayon and broke it.”

“Aw, that sucks,” Dean says. Though a smile threatens his lips at the little angry pout on her face. “What did you do when he wouldn’t give it back?”

“I just pushed his arm and he fell and cried,” she says.

Dean blinks in surprise. “Oh.”

Yikes. No wonder you had to go back and talk to Miss Nancy.

“But I didn’t mean to! He was mean to me first,” Emma argues.

Dean shakes his head in amusement, once again tempted to laugh.

“Well, you know, you should never put your hands on somebody. You wouldn’t want him to hit you, right?” he reasons.

The girl considers it, still with that little pout, but she nods begrudgingly.

“See? But if that kid messes with you again, you come tell me, okay? I’ll set him straight, man to man,” Dean says.

She starts to smile again. “Promise?”

“I promise. Let’s shake on it,” he says, giving her his hand. She puts her much smaller one in his, and they shake on it like adults.

“Emma?” your voice calls from outside the office in worry. The door is still open, so you catch sight of your daughter just as Dean tells you to come over. Your eyes grow wide with embarrassment as you realize where Emma ended up. You hasten inside his office.

“What are you doing in here?” you ask her sternly, taking her hand and leading her off the chair. “You were supposed to be doing your homework at my desk. Dean, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think it would take so long.”

“It’s all right,” he says.

You still look a bit mortified and apologetic.

“Seriously, it’s okay. She’s a good kid,” Dean says. You smile, if a bit wryly as you caress her head.

“Well, she wasn’t on her best behavior today, so we’re going to sort that out tonight. But thank you for watching her.”

Dean sends you off with a raised hand, though it turns into a small wave when Emma looks back at him with a sneaking smile.

He chuckles and shakes his head. Kids. Jesus.

She looks just like you.

Five Months

The insistent ring and vibration of your cell phone disturbs your deeply rooted slumber. You slap at the device charging on your nightstand and nearly yank out the cord in attempt to bring the screen to your eyeballs.

Once your bleary vision adjusts to the brightness, you growl in annoyance.

Still, you answer the call.

“Dean. Jesus Christ, it’s three in the morning.”

“I just need your opinion on the new crossbow flame throwers.”

Your sigh can probably be heard across the Atlantic Ocean.

“It’s fine, but it would make more sense on a gun, right? Half gun, half flame thrower.”

“That’s what I said! But Cas says we need to diversify—”

“Dean. Three. In the morning. Go to sleep and let me get back to dreaming about Pedro Pascal as a gladiator, feeding me grapes as his queen.”

“…You like Latin guys, huh?”

You groan and turn your face fully into your pillow.

“Sleeping now. I’ll see you in five hours.”

Six Months

“Look! Emma got first place in the Spelling Bee.”

You pass Dean your phone while he scrapes the pickled onions off his burger and onto your plate. In turn, you give him the pickle wedge off your plate. By now you know that he’s a veritable bottomless pit when it comes to food in general, except for the fact that he doesn’t like pickled onions, and doesn’t trust sushi.

He smiles as he scrolls through the pictures of your daughter’s kindergarten class.

“Clearly taking after her mom in the smarts department. Though you didn’t have to do her like that with those Pippi Longstocking braids,” he remarks.

You scoff in amusement. “Oh, come on, they’re not that bad. It’s not like she’s got a wire hanger in there. She’s just going through a frizzy phase. No matter what products I use, I can’t seem to tame that hair.”

Dean chomps his burger. You’ve reminded him at least 30 times, but he still talks with his mouth full.

“Looks like she’s trying to land a plane,” he says.

You snort, shaking your head. You shove his arm lightly and go back to eating, while Dean takes another look at the pictures.

He sees a lot of you in that little girl. She’s got your eyes, your smile, but she probably has her dad’s hair, his chin. Dean hopes that’s all the girl’s going to get from that fucking deadbeat, biologically speaking. From what you’ve told Dean, all that guy is good for is sending monthly wire payments. After you got your raise, he even tried taking you to court to get his child support reduced.

“Did you want kids—you know, before? Was that even on your radar?” Dean asks.

He doesn’t know what possesses him, but he asks.

You hum in contemplation. “Honestly, it wasn’t. I was focused on my career.”

You wipe your mouth as the thought settles in.

“I thought I’d do it right, you know? Work hard, achieve my goals, find a husband who wanted the same things I did, then build a life, and a family. I always thought I was smarter than a broken condom in the back of his goddamn Lexus,” you say, your tone bordering on disgust at the end. You shake your head and sip your iced tea.

Dean quirks his head. “Well, we’ve all been thrown a few curveballs in life. What matters is how you take it. And I’d say you’ve got the better end of the deal. You get Emma, a good job, the best boss in the world…”

You shoot him a knowing smile.

Dean smirks, but he’s still serious.

“And that guy, all he gets is a life without his kid, and without the woman who could’ve given him a family,” he says. “Sounds like a fucking chump to me.”

He continues eating, but you’re not sure if he realizes how that just tilted your entire axis. It makes you look at him differently, the warmth of admiration in your chest, and something deeper coiling in your belly, stirring up something unexpected.

You stare at him long enough that his brows furrow.

“What? Got something in my teeth?” he asks. 

Your face relaxes, your lips tugging at a smile.

“Yeah, ground beef. Can you please swallow before you talk?”

“This is how I am, sweetheart. Don’t try to change me,” Dean says, taking another massive bite. Oily ketchup dangles from the bun and threatens to stain one of his nicer buttoned-down shirts.

You roll your eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You stick a napkin in his collar, just in time for the ketchup drip.

Seven Months

You and Sam have lunch together every Wednesday. It started out as a way to reconnect with your old friend, but it’s often devolved into an hourly venting session about his brother’s many idiosyncrasies, how he’s driving you both fucking crazy, and how to best manage the man’s schedule, as well as steer him away from any half-cocked decisions that could cause a PR disaster.

Like the time he accidentally asked a reporter at a charity benefit why albacore tuna was becoming an endangered species.

“I mean, come on. They’ve literally got fish on the menu tonight. Maybe if you people stopped eating so much damn sushi with your avocado toast, we wouldn’t need this bougie dinner party. $5,000 a plate? Give me a fucking break.”

The fact that he slept with her that night still didn’t save him from the article she published later that week, complete with direct quotes. She had a good goddamn memory.

Today though, your weekly lunch with Sam is less about quasi-therapy, and more about celebrating the fact that Jess is pregnant. You’re even helping her and her sister plan the baby shower.

“Any advice? Just, you know, about parenting in general,” Sam asks. For once, he seems less his normal confident self, and a little more sheepish. It’s sweet, even endearing.

You smile. “God, I don’t know. I’ve been winging it from the beginning. Just…be present, as much as you can. Jess is going to need you to show the hell up, without being asked, without being nagged. You’re the rock she’ll need to lean on, even when she thinks she can do it all while you’re here trying to show up for the job. Especially when the baby’s born. If you’re not covered in three layers of bodily fluids, then you’re not doing it right.”

He laughs a little. “Noted.”

Your mind veers into other directions as you finish up your sandwich and crumple up the foil wrapper. Most predictably, along the road that leads back to Dean.

“Dean doesn’t seem to be the family man type,” you remark. “More married to his work, but…he’s been really good with Emma every time I’ve brought her up to visit the office.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. He basically half raised me after Mom died. More than half, actually. Dad was always working,” Sam says.

“What about relationships?” you ask.

It earns you a certain look from Sam. You’ve come to learn that both Winchester brothers are incredibly sharp, just in different ways. Dean knows how to read people. He’s a good judge of character, and it makes him a shark in the board room, the kind of man that can take in the information his department heads serve him and make swift decisions that often pan out well for HunterCorp.

Sam is perceptive in an almost clinical way, analytical and methodical. He’s the one who can read the data and find the one thing that’s missing. He can anticipate problems before they start, and when it comes to people, Sam often catches the little things, tells and underlying motivations. It gives you away before you’ve even realized it.

“Well, Dean’s been pretty predictable when it comes to women, even before Dad passed,” Sam says.

And it’s true. Dean’s never seen the same woman more than a week at a time. You know this, because you’ve seen the “consolation gifts” he sends them. A Tiffany bracelet. An Apple Watch. Gucci sunglasses. The perfect gift that tells a girl she won’t need to stick around for breakfast.

“But to his credit, he’s up front with them,” Sam says, drawing your gaze. “They know what not to expect.”

Your lips quirk. “Sounds so transactional…and lonely.”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, “but I get it. He took a lot onto his shoulders when Dad died. Right now, Dean’s more focused on making sure we survive than on what he might want. To be honest, I doubt he’s even thought about what that is.”

For some reason, that hits you behind the ribs in a quiet, sharp strike. In your mind, you can’t help but see the familiar tense set of Dean’s shoulders hunched at his desk, eyes glued to his computer while an evening sun sets behind his head.

Even in that big office overlooking the entire city scape, he never has time to admire the view.

Eight Months

It’s your mistake.

Your fingers brush Dean’s for half a second too long when you give him a stack of purchase orders to sign. His eyes meet yours. You point out the new way you’ve color-coded the departments for each PO.

Your heel wobbles on your pivot, an uneven floorboard. Suddenly it’s his hand closing around your wrist and the other wrapping around your waist, giving you stability. Your eyes meet his, heated breaths in between.

A thank you falls from your lips, drawing Dean’s attention there.

But he lets you go.

You walk away, pretending you don’t know his eyes are following you.

You bite your lip against a smile.

One Year

“Seriously, which one?”

“Jesus, Dean. Green! I already told you.”

“No need to get snippy. I just want your opinion.”

“You always want my opinion. That’s why I already laid out the green one for you.”

“But I like the black one.”

“You always wear the black one. The black one says politician. The green one says you’re the boss, but you’re approachable.”

“I don’t want to be approachable. That’s how I get stuck in a 45-minute fucking conversation in the break room with Garth about his side hustle YouTube sock puppet show. That shit was deeply uncomfortable. I just wanted my damn coffee.”

“You know, you could also cut back on the caffeine and the booze while we’re on the subject.”

“Oh, what are you, my mother?”

“You tell me. I’m the one dressing you right now.”

You work the collar dark green suit jacket over his shoulder and smooth down the wrinkles. You firmly ignore how his gaze roams your face, and lower still. You want to pretend you haven’t noticed these signs, all while you try to stop yourself from giving any yourself.

“There, looks good,” you say. Though you make the mistake of meeting his eyes.

He grins. One of those grins that makes you want to grab his face, either mushing it into his seventeen mugs of coffee, or kissing him fucking stupid. You’ve been restraining the latter urge by a tenuous thread for several months now, mostly because you sicken yourself.

He’s your fucking boss. It’s unprofessional. You’ve already been down this road once in your life, and—

“You okay?” he asks.

Suddenly you realize how close he is. You can feel the warmth of his body, you can smell his cologne, and he sounds so sincere in his concern, briefly touching your arm.

You nod, knowing you should create some distance between you and him. Somehow you can’t force yourself to take that one small step back.

Instead, you reach for his tie. “Remember, you’re meeting Frank Devereau and his wife tonight, and Charlie Bradbury. She’s the brains behind the project, so you’ll want to talk to her about the details, how the program works, and how we can incorporate it into our existing tech.”

Dean hums in agreement, but in truth, his attention is on your nimble hands as you work on his tie. You slide the knot up to settle snugly, but not too tight against his throat. You allow your hands to slide down his chest while you admire your handiwork with satisfaction, but your small smile fades. Your mouth goes dry as your gaze travels back up to his, lingering on his parted mouth.

His hands slowly come to hold you by your arms, making your heart tap a syncopated beat.

“Does that look mean you want me to kiss you, or am I just seeing things?” he says at last.

Your eyes widen. You bite the inside of your lip, nervous energy fluttering through you, even as everything within you would like to scream a resounding yes.

“We can’t…shouldn’t,” you say, in a quieter voice. His office door is closed, but it’s not locked. There are far better reasons than that though, and you struggle to remind yourself of each and every one of them.

Dean steals your focus, however. His eyes seem greener than usual, probably because of the jacket. You picked it with that in mind.

“In this case, shouldn’t isn’t a moral argument,” he says. “It’s society’s rules. I don’t know about you, sweetheart, but I’ve never much cared about what people who don’t matter think about me.”

Your brows begin to knit together. “Who matters to you? Because my daughter and my father. They matter to me.”

“Being with me doesn’t hurt them,” he argues, a little peeved at the implication that it would; that he would hurt them, or you.

“Being with you?” you ask in shock.

Dean’s mouth opens, but he hesitates, like what he just said surprises even himself. His lips quirk at a smile.

“I know you, uh, probably think I’m not capable of something like that,” he asks.

“I mean, it is surprising,” you admit airily. Your cheeks warm in a blush. “You could have anyone, Dean…and you have.”

He chuckles dryly. “All right, fair enough. But other than Sam, who gets me better than you? Who else is gonna handle this, the pressure of my life and everything that goes with it…better than you?”

Your eyes widen. A softer smile threatens your lips, because you realize then that he’s actually serious.

About you?

Of course, that’s when your very real, rational doubt creeps in.

“People are going to talk,” you point out. “That’s why shouldn’t always matters. And you and me? Jesus, Dean, this is the oldest cliché in the fucking book.”

His hands move down to your waist, squeezing gently. Enticingly.

“Then we’ll be discreet,” he says, with one of his crooked grins. You shake your head, but you start to smile too. You allow him to pull you back in, figuratively and literally as he bows his head closer to yours.

“You really think you can pull that off?” you ask.

“Sweetheart, with the right motivation, we can pull off anything,” he says, half whispering them on your lips as he captures them with his own.

It’s slow and laced with a curling heat that licks tingles down your spine, just like his hand moving to the small of your back, pressing you into him. Your body betrays you then, with a moan in your throat and your own hands traveling up his arms, over his shoulders, cupping the back of his neck.

The graze of your nails at his nape makes him shiver and groan as he licks into your mouth, holds you tighter. You feel the press of his growing arousal against your belly.

Your good sense knocks at the door of lust and yearning, reminding you that you’re making all the same mistakes again. This isn’t a man you can trust—not with this. But Dean’s lips are hard to ignore, covered in the remnants of your lipstick as he kisses his way along your jaw and down your neck, where he sucks and nips just hard enough to make you gasp his name and writhe against him. He squeezes your ass and smiles against your skin.

“So fucking beautiful, you know that? Even the little sounds you make when I touch you. I wanna find out what that pretty voice sounds like when you come,” he says, in a voice dripped in whiskey and wicked promises.

Jesus. Your heart flutters. You haven’t been touched like this in so very long. You haven’t felt desired like this in…

“How long have you been thinking about that?” you ask, a little breathlessly. He continues his exploration, his lips blazing a sensuous trail down the column of your throat, along the line of your collar bone, and between the rise and fall your breasts. He slides open the buttons of your blouse with a practiced hand, his eyes drinking in the sight of your lace bra.

“Since the day you started wearing these sexy fucking heels,” he says, dragging his hand up your thigh, over your skirt, in a way that raises goosebumps on your arms. But he hesitates. His eyes ask a question as they meet yours.

“You need to tell me what you want though,” Dean says, more seriously than you expected. “You want me to touch you?”

Your heart feels like it’s beating in your throat, but you nod, biting your lip.

“Kiss me, touch me, make me fucking come,” you say. “But first, you need to lock that door.”

A crooked grin spreads across Dean’s face. He steals another kiss before he does exactly that—he crosses the room and locks that fucking door. You lean against his desk for a breather, but you realize that half this shit needs to go. You move stacks of files to the side, the coasters you put for his mugs of coffee along with the empty cups themselves. You push his double-screen monitors forward, giving Dean just the angle he needs to hold you from behind and start laying more tantalizing kisses along your neck.

You sigh and help him with the zipper of your skirt while he works on the bra clasp. The straps loosen down your arms, and he flings the bra away so he can get a handful each of your breasts. You moan and rest your head against his as he begins to squeeze and tease, gently twisting your nipples between his fingers. He leaves open-mouthed kisses against your jaw, sucking at your pulse point.

When his hand moves further down and slips behind the waistband of your skirt and panties, he feels your pulse flutter and trip along with your gasp. His fingers dip between your folds and find the slick mess of your arousal.

“Goddamn, baby. Soaked for me already,” he teases.

You don’t need to see his face to know that smug smirk is plastered across it. You reach back and tug sharply on his hair.

“You can gloat, or you can fuck me,” you retort.

He chuckles and kisses your temple. “Don’t you worry. You’re gonna have to bite down on my belt to keep from screaming in a minute.”

His hand that never left your breast begins to strum the hardened, sensitive nub, at the same time his other hand finds your clit. You shudder against him at that first touch, that perfect moment when you realize he knows exactly what he’s doing as he learns your body. He circles your clit slowly, but with a delicious pressure until it swells under his fingertips.

Then his long fingers dip down into your needy channel, making you whimper as you hold onto him and the desk for stability. His fingers pump smooth strokes inside you, almost as deep as he plans to fuck you with his cock.

He knows he has you when his fingers curl and brush deliberately against that perfect spot inside your inner walls. Your thighs begin to shake, your breaths labored, your hips bucking against his hand in a quiet plea.

Your orgasm rolls swift and steady against his fingers. Your pussy flutters around his hand, and he groans along with you.

“Good girl. Can’t wait to feel that squeeze around my cock,” he says, a filthy whisper in your ear.

You laugh a little, nodding in agreement. You turn around to help him with his belt.

“Yeah, right now. Want you inside me before we run out of time. You have to meet Sam downstairs soon.”

It’s another work event Dean can’t get himself out of, even if the networking opportunities are good for the company.

“You should come with me,” he says, grinning at the way you slide his jacket off his shoulders, but you toss it as carefully as you can across the nearest chair. You just had it drycleaned this morning.

“What?” you laugh. “Dean, you don’t need me there. I’m just an assistant—”

“No,” Dean says, stilling your movements when his hand cups your cheek. Your lashes raise as you look up at him, finding him serious again. His gaze roams your face, his thumb brushing your lower lip. “If it ain’t fucking obvious, you’re more.”

Your mouth falls open, but you’re not sure what’s going to spill out. Dean doesn’t give you time to figure it out, or even let himself settle into his own admission.

He just kisses you, hard and thorough, knocking any more doubts out of your mind, and any deeper thoughts out of his.

He grabs you up by your hips and seats you on his desk, rattling the surface. Your arms wrap around his shoulders on reflex. You feel the muscles flexing under his dress shirt—a crisp black. You help him yank up your skirt and kick off your panties, though they get tangled around your ankle. His slacks and boxer briefs end up coiled around his knees, just far enough to give him room and leverage to slide into your heat.

You both moan at the feeling of him settling snug inside, bottoming out, his almost bruising grip on your ass. Your thighs are wrapped almost as tightly around his waist as he lays you out more fully on the desk. It’s probably harder to do it this way, instead of him just bending you over the hard mahogany. But you’re glad you get to see his face, get to run your fingers through his hair and share his breaths while he fucks you in a slow-rolling rhythm.

It’s more intimate. It feels like it means something, especially when he once again cradles your cheek and brushes wild strands of hair away from your face. Especially when he kisses you deep enough to taste the Almond Joy you snacked on earlier.

You kiss him back just as fervently, as if this will be the first and the last time. You have no idea what happens after today, and you know that probably makes you a fucking idiot. It could lead to the end of your second chance at a career, but you want to trust this. You want to trust the steadiness in Dean’s hands and the look in his eyes.

So you give into what you want, sitting up to lay nipping kissing along his prickly cheek and neck, sucking your own marks against his skin. The way he groans and shudders and fucks you harder—it makes you feel powerful.

“Lean back, sweetheart,” he grits out. “Touch yourself for me.”

You manage to follow his lead, shakily laying back down and letting your hand drift back down your body, finding your clit. Dean watches you play with yourself, his fingers flexing against your hip. You feel him so deep, so good, that the coil of pleasure in your lower belly begins to tighten in earnest.

He’s only satisfied when you have to smother your own mouth against a cry, your hips snapping up to meet his as your release finally hits. Another few ragged strokes, and he spills into you as well.

“Fuck,” he groans into your neck, catching his breath. That was awesome.

But then, his eyes widen. “Christ, forgot a condom.”

“I’m on birth control.” You breathe out a laugh as you soothe him, caressing his shoulders.

He blinks, then he relaxes, chuckling faintly.

“Guess you just make me lose my head,” he says.

“It’s okay. I’ve gotten used to doing the thinking for you,” you tease, biting your lip.

Dean stares down at you, brows raised, yet amused at your cheek.

“Hmm, I’m gonna remember that one. Might have to punish you tomorrow,” he remarks.

You smirk, though a blush burns down your neck at the idea, and the depths of his voice.

He withdraws from you with a quiet moan, then helps you up with a steading grip on your arms when he feels that you’re still a bit shaky. After pulling up his pants, he finds the paper towels you keep handy in one of his desk drawers for the cleanup.

“Seriously, come with me tonight. I’m sure you’ve got a nice dress. If not, I’ll buy you one on the way,” he says, as you two start to pull your clothes back on. And in your case, find your bra.

“Dean, I need to take Emma home,” you say.

You pause with your fingers poised on his dark green jacket, ready to smooth down any wrinkles. The color matches his slacks perfectly. His hair is a bit messy, but overall, he looks edible and professional at the same time. He’s ready to shmooze with the heads of conglomerates and Silicon Valley tycoons and the politicians they own.

But you know you’re not a part of that world.

“Maybe next time,” you say, though you don’t really mean it. Your hand falls.

Dean nods, but he catches your hand before you walk away from him. He slowly winds you back in and kisses you thoroughly enough to make your knees buckle, just a little.

You’re still not sure if he meant what he said about wanting to be with you, or if this is just something he’ll change his mind about in the morning after a few glasses of whiskey.

You definitely think about more than just the road ahead while on your way home, Emma’s chatter filling the car. For once, you can’t say you’re fully paying attention.

Your fingers keep touching the memory lingering on your lips.

AN: 😘❤️‍🔥 How'd you like the slow build? lol Did Dean's earnest appeal surprise you there at the end? He's been a pretty successful play boy up until now, but he's really going to prove himself in Part 3 of our adventure, set shortly after Pratt Fall.

Next Time in Nothing by Halves:

Dean finds a guest spot in front of the school. The old Impala rumbles to a stop there, and he climbs out, grabbing the bouquet resting in his passenger seat.

His keys jangle in his other hand as he makes his way to the front office to check in, just like you told him to in your texted instructions. The nice ladies there give him a guest badge that he slaps on his chest, over his dress shirt, and they tell him how to get to the theater. He feels awkward and out of place walking down the halls of this school alone, but you had to take Emma over there early before the show. 

The hell am I doing here?

He has to fucking wonder.

But he promised you. He promised the kid. So he’s here.

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You smoothed out your bloody skirt out of habit. Why your brain was worried about wrinkles when the fabric was ruined was beyond you. Just one of those nervous ticks your mother would sigh at you about your entire childhood. 

Stop fidgeting. Sit up straight. Cross your ankles. For heaven’s sake, at least pretend to smile.

If only she could see you now. 

Your whole body flinched when the door of the ornate wood office you sat in opened. You didn’t bother to stand. Civility was out the door tonight. The blood staining your hands was proof enough of that.

The door thudded shut behind you, your eyes locked on the roaring fireplace before you. Flames danced in the dim space before a light flickered on from somewhere behind you, most likely the one on the large mahogany desk in the center of the room. 

Your back was ramrod straight at the very least. Maybe your mother was looking down at you with a smile for that.

Hell, who were you kidding. She was looking up. Knowing her, she’d made friends with the demons and was working on charming the devil himself.

Your body was perched on the edge of the cognac brown leather couch, barely sitting on the cushion, poised for…something. To flee? To fight? To accept death?

Why was your neck suddenly itchy? 

Oh, right. The dried blood. 

You absently scratched at it, heart stopping when footsteps echoed off the hardwoods, making the way from the grand rug over in your direction. You breathed slowly, feeling the man’s gaze on your back. The footsteps fell away, the distinctive sound of a record catching behind you. 

Rita Hayworth’s voice filled the air, breath catching. 

Put the blame on mame, boy.

Your visitor said nothing, just let the sound play through. Once. Twice. Three times. 

What the fuck was this person getting at? Put the blame on…but you did it. There was nothing else to…

Footsteps sounded again, heart in your throat as they continued closer this time. Hands rested on the back of your shoulders, not gripping them but simply…resting there.

“It’s almost insulting really. You, not having a clue what you were doing, slitting Harrison Blackburn’s throat like it’s your fuckin’ day job. You put my boys to shame. They tell me they ain’t never seen something so ruthless out of someone so…innocent. I should put you on the payroll.”

Ah. That explains why two burly men picked you up, blood still wet and sticky, shoving you in the back of a car and driving you straight to a massive estate in River Forest. This guy was in the mob too and if he was happy about Harrison’s death then that meant one thing.

Winchester.

“Is that why I’m here? To join the crew?” The man didn’t laugh at the bad joke, simply removed his hands from behind you. He stalked around the right side, into your field of vision. You swallowed thickly at the man in the suit before you.

Harrison had been handsome, your fatal flaw for ever getting involved with him right there, but this man? 

Oh, this man could turn a saint into a sinner with nothing more than a flirty smile.

“Dean Winchester.” Oldest son. He walked over to a matching leather chair off to the side, taking a seat, a glass of dark amber liquid in his hand. He held it out to you, an offer, and you gracefully took it, Dean not seeming to care that your blood stained hand touched his.

You sipped down the burning drink, unsure if it was a whiskey, a scotch or whatever the hell it was. All you knew was if you were about to be killed by Dean Winchester, you wanted to be drunk for it. You threw back the rest of the glass, Dean’s eyes flaring wide for a split second.

“That’s a sipping whiskey, sweetheart. Burns even the hardiest of men. You’re full of surprises.”

“It’s been a day,” you said, handing him back the glass. He hummed as he took it, setting it aside on a end table.

“That it has. So. To what atrocity did your beloved commit to be met with a grisly fate at your delicate hands? Surely you knew who Harrison was.”

“Not until it was too late. You don’t exactly get to break up with a mobster’s son. You just hope they get bored of you.” Dean licked his lips, narrowing his eyes.

“And yet…seems you were the one to end the relationship after all. What changed? Cheat one too many times? Force himself on you? Beat you so badly you had to hide inside for weeks?” Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What made you snap?”

“He was making plans to kidnap a child. One of the rival families. Was going to send the boy back in pieces. He was proud of himself, proud of how happy his father was with his planned brutality.” Dean watched you cautiously, sitting up straight. “Only the truly evil hurt children.”

“So you slayed the demon,” said Dean, looking you up and down. “It was my cousin.”

“What?” Dean nodded. 

“My cousin, Jack. He’s about four, cute as a button. We found out and I was planning on making Harrison pay deeply. You want to fuck with the grown ups, with the men, fine. But you leave the women and kids out of it. End of story. Blackburn crossed a line. The only thing I didn’t know was Senior was all for it. That’s an injustice that still needs to be corrected.”

You stared at him, Dean running a hand over his mouth, slumping back into his chair. 

“I didn’t want him to die that quickly.”

“I stabbed his dick too if that makes you feel better.” Dean smirked, tilting his head.

“It does to a degree. But now I have a conundrum.” You made fists with your hands, Dean spotting the movement. “You did me a favor, not for any personal gain but simply to protect a kid. I respect that. Greatly.”

“But.” He smiled, almost sad like.

“But as far as anyone knows, my men killed Harrison in retaliation for the planned kidnapping and murder. You, you are just Harrison Blackburn’s girl that we grabbed.”

“So un-grab me.” Dean cocked his head, shaking it. “Why not?”

“Because daddy Blackburn sees you as part of the family. The daughter he never had. You and Harrison were engaged. No, no. I hold a valuable card with you, sweetheart.”

You swallowed, closing your eyes. “You’re saying…you’re saying I did you a massive fucking favor and my reward is to be kidnapped by you?”

“Kidnapped is such a mean word,” said Dean, shaking his head. “Think of it as an involuntary stay at a sprawling estate where your every want and desire will be fulfilled until such time as the Blackburn family empire has come crumbling down. I’ll give you more than enough money where you never have to work or depend on a man again once it’s through. I’ll leven relocate you to a place of your choosing.”

“The Blackburns have been in the mob since 1893,” you growled.

“So only some fifty odd years. Bound to fall apart sometime soon,” said Dean, standing up with a smile. You finally stood, Dean eyeing you up and down. Blood spatter on your face. Jacket and blouse soaked. Blue skirt stained almost black and tar like. “I can treat you like a princess or a prisoner. Your choice.”

“Senior doesn’t give two shits about me and we both know it.” You lifted your chin, narrowing your eyes. “So what the fuck do you really want with me?”

“Such a nasty mouth on such a proper appearing lady,” Dean snickered. “One might think you were raised in the gutter. Tell me, why would I, leader of the Winchester family, want you? If not for ransom or leverage, then what?”

“I’m done with this.” You stalked around the coffee table, Dean easily shifting and walking around the chair, nonchalantly blocking your path to the office doors. “You saw what happened to the last guy that fucked with me. Move.”

“Baby, there’s nothing more that I’d love than to…fuck,” he let the word linger, eyes raking up and down your body, “With you. But you killed a boss’ son. I let you go, Blackburn will find you and torture you and this place will seem like heaven compared to the twisted games he’d play with you. If he was so willing to let a child suffer, imagine what he’d do to you?”

“I’ll leave Chicago.” Dean shook his head. “Yes, I-”

“The Winchesters are indebted to you.” Dean stepped once, twice, closer until he was in your space, staring you down with a smirk. “We repay our debts. You will be protected until it is safe. No exceptions.”

“Why do you even care?” He reached up a hand, stroking over your jaw, catching your chin between this thumb and forefinger. 

“Someone will come escort you to your new quarters so you can wash. Feel free to roam the house and grounds.” He dropped his hand and walked past you to his desk, refilling his glass with more liquor. “You’re dismissed. Wait.”

You peered over your shoulder, Dean’s green eyes dark, predator like. It made you shiver, his subtle warmth from before gone.

“It does make a man think…what are the odds that Harrison meets his demise by another the same night I was planning to end his life?” Dean carried his glass over, swinging it back in full like you had, gritting his teeth through the pain. “Not even a tremble during the act. Just…brutally efficient.”

You swallowed and faced forward, Dean pressing up behind you, leaning in, ghost of his breath caressing your ear.

“Almost like…it wasn’t the first time. Reaper.”

Your stomach dropped, body rigid as stone. Dean chuckled softly behind you. 

“Unfortunate for you I have a source inside Blackburn’s organization. He’s always known his son was psychotic which is why he hired you, to keep an eye on the schmuck. Senior was outraged at the thought of his son going after a child. Senior ordered the hit on Harrison. How am I doing so far, sweetheart?”

You kept your mouth shut, Dean humming.

“And all the while, he gets to blame it on a mugging gone wrong, a rival family taking out his second born. Doesn’t matter. Senior took care of a problem and you just…float on away back into the shadows like you do. Until she’s called upon again by some criminal socialite to do the dirty work of the mob or the police or a scorned ex-wife. You’re a dangerous woman, Y/N Y/L/N. You were so close to getting away with it, with me believing your little story. Problem is, Senior knows the rules. He’s a bastard but a respectable one. No women. No kids. That man would never be proud of his son for going outside the bounds.”

You stared dead ahead, forcing your body to stay steady. “So you caught Reaper. I’m done with the foreplay. Kill me already, Mr. Winchester.”

“You’ve done nothing to me. Why would I kill you? Your reputation precedes you. Vixen of death. Reaper of souls. The smile that sends evil to hell. Quite impressive for a murderess to have such a strong moral code. Never the innocent, only the cruel.” Dean walked around you, tilting his head with that dark smile again. “I can’t just let someone like you with your…skills…walk away. Now that you’ve moved on from New York and LA to make Chicago your new hunting ground, I can’t let you wander about. Not until we can trust one another and trust takes time.”

You shook your head. “You’re afraid someone will hire me to kill you. Or kill some corrupt player that’s important to your organization.” Dean hummed. You licked your lips, tasting the hint of iron, flashing Dean a dark smile of your own. “You’d be better off killing me. Letting me wander about, keeping me caged…never know what kind of secrets I might find out about you, Mr. Winchester. Because that hit? Oh, I’ll do that one for free.”

“So that’s a no on the working for me thing.” You feigned a pout, quickly narrowing your eyes. Dean laughed quietly, eyeing you up and down. “You’ll change your mind eventually.”

“Careful there, Icarus. You don’t want to play with this fire.” Dean gave you a look that said he very much did. You rolled your eyes, bumping into him hard as you went for the office door.

“Breakfast is served at eight,” he said and you could just hear the smile in his voice. “Goodnight, Reaper.”

“You’re going to regret this, Winchester.”

Somewhere behind the bar, Harry was setting glasses on a shelf with enough force to prove he had already been awake for some time and resented everyone who had not. The room smelled different in the morning. Less of bodies and drink, more of stale beer, cold ash, damp wood, and whatever men left behind after they had shouted themselves empty and gone home.

Vera sat up slowly.

Every part of her protested.

The chair near the fire had not been comfortable, but it had been inside. That mattered more than comfort. She had learned that quickly. One night in this place, and already her standards had shrunk to heat, walls, and no hands on her while she slept.

Harry glanced over from the bar. “Thought you’d died in that chair.”

“Disappointing you this early would feel rude.”

He gave her a look over his shoulder. “Still got that mouth, then.”

“Unfortunately.”

Vera pushed herself upright and tried not to wince. Her coat had been folded over her lap sometime during the night. She did not remember doing it. For one strange moment, she wondered if someone else had.

Then she dismissed the thought.

Small Heath did not feel like a place where kindness happened quietly. If kindness happened at all, Vera imagined it came with a debt attached.

Harry jerked his chin toward the back room. “Water’s in the jug. Wash your face. You look like you slept in a pub.”

“I did sleep in a pub.”

“And now you look it.”

Vera stood, gathering her coat in one hand. “Your charm explains why the place is so full.”

“It’s the whisky, not the charm.”

“That makes more sense.”

Harry muttered under his breath, but he did not tell her to leave.

That alone made Vera pause.

She looked toward him, waiting for the part where he reminded her that last night had been an exception. A chair by the fire, a few coins, and then out into the street once morning came. She had prepared herself for it sometime before dawn, during one of the many times she had woken with her heart racing, certain she had heard footsteps coming for her.

Harry did not say it.

He only went back to stacking glasses.

Vera walked to the back room with the careful steps of someone trying not to show how badly she needed the floor to stay beneath her.

The water in the jug was cold enough to bite. She splashed it over her face and gripped the edge of the basin afterward, breathing through the shock. The little room was empty except for crates, hooks, the apron she had worn the night before, and a narrow mirror fixed crookedly to the wall.

Vera avoided looking into it for as long as she could.

When she finally did, the sight of herself unsettled her.

Not because she looked different, exactly. She looked tired. Dirty at the edges. Her hair had come loose from how she had arranged it the day before, and there was a faint mark along her cheek from where she had slept against her sleeve. But those things were ordinary enough.

It was the room behind her that made her stomach turn.

The wood. The dim light. The apron on its hook.

For half a second, Vera had the impossible sensation of standing there before.

Not yesterday.

Not last night.

Before.

Her hand tightened on the basin.

The feeling passed before she could catch hold of it. It left nothing useful behind, only the same sick confusion that had followed her since the alley.

“Stop it,” she whispered.

Her reflection stared back, unconvinced.

By the time she returned to the main room, Grace had arrived.

She was behind the bar, tying her apron with neat, practiced hands. Vera noticed that about her first. Grace always seemed arranged. Even when the work was hard, even when a drunk man grabbed her wrist, even when her eyes moved too carefully over a room, there was something composed about her that Vera did not trust.

Grace looked up as Vera approached.

“Good morning.”

Vera gave a short nod. “Morning.”

“You stayed?”

It sounded like a simple question.

It did not feel like one.

“Harry offered the chair.”

Grace glanced toward Harry, who was making himself busy with a crate of bottles and pretending he could not hear them. “That was kind of him.”

Harry snorted. “Don’t make a habit of saying that.”

Vera reached for the apron. “I won’t.”

Grace watched her tie it. “Have you eaten?”

The question was gentle enough that Vera nearly answered honestly.

No.

Not since before the rain, before the alley, before she woke in the wrong century with mud under her hands and smoke in her throat. Her stomach had cramped sometime in the night, then gone quiet in that dull way hunger sometimes did when it realized it would not be obeyed.

“I’m fine,” Vera said.

Grace’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion this time, but concern. Somehow that was worse.

Harry set a heel of bread and a small piece of cheese down on the counter without looking at either of them. “Eat before you fall into the glasses.”

Vera stared at it.

For a moment, her throat did something strange.

She recovered quickly and picked up the bread before anyone could read too much into her silence. “If this is part of the wages, I’ll be negotiating.”

Harry pointed a finger at her. “You’ll be sweeping if you keep on.”

Vera tore off a piece of bread. “I can sweep.”

Grace hid a smile by looking down at the glass in her hand.

The morning passed quietly compared to the night before. Quiet did not mean peaceful. Men came in early, shoulders hunched against the damp, boots tracking mud across the floor Vera had only just wiped. They drank like the day had already wronged them. Some looked at her because she was new. Some looked because they liked making women feel the weight of their attention. Others barely noticed her at all, which Vera began to prefer.

Grace showed her more of the work.

Which bottles disappeared quickest. Which regulars needed watching. Which men paid without being asked and which required a hand held out before the glass touched the bar. She was helpful. Too helpful, maybe. Or maybe Vera was too tired to know the difference between kindness and strategy.

“Harry said you worked well last night,” Grace said, setting clean glasses in a row.

“Did he?”

“In his way.”

“Was there grunting involved?”

“A little.”

“That sounds like praise from him.”

Grace smiled, then reached for another glass. “He doesn’t usually let strangers sleep here.”

“Lucky me.”

“You must have been desperate.”

Vera’s hand slowed on the cloth.

There it was again.

A question dressed as concern.

She wiped a ring from the counter that did not want to lift. “Most people are, in one way or another.”

Grace looked at her. “That sounds like something learned.”

“It sounds like something obvious.”

“Not everyone notices obvious things.”

Vera met her eyes. “You do.”

The smile Grace gave her was small and careful. “That depends on the thing.”

Vera should have left it there. She knew she should have. But exhaustion had worn down the part of her that knew when to stop.

“And what have you noticed about me?”

Grace did not answer immediately.

She set the glass down, aligned it with the others, and only then said, “You are alone. You don’t want anyone to know how alone. You are afraid, but you get angry quicker because you think it hides it better.”

Vera stared at her.

The words landed too close. Worse, Grace had not said them cruelly. She had said them the way someone might identify bad weather on the horizon.

Vera looked away first, angry with herself for giving even that much.

“You should save that for the men,” she said. “They’d pay good money to hear themselves described.”

Grace’s gaze lingered. “And you would?”

“I’d charge more.”

Grace almost laughed.

Almost.

The door opened before she could answer, and the air changed with it.

Vera hated that she felt it before she looked.

The pub did not fall silent this time. There were fewer men to perform for, fewer voices to dim. But something in Harry’s posture shifted. Grace’s hand stilled at the shelf. A man at a table near the window lowered his eyes to his glass with sudden dedication.

Vera turned.

Thomas Shelby stepped inside alone.

No Arthur filling the doorway with noise. No John grinning like trouble was a favorite coat. Just Thomas, rain darkening the shoulders of his overcoat, cap low enough to cast shade over his eyes until he removed it.

He looked even more dangerous in the quiet.

Last night, with his brothers around him and the Garrison full of men, Vera had been able to pretend he was simply part of the chaos. This morning, there was nothing to hide him in. He moved through the room like a decision already made.

Grace straightened. “Thomas.”

Vera heard it.

The softness.

It was not much. It was not enough for most people to notice. But Vera had been noticing everything because everything might matter.

Thomas glanced at Grace. “Grace.”

Then his eyes moved to Vera.

She forced herself not to look away.

“Still here,” he said.

It was not a question.

Vera reached for a clean glass because her hands wanted something to do. “So are you.”

Harry made a sound behind her that might have been warning or prayer.

Thomas’s expression did not change. “I own the place.”

“That would explain it, then.”

One of the men at the tables coughed into his drink, trying not to laugh.

He took off his gloves slowly. “You found somewhere to sleep.”

“A chair by the fire.”

“No London friends to take you in?”

There was no sharpness in his voice. That made it worse. Men like Arthur came at a person with force. John, probably with charm first and violence waiting behind it. Thomas did not need either in the beginning. He only placed words down and watched what they crushed.

Vera set the glass on the shelf. “London is far.”

“Not far enough to forget which part of it you came from.”

Grace’s gaze flickered toward her.

Vera felt heat rise in her chest, not embarrassment exactly, but something close to panic dressed up as irritation. She had slept badly. She was hungry despite the bread. Her head still hurt in a dull line behind her eyes. She did not have the energy to outmaneuver Thomas Shelby, and they both knew it.

“I didn’t realize you were waiting on my full address.”

“I wait on all lies eventually.”

The words landed quietly.

Vera looked at him then, really looked, and saw that he had not come in by chance. Maybe he had business with Harry. Maybe the Garrison always drew him in. But he had come early enough to find her before the noise of the evening, before his brothers, before she could hide behind work.

He had come to look at her again.

The thought should have frightened her.

It did.

But fear still chose anger when it rose in her.

“You’ll be bored, then,” she said.

Thomas took one step closer to the bar. “Will I?”

“I’m not interesting enough for this much attention.”

For the first time, something like amusement moved behind his eyes. It was gone too quickly to trust.

“No,” he said. “You’re not.”

Vera’s grip tightened on the glass she had picked up.

Thomas watched her hand, then her face.

It was a small movement, his attention shifting. Most men would not have noticed the way her fingers tensed around something breakable. He did. He noticed everything and made no apology for it.

Grace moved before the silence could deepen. “Your usual?”

Thomas did not look away from Vera immediately. Then he nodded once.

Grace poured his drink.

Vera busied herself with wiping the counter, listening to the muted clink of bottle against glass. Her heart had not settled. She hated that too. She hated the way her body reacted to him like it knew something she did not.

Grace set the whisky down.

Thomas took it but did not drink.

“Harry,” he said.

Harry came over with his towel thrown across one shoulder. “Tommy?”

“Private room.”

Harry nodded at once and reached beneath the bar for a key.

Vera should not have looked toward the door at the back.

She did anyway.

The private room sat half-hidden behind a narrow door near the end of the bar, the kind of room meant for men who did not want their business overheard but wanted everyone to know they had business worth hiding. Vera had not been inside it. Not knowingly.

Still, when Harry passed Thomas the key, Vera knew exactly which lock would stick.

The knowledge came so cleanly that she almost turned toward it before stopping herself.

Her pulse jumped.

He noticed.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

Vera picked up the cloth again. “No.”

“You looked at the door.”

“So did everyone else.”

“Not like that.”

Grace glanced between them.

Vera forced herself to keep her hands busy. “I didn’t realize there was a correct way.”

Harry shifted behind the bar, uneasy now.

Thomas held her gaze for a moment longer, then turned the key over in his fingers. “You’re very quick to answer questions I haven’t asked yet.”

He walked toward the private room.

Vera told herself not to watch him go.

She watched anyway.

Thomas placed the key into the lock and turned it. It caught halfway. Vera knew, with horrible certainty, that he would need to lift the handle before turning again.

Her own hand twitched against the counter.

He paused.

Then, very slowly, he lifted the handle.

The lock gave.

Thomas opened the door and looked back at her.

Not long.

Just enough.

Vera’s mouth went dry.

After he disappeared inside, the pub seemed to breathe again. Harry went back to pretending none of it was happening. Grace wiped the same glass twice.

Vera stared down at her hands.

She did not know that lock.

She had never opened that door.

She could not have known.

“You all right?” Grace asked quietly.

Vera hated the question because it was almost kind.

“I’m working.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“It’s the answer I’m giving.”

Grace accepted that for exactly three seconds.

Then she said, “Tommy doesn’t like unanswered questions.”

“Then he must have a very difficult life.”

“That depends on who refuses to answer.”

Vera looked at her. “Are you warning me?”

Grace’s expression softened into something that looked practiced because it had to be. “I’m saying it’s easier here if you give people less reason to wonder.”

Vera leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You first.”

The words hit.

Grace did not flinch, but she did go still.

Vera wished she felt victorious. She didn’t. She felt as if she had stepped onto rotten wood and heard it crack beneath her.

Before Grace could answer, Thomas’s voice came from the private room.

“Grace.”

Grace looked away first. “Yes?”

“Bring the ledger.”

Harry, still at the end of the bar, reached automatically toward a shelf beneath the counter.

Vera moved at the same time.

Her hand went under the bar and found the ledger before she had thought about where it might be. Brown cover. Worn edge. Kept behind the second stack of old newspapers, tucked far enough back that spilling drink would not reach it.

She pulled it out.

Then froze.

Grace was looking at her.

Harry was looking at her.

From the open door of the private room, Thomas was looking too.

Vera’s hand remained on the ledger.

The room seemed to narrow around it.

Harry spoke first. “How’d you know where that was?”

Vera could hear the blood in her ears.

The answer should have been easy. It wasn’t.

“I saw you reach for it.”

Harry’s brows drew together. “No, you didn’t.”

Vera’s grip shifted on the cover. “Then I guessed.”

“That’s a very lucky guess,” Grace said.

Vera looked at her. “I have many gifts.”

The joke fell flat.

Thomas stepped into the doorway. “Bring it here.”

For a second, Vera thought he meant Grace.

He didn’t.

His eyes were on Vera.

Harry looked as if he wanted to object, but he did not. Grace’s expression was difficult to read. Concern, suspicion, maybe both.

Vera picked up the ledger.

Each step toward the private room felt like walking deeper into a trap that everyone else understood better than she did. The air seemed colder near the doorway, though that was impossible. The room beyond was dimmer than the bar, lit by a lamp and a low fire. A table sat in the center with chairs arranged around it, ashtray already waiting, papers stacked in a careless-looking order that Vera suspected was not careless at all.

Thomas stepped aside to let her enter.

Vera did not want to turn her back to him.

She did anyway because refusing would show too much.

She crossed to the table and set the ledger down. Her eyes moved despite herself. The fireplace. The cabinet. The narrow pass-through window. The wall panel near the corner with a faint split in the grain.

Her gaze caught there.

Only for a second.

Thomas saw it.

“Have you been in this room before?”

“No.”

“You knew where the ledger was.”

“I told you I guessed.”

“You looked at that wall.”

Vera faced him. “Maybe I’m admiring your decor.”

Thomas closed the door behind him.

The sound was soft.

It still made her stomach drop.

Outside, Grace’s voice became muffled behind the wood. Harry called something to a customer. The ordinary life of the pub continued, separated from Vera by one closed door and Thomas Shelby standing between her and the only way out.

He did not move closer.

That restraint unsettled her more than if he had.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I told you.”

“Vera Hart.”

“Yes.”

“From London.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

The same soft answer as the night before.

Vera’s temper snapped through her fear. “Then why ask if you’ve decided already?”

“Because liars change when they get tired.”

She laughed once, without humor. “And what have I changed into?”

“Someone less careful.”

Vera looked toward the door and back again. “Is this how you welcome all your barmaids?”

“You’re not a barmaid.”

“I’m wearing the apron.”

“That doesn’t make you one.”

“No. It makes me employed.”

“For now.”

The words were not loud. They did not need to be.

Vera felt them settle where he meant them to. Under the ribs, near the fear she kept trying to pretend wasn’t there. He could have her sent out. Harry might feel sorry for her, but Harry answered to Tommy. Grace might help her, or she might not. Vera did not know enough about anyone to rely on mercy.

She swallowed.

Thomas saw that too.

Something in his expression shifted, not soft enough to be comfort, but less sharp than before. It irritated Vera that she noticed.

“You’ve no people here,” he said.

Vera held herself still.

“No money,” Thomas continued. “No bag. No proper story. You sleep in a chair and wake knowing where things are kept in a pub you entered yesterday.”

He paused.

Vera said nothing.

Thomas reached for his cigarette case. “That makes you either very unlucky or very dangerous.”

“I’d prefer unlucky.”

“You don’t get to choose how men see you.”

“No, men seem very committed to doing that themselves.”

This time, Thomas almost smiled.

Almost.

He lit his cigarette, and the brief flame turned the room gold at the edges. Vera watched his hands despite herself. Steady. Precise. Familiar in a way that made her feel sick if she let herself think about it too long.

Then she saw the watch chain.

It was tucked against his waistcoat, glinting faintly where the firelight caught it. Thomas followed her gaze.

His hand stilled.

Vera looked away too late.

“Time bothering you now?” he asked.

Her mouth felt dry. “Should it?”

Thomas pulled the watch free.

The chain slipped over his fingers with a faint metallic whisper. He opened it with his thumb, checked the face, then looked back at her as if the movement had been casual. It was not casual. Nothing he did was.

The click of the watch opening went through Vera like a struck match.

For one impossible second, the room shifted.

The fire seemed too bright. Smoke thickened in the air. A chair scraped hard against the floor. Someone was shouting nearby, but the sound came to her as if through water.

Thomas was in front of her, but not like this.

Closer.

His hand was around her wrist, not hurting her, holding her there with the force of someone who could not afford for her to run.

“Look at me,” he said.

Or had said.

Or would say.

Vera blinked.

The private room returned.

Thomas stood several feet away, watch open in his palm, cigarette burning between his fingers. His eyes had narrowed.

Vera realized she had reached back for the table to steady herself.

“Vera,” he said.

She hated the sound of her name in his mouth.

Not because it was cruel.

Because for a heartbeat, it had sounded familiar.

“I need to go back to work,” she said.

Thomas did not answer right away. He closed the watch with the same quiet click.

Vera’s stomach turned.

Then he stepped aside.

She moved quickly, but not so quickly that she looked like she was fleeing. At least, she hoped not. She opened the door with a hand that nearly slipped on the knob and stepped back into the main room.

Grace looked up at once.

Vera kept walking.

“I need air,” she said to no one in particular, and did not wait to see whether anyone allowed it.

Outside, the cold hit hard enough to make her gasp.

She stopped beside the wall of the pub, one hand pressed to the brick, and forced herself to breathe. The street was alive around her, carts and boots and voices, smoke flattening the sky into one long gray bruise. None of it made sense. None of it had made sense since she opened her eyes in the alley, but the private room had been worse.

Because for the first time, the wrongness had not felt like being lost.

It had felt like remembering.

Vera closed her eyes.

Look at me.

She heard it again, not with her ears, but somewhere deeper.

Thomas’s voice.

Urgent.

Not threatening.

That frightened her more than anything else had.

The door opened behind her.

Vera turned too quickly.

Grace stepped out, shawl pulled close around her shoulders. For a moment, they looked at each other in the narrow strip of space between the pub wall and the street.

Grace spoke first. “You shouldn’t run from him.”

“I didn’t run.”

“You left quickly.”

“I needed air.”

Grace looked toward the street. “He’ll only wonder more.”

“He was wondering plenty before I breathed wrong.”

Grace’s mouth softened, but not into a smile. “Tommy notices things.”

“So do you.”

That settled between them again, sharper now.

Grace lowered her voice. “You don’t want him thinking you’re hiding something dangerous.”

Vera stared at her, tired enough that the words came before caution could stop them. “And what are you hiding, Grace?”

For the first time, Grace truly looked caught.

It was small. A blink held a fraction too long. Her fingers tightening in the edge of the shawl. But Vera saw it, and Grace knew she saw it.

Then the mask returned.

“I’m not the one he brought into the private room.”

“No,” Vera said. “You’re the one listening outside it.”

Grace’s expression went still.

Vera’s heart knocked once, hard.

She had guessed. Mostly. She had seen Grace near the door when she came out, seen the way she straightened too quickly, the way her attention had been fixed somewhere it shouldn’t have been. But the accuracy of the accusation startled even Vera.

Grace drew herself up. “You should be careful.”

Vera laughed under her breath. “Everyone keeps saying that.”

“Maybe you should start listening.”

“And maybe you should start asking fewer questions.”

The pub door opened again before Grace could respond.

Thomas stood there.

Both women went quiet.

His eyes moved from Grace to Vera, then back again. If he had heard them, he gave no sign of how much.

“Inside,” he said.

Not loud. Not harsh.

It was still an order.

Grace went first.

Vera remained where she was for one stubborn second longer, because apparently terror had not cured her of being foolish. Thomas looked at her, waiting. He did not repeat himself.

Finally, Vera stepped past him into the Garrison.

The day worsened as it went on.

By evening, the pub filled until there was nowhere Vera could stand without brushing against someone’s shoulder or reaching across someone’s arm. Noise rose with the smoke. Men pressed close to the bar, impatient and laughing, some already drunk, some mean with the desire to become so. Vera worked because work was easier than thinking. Pour, take coins, wipe, move, refuse to flinch.

But her awareness had split.

One part of her stayed behind the bar, measuring whisky and dodging hands.

The other remained in the private room, hearing the click of Thomas Shelby’s watch.

She did not see it again. He had left sometime in the late afternoon, slipping out after speaking quietly to Harry and exchanging a few words with Grace that Vera could not hear. His absence should have made the room easier.

It did not.

A thing did not have to be present to cast a shadow.

Grace’s mood changed after that too. She was still polite, still helpful when the crush at the bar became too much, but there was a careful distance in her now. Vera felt it and understood that whatever fragile courtesy had existed between them had been damaged outside.

Good, Vera told herself.

Then, almost immediately, she wondered if good was another word for stupid.

A man near the end of the bar snapped his fingers at her.

Vera turned her head slowly.

He grinned, showing teeth stained by tobacco. “You deaf?”

“No.”

“Then bring us a drink.”

“Ask properly.”

His friends made a low sound of amusement.

The man leaned forward. “You forgot where you are, girl?”

Vera held his gaze. She could hear Grace shift beside her.

No sharp mouth, she reminded herself. Not every fight needed her name on it. Not here.

She reached for a bottle. “No. I remember.”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

Vera poured the drink and set it down, keeping her hand around the glass when he reached for it. “Coin first.”

His smile thinned.

For a moment, she thought he might grab her. A day ago, before waking in the alley, she would have trusted a bar between them more. Now she knew better. Wood did not stop men who felt entitled to cross it.

A hand came down on the man’s shoulder.

John Shelby leaned beside him with that bright, dangerous grin Vera remembered from the night before.

“She said coin first.”

The man’s expression changed at once. “John.”

John did not remove his hand. “You know, I like this one. She’s mean.”

“I’m not mean,” Vera said.

John looked at her. “You are, a bit.”

“I’m efficient.”

“Mean efficiently, then.”

Despite herself, Vera almost smiled.

The man paid.

John watched until he did, then clapped him once on the shoulder hard enough to make the warning clear beneath the friendliness. “Good lad.”

Arthur appeared behind John with a cigarette in his mouth and impatience in his whole body. “John, stop flirting with the barmaid and drink.”

“I’m defending her honor.”

“I didn’t ask,” Vera said, taking the coins.

John’s grin widened. “See? Mean.”

Arthur barked a laugh and turned toward Grace for his drink.

The Shelby brothers changed the pub simply by existing inside it. Men made room without being told. Some became louder in the hope of seeming unafraid. Others quieted. Vera watched it happen and understood, in a way she had not fully the night before, that Tommy did not stand alone. His name had weight because it came with brothers, with men, with violence that had already taught this street where to bend.

John leaned his elbows on the bar. “Tommy been bothering you?”

Vera kept wiping a glass. “Does he consider it bothering?”

“Tommy considers it conversation.”

“That explains why no one looks happy during it.”

John laughed. “You’re learning.”

Arthur took his drink from Grace and looked Vera over with a squint. “You still claiming London?”

Vera paused.

John’s grin sharpened.

Grace looked down at the bar.

Vera placed the clean glass on the shelf. “Do you still ask every woman you meet where she’s from?”

Arthur laughed like she had pleased him. “Only the suspicious ones.”

“That must keep you busy.”

John pointed at her. “I’m telling Tommy you said that.”

“Will he be hurt?”

“No.”

“Then it won’t be worth your breath.”

Arthur laughed again and moved away, already calling to someone near the tables. John lingered half a second longer.

“You know,” he said, quieter now, “if you are running from something, there’s better places to hide than this.”

Vera looked at him.

There was still humor in his face, but less of it. John Shelby, she realized, was not careless. He only wore careless well.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.

He nodded once, as if that was the best he expected, and followed Arthur into the room.

Vera watched him go.

Grace came to stand beside her. “They like you.”

“They don’t know me.”

“That doesn’t always matter to men.”

Vera turned. “Does Tommy like me?”

Grace’s expression shifted before she could stop it.

There it was.

Something Vera had touched without meaning to.

Grace reached for a bottle. “Tommy doesn’t like people easily.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“No,” Grace said. “It wasn’t.”

The rest of the evening dragged. Vera’s feet hurt. Her head hurt. The noise grated against her nerves until every shout felt personal. Still, she worked. She worked because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant the private room, the lock, the ledger, the watch, Thomas’s voice telling her to look at him in a memory she could not possibly have.

By closing, Vera felt hollow.

Harry ushered the last men out with all the charm of a door slamming. Arthur and John had gone earlier. Grace stayed until the room was nearly empty, tying her shawl with slow fingers.

“You’ll sleep here again?” Grace asked.

Vera stacked glasses without looking at her. “Apparently I look good in chairs.”

Grace did not smile. “You shouldn’t stay alone.”

“With Harry?”

“Harry leaves.”

Vera paused.

She had not known that.

Harry was counting coins near the bar and either did not hear or chose not to. The fire burned low. Outside, the street had quieted into that uneasy kind of dark that did not feel empty so much as waiting.

Vera put another glass on the shelf. “Where do you sleep?”

Grace’s eyes met hers.

The question was too pointed. Both of them knew it.

Grace reached for her gloves. “Good night, Vera.”

Vera watched her leave.

Harry locked the front door behind her a few minutes later and turned the bolt. The sound sank into Vera’s chest.

“You,” he said, pointing toward the private room, “clear the glasses in there. Then you can sit by the fire. I’ll be upstairs for a bit, then I’m out. Don’t open the door for anyone.”

“Does anyone try?”

Harry gave her a look. “It’s Small Heath.”

“That’s becoming a very flexible explanation.”

“It’s the only one you’ll need.”

He went into the back, leaving Vera alone in the main room.

The silence after a full night of noise felt unnatural. Vera could hear the building settling around her, the faint tap of rain against the windows, the scrape of Harry moving somewhere overhead. The Garrison without men in it seemed less like a pub and more like something holding its breath.

She stood still for a moment, listening.

Then she picked up a tray and went to the private room.

The door was unlocked now.

Vera hesitated before opening it.

She told herself that was reasonable. Thomas Shelby had spent the morning asking her questions inside that room with the door shut. Anyone would hesitate.

But when she stepped inside, the feeling that went through her was not fear of Thomas.

It was the awful certainty of entering a place that had been waiting.

The private room looked ordinary enough. Chairs slightly out of place. Two glasses on the table. Ash in the tray. Papers gone, though Vera could still see the cleaner rectangle where they had rested. The fire had nearly died, turning the room into amber shadow.

Vera set the tray down.

She collected the glasses first.

Then she wiped the table.

Then she moved a chair back where it belonged and stopped with her hand still on the wood.

The wall panel near the corner had shifted.

Or maybe it had always been that way.

A narrow line ran between two pieces of wood, almost invisible unless the firelight caught it. Vera stared at it until her eyes began to water. Her heart had started beating harder, though nothing had happened. No sound. No movement. No reason.

She should leave it alone.

She knew that as clearly as she had known the ledger’s hiding place.

Leave it.

Take the glasses.

Go back to the fire.

Instead, Vera stepped toward the wall.

The floorboard beneath her left boot gave the smallest creak.

She did not look down.

She had already avoided that board earlier without knowing why.

Her mouth went dry.

Vera lifted a hand, then lowered it again. She looked back at the door. Empty. No one there. Harry’s footsteps had faded upstairs. Rain ticked faintly against the window.

She faced the wall.

“This is how stupid women die in stories,” she muttered.

The sound of her own voice helped for half a second.

Then she pressed her fingers against the panel.

Nothing happened.

Vera almost laughed at herself. Relief came so quickly that it made her angry. She had been standing in a private room pressing walls because a century had gone wrong around her and she had begun to believe the building knew her.

She pulled her hand back.

The panel clicked.

Vera stopped breathing.

A thin section of wood loosened inward, not opening fully, just enough to reveal darkness behind it.

For several seconds, she did not move.

Then, slowly, she pulled the panel aside.

There was a hollow space inside the wall.

Dust lay thick along the bottom. The smell that came out was stale and old, trapped wood and metal and time. Vera’s fingers shook as she reached inside, already hating herself for doing it, already knowing she would not stop.

Her hand touched something cold.

Round.

Metal.

She drew it out.

A pocket watch rested in her palm.

It was not the same as Thomas’s. Vera knew that immediately, though she did not know enough about watches to say why. This one was older, heavier, its surface dulled by years hidden in the wall. The chain was wrapped around it tightly, as if someone had put it away in a hurry and meant to make sure it did not catch on anything.

Vera stared at it.

The room seemed to tilt.

She could hear ticking.

That was impossible. The watch could not still be ticking. Not after being hidden in a wall for God knew how long. Not after dust had settled over it like a burial sheet.

Still, Vera heard it.

Slow.

Steady.

Louder than her own breathing.

Her thumb found the catch.

The moment she pressed it, the world tore sideways.

Smoke filled her lungs.

Vera was standing in the Garrison, but not the Garrison as it was now. The room was louder, hotter, full of panic. Someone shoved past her hard enough to make her stumble. Glass shattered nearby. A woman screamed from the direction of the bar, sharp and terrified.

Grace.

Vera knew it was Grace without seeing her.

Then Thomas was there.

Not the cold, controlled man from the morning.

This Thomas had blood at his collar and fury stripped bare across his face. His hand closed around Vera’s wrist, strong enough to hold her but not enough to hurt.

“Look at me,” he said.

Vera tried to pull away.

He stepped closer, blocking out the smoke behind him. “Vera, look at me.”

There was fear in him.

The sight of it stunned her.

Thomas Shelby, afraid.

Not for himself.

For her.

Something crashed against the door. Men shouted. Someone called Tommy’s name like a warning.

Vera looked down and saw the watch in her hand.

Her fingers were slick.

Blood.

She did not know if it was hers.

Thomas gripped her face then, making her look at him. His mouth moved, but the words came broken, swallowed by the roar around them.

Then she heard one sentence clearly.

“If I remember you, I lose you.”

Vera gasped.

The private room came back so violently that she nearly fell.

Her shoulder struck the wall. The loose panel clattered against the floor. She clutched the pocket watch to her chest with both hands, breathing too fast, trying to drag air into lungs that still believed they were full of smoke.

There was no shouting.

No broken glass.

No blood.

Only the dying fire and the rain and the watch in her hand.

Vera looked down.

The watch was open.

Inside, beneath the cracked glass of the face, something had been tucked into the casing. Not behind the hands, but into the other side, hidden beneath the lip of the cover. A small folded paper. No, not paper.

A photograph.

Vera’s fingers had gone numb, but she managed to ease it free.

The photograph was old. Worn at the corners. Creased down one side from being folded too tightly into the watch. For a moment, she could not make sense of it in the dim light.

Then the image settled.

Vera stopped breathing.

She was in the photograph.

Standing outside the Garrison beside Thomas Shelby.

Not smiling.

Not posed like lovers. Not sweet. Nothing that simple.

Thomas’s hand was around her arm, not dragging her, not quite holding her back, but gripping her with urgency. His head was turned slightly toward someone out of frame, eyes hard and alert. Vera’s own face was turned toward him, mouth parted as if she had been speaking when the photograph was taken. There was something in the angle of her body that looked like she had been caught between running and staying.

It was unmistakably her.

It was unmistakably him.

And at the bottom of the photograph, written in small, faded ink, was a date.

Vera made a sound she did not recognize.

The photo trembled in her hand.

No.

This could not be another strange feeling. It could not be a door she seemed to know or a lock she understood too quickly. This was proof. This was her face printed in a photograph from a year she had only arrived in yesterday.

Her knees weakened.

She sat down hard in the nearest chair, still staring at the image.

The room felt too small around her. Too hot, then too cold. Vera turned the photograph over because some desperate part of her thought the back might make it less impossible.

There was writing there.

Not much.

Only one line.

The handwriting was hers.

She knew it the way a person knew their own voice even when it came from another room. The slant of the letters. The pressure of the pen. The slight drag at the end of the words where she always grew impatient.

Vera read it once.

Then again.

Her chest tightened until breathing hurt.

Do not let him remember you.

The words blurred.

She blinked hard, but they remained.

Do not let him remember you.

A floorboard creaked outside the room.

Vera’s head snapped up.

For one dreadful second, everything went still.

Then Thomas Shelby’s voice came from the doorway.

“Vera.”

Not footsteps.

Something lower than that. A groan of old wood, maybe. A door moving where no door should have been.

Vera remembered turning her head.

After that, nothing made sense.

She opened her eyes to a strip of gray sky caught between two brick walls. Water dripped somewhere nearby, slow and steady, and the smell around her was so strong that it made her throat close. Coal smoke. Mud. Beer gone sour. Horse shit. Damp wool.

Vera pushed herself up on one elbow and nearly slipped.

“God,” she breathed, pressing one hand flat to the ground.

Her palm came away gritty and wet.

For a moment, she thought she must have fallen. Hit her head. Wandered somewhere she didn’t remember. The thought was almost comforting because it had edges. It gave her something ordinary to hold on to.

Then a horse snorted at the mouth of the alley.

Vera went still.

The animal passed by with a cart dragging behind it, wheels rattling over uneven stones. A man walked beside it in a cap and heavy coat, one hand on the reins, his boots dark with muck. He did not look like someone dressed for a joke. He looked cold, tired, and completely real.

Vera sat upright too quickly.

The alley tilted.

She caught herself against the brick wall and swallowed hard, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Her head hurt, but not enough for this. Not enough to explain the street beyond the alley, the cart, the smoke hanging low over the rooftops, the lamps, the clothes, the sound of men shouting somewhere nearby in voices that seemed to belong to another world.

A woman hurried past with a basket hooked over her arm, skirt hem dragging through the mud. Two boys ran after each other across the street, their caps nearly flying off their heads. Somewhere, a door slammed so hard that Vera flinched.

She stood slowly.

Her legs did not feel steady beneath her.

A man walking by glanced into the alley and slowed. His eyes moved over her coat, her trousers, her boots, then up to her face. The look he gave her was not confusion exactly. It was suspicion, the kind that made Vera aware of every wrong thing about herself at once.

“You drunk?” he asked.

Vera blinked at him. “No.”

“You look it.”

“I said no.”

Her voice came out sharper than she meant it to. Fear had always done that to her, turned itself into anger before anyone could notice what it really was.

The man gave a short laugh and lifted his cigarette back to his mouth. “Best get yourself home, then.”

Home.

Vera looked past him to the street again.

Nothing in it belonged to her.

“What year is it?” she asked.

The man’s expression changed.

It happened quickly, but Vera saw it. His amusement thinned. His eyes narrowed. In that second, she understood that she had said the wrong thing. Whatever this place was, confusion was not safe here. It made people look at you too long. It made them decide things about you.

“What?” he said.

Vera forced herself to breathe evenly. “The year.”

The man stared at her for another second, then laughed like she had confirmed something for him. “1919, love. Same as it were this morning.”

Vera’s hand tightened against the wall.

No.

The word moved through her silently, plain and useless.

No.

The man shook his head and walked on, muttering something she couldn’t hear. Vera watched him go until he disappeared around the corner. She remained where she was, one hand pressed to the brick, trying to make her mind do something other than reject what she had just heard.

1919.

It had to be a mistake. A dream. A breakdown. Something with a name. Something with a cause. Vera stood in the alley with rainwater soaking into the side of her coat and tried to force the world to change back through sheer refusal.

It did not.

The street stayed gray and loud and alive.

A cart rolled past. Men shouted. A child cried somewhere behind a door. Smoke moved through the air like a living thing, settling over everything, getting into Vera’s hair, her throat, her lungs.

She stepped out of the alley because standing still made her feel like prey.

That was the first rule she learned.

Do not stand there looking lost.

The second followed almost immediately.

Do not ask questions you cannot explain.

Vera walked without knowing where she was going. Every street seemed to fold into another, narrow and wet, lined with brick and soot-black windows. People stared at her, not openly enough for her to accuse them of it, but enough that she felt each glance catch on her clothes and drag. Her coat hid most of what was wrong, but not all. Her boots were too clean in shape if not in condition. Her trousers drew looks. Her hair, her voice, the way she moved through the street without lowering her eyes quickly enough, all of it marked her as something out of place.

A group of men stood outside a doorway, smoking and talking. Their conversation dipped as she passed.

“Lost, are you?” one called.

Vera kept walking.

“Oi. I’m talking to you.”

“And I’m walking away,” she said before she could stop herself.

Laughter followed her, rough and low.

Her stomach tightened, but she did not turn around.

Stupid, she thought.

So stupid.

This was not the world she knew. A sharp mouth would not protect her here the way it sometimes had before. It might get her hurt. It might get her followed. It might make a man decide she needed teaching.

Vera pressed her lips together and kept moving.

She had no money that would make sense here. No address. No family. No story that would survive more than two questions. The thought of it built slowly in her chest until it became hard to breathe. She could not go to the police. She could not ask for help. She could not explain the truth without sounding mad, and she suspected madness was a dangerous thing to look like in a place like this.

By the time she reached the pub, the sky had begun to darken.

She did not know what pulled her toward it.

That was what unsettled her most.

The building stood on the corner with its windows glowing against the wet street, noise spilling out each time the door opened. Men went in with their collars turned up and came out laughing or shouting, carrying warmth on their clothes before the cold took it from them. Above the door, the sign creaked faintly in the wind.

The Garrison.

Vera stopped across the street and stared at the name.

It meant nothing.

It should have meant nothing.

Still, something in her chest moved strangely at the sight of it, as if some part of her had been waiting for the place to appear. Not recognition. Not exactly. It was deeper than that and harder to trust. A pull. A memory without a picture attached to it.

Vera frowned.

“Don’t be stupid,” she whispered.

A man brushed past her shoulder and cursed when she didn’t move quickly enough.

That decided it.

Whatever strange feeling the pub gave her, it had walls. It had light. It had people, which was both better and worse than being alone in the street. Vera crossed quickly before she could lose her nerve and pushed the door open.

Heat struck her first.

Then noise.

The inside of the Garrison was thick with smoke and voices. Men crowded around tables, leaned over drinks, shouted over one another like being heard was a matter of pride. The floor stuck faintly beneath Vera’s boots. The lamps gave everything a yellowish glow, softening nothing. It smelled of whisky, sweat, damp wool, and fire.

Several men looked at her when she entered.

Vera lifted her chin before she could think better of it.

Behind the bar, a blonde woman was pouring a drink with practiced hands. She looked up at Vera, and for a second her expression remained politely blank. Then her eyes moved over Vera’s coat, lingering just long enough to make it clear she had noticed more than she was saying.

“What can I get you?” the woman asked.

Her voice was gentle, but not weak.

Vera opened her mouth and realized she had no answer.

She had come in because the street was cold and the pub was warm. That was the full extent of her plan. Now she stood there with mud on her coat and nothing acceptable in her pockets, being watched by a woman who looked too observant for comfort.

“I just need a minute,” Vera said.

The woman’s gaze softened a little. “Are you unwell?”

“No.”

It came too quickly.

The woman noticed that too.

Before she could say anything else, a man came from the side of the bar wiping his hands on a cloth. He looked from Vera to the woman, then back again.

“Problem, Grace?”

So that was her name.

Grace turned slightly toward him. “I don’t think so.”

“No problem,” Vera said.

The man looked her up and down. “You buying?”

Vera hated the answer before she gave it. “No.”

“Then you can’t stand there all night.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“What were you planning?”

Nothing.

The word sat bitterly in her mouth. Vera felt the room pressing in behind her, all those voices and bodies and eyes. Outside was worse. Outside was cold and dark and filled with streets she did not understand. In here, at least, there was a fire. There was light. There was a woman behind the bar whose name was Grace and a man in front of her who looked impatient but not yet cruel.

Vera looked toward the end of the bar just as one of the men slammed an empty glass down.

“Harry,” he barked. “Are we drinking tonight or waiting for Christmas?”

The man beside him laughed.

Harry muttered something under his breath and reached for a bottle.

Vera heard herself speak before she had fully decided to.

“I can work.”

Harry paused. “What?”

“I can work,” she repeated, because taking it back now would be worse. “If you need help.”

He stared at her. “You ever worked behind a bar?”

Vera had not. Not properly. Not anywhere like this. But she had learned very quickly that honesty had to be rationed here.

“Yes.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Where?”

Vera held his stare for one second, then two. Her mind searched for a lie and found only scraps.

“Places that asked fewer questions.”

Grace lowered her eyes toward the glass in her hand, but Vera saw the corner of her mouth move.

Harry did not look amused. “That mouth will get you thrown out.”

“It usually waits until after I’ve been paid.”

A few men close enough to hear laughed.

Harry sighed, the way a man did when the day had already asked too much of him. “I’ve got one girl missing and half the street in here before dark. I don’t need trouble.”

“Then don’t hire trouble,” Vera said. “Hire hands.”

He considered her for a moment.

Vera forced herself not to shift under the weight of it. She needed this to work. She needed something to do, somewhere to stand, some reason for not being pushed back outside. She did not have room for pride, but pride was all she seemed able to use.

Then a man at the bar reached out and caught Grace’s wrist as she set his drink down.

“Come on, Grace,” he said, smiling in a way that made Vera’s shoulders tighten. “Don’t rush off.”

Grace’s expression did not change, but her hand stilled.

Harry turned. “Charlie.”

Charlie did not let go.

Vera moved before she could measure the risk.

“Take your hand off her.”

Charlie’s head turned slowly.

The noise closest to them dipped. Not much. Just enough.

Vera knew she had done something foolish. She knew it from the way Harry went still and the way Grace’s eyes flicked toward her. She knew it from Charlie’s smile, which widened as if she had offered him entertainment.

“What did you say?” he asked.

Vera’s heart was beating hard enough to make her feel lightheaded.

Still, she did not look away.

“I said take your hand off her. I can say it slower if that helps.”

Someone laughed under his breath.

Charlie released Grace, but only so he could turn fully toward Vera. He was bigger than she expected once his attention was on her. Broad through the chest, thick hands, drink on his breath. Vera became painfully aware of the bar between them and how little it would do if he decided to reach across it.

“Sharp little thing, aren’t you?”

“Only around dull men.”

Harry stepped in before Charlie could move closer. “Enough. Drink or get out.”

Charlie looked at Harry, then at Vera. For a second, she thought he might push it anyway. Then he picked up his glass with a humorless smile.

“New girl’s got nerve.”

“New girl’s got a name,” Vera said.

Grace glanced at her.

Harry looked like he was trying to decide whether to laugh or throw her out himself. After a moment, he pointed toward the back.

“Apron’s through there. You work tonight. You get a bit of coin and a chair by the fire until closing. You cause trouble, and I don’t care where you sleep.”

Vera nodded once. “Understood.”

“And don’t talk to every man like that.”

“I’ll make a list of exceptions.”

“Go.”

She went.

The back room was small, dim, and smelled faintly of old beer and soap. Vera found the apron hanging from a hook and tied it around her waist with hands that would not quite stop shaking. Away from the noise of the pub, the force of what had happened pressed down on her all at once.

She had work.

For tonight.

That was not safety, not really, but it was something shaped like it. Enough to keep her indoors. Enough to give people a reason to stop asking why she was standing there with nowhere to go. Enough to keep her from having to sit in the street and wait for whatever came next.

Vera braced both hands on the edge of a table and lowered her head.

She had not cried yet.

She was afraid that if she did, she would not be able to make herself stop.

“Not now,” she whispered.

Her voice sounded strange in the little room, thin and too close to breaking.

Vera breathed in slowly, then out. Once. Twice. She straightened, tightened the apron, and went back into the noise.

Grace showed her what to do without making a show of it. Where the clean glasses were kept. Which bottles were which. Which men paid before they drank and which would pretend to forget if no one reminded them. She spoke quietly, close enough that Vera could hear without the whole pub listening.

“You learn quickly,” Grace said after Vera managed to pour two drinks without spilling more than a few drops.

“I’m very motivated.”

“By the work?”

“By not freezing outside.”

Grace looked at her then, really looked. “Have you nowhere to go?”

Vera wiped the counter with unnecessary focus. “Not tonight.”

“And tomorrow?”

“I’ll hate tomorrow when it gets here.”

That earned her a small smile.

Grace was not what Vera expected, though Vera could not have said what she had expected. The woman was kind enough. Helpful enough. But there was something held back in her, something Vera recognized without knowing why. Grace listened more than she spoke. Her eyes moved over the room even when her hands were busy. She smiled at men who underestimated her, and she let them.

Vera did not trust it.

That was unfair, maybe. Vera had no reason not to trust her. No clear reason. But every time Grace asked a question, Vera felt the shape of another question beneath it.

“Where are you from?” Grace asked when the rush eased for half a minute.

Vera picked up a glass and rubbed at a mark that was not there. “Nowhere interesting.”

Grace gave a soft laugh. “Most people from nowhere interesting still name the place.”

“Most people are too trusting.”

Grace’s smile lingered. “And you aren’t?”

Vera looked at her. “Are you?”

The question settled between them.

Grace looked away first, though not quickly enough for it to feel like surrender.

Before Vera could decide whether she had made another mistake, the pub changed.

It was subtle at first. A tightening in the room. Men did not go silent, but their voices shifted lower. Shoulders straightened. A man at one of the tables moved his glass closer to himself without looking toward the door. Harry glanced up once, then down again, suddenly very interested in the towel in his hands.

Vera noticed because she had been watching for danger since the moment she woke up.

The door opened.

Three men came in, bringing a gust of cold air and street damp with them.

The first was loud before he was fully through the door, broad and restless, already speaking over his shoulder. The second followed with a grin that seemed made for trouble. The third came in behind them quietly.

The room belonged to him before Vera knew his name.

She hated that she noticed.

He was not the largest of the three. He did not need to be. He took off his cap and looked once across the pub, and the glance was enough to make the space around him feel measured. Men looked away without seeming to. Conversations resumed carefully. He moved like someone who expected doors to open, men to listen, and trouble to reveal itself before he had to ask.

Something tightened low in Vera’s chest.

Not recognition.

She told herself that immediately.

It was not recognition because she did not know him. She had never seen him before. She did not know the sharp line of his face or the pale blue focus of his eyes or the way he held still while everyone else adjusted around him.

Still, her body reacted like it had been warned.

Grace stepped closer to the bar. “Shelbys,” she murmured.

Vera heard the name and felt it move through her in a way she did not understand.

Shelby.

It meant nothing.

It did not feel like nothing.

The grinning one reached the bar first. “Evening, Grace.”

“John,” Grace replied.

John. Vera stored the name without meaning to.

The louder one leaned beside him. “Harry, get us a drink before John starts talking again.”

“Arthur,” John said, offended. “I’m the charm of this family.”

Arthur laughed and shoved him with one shoulder.

The quiet one came to the bar last.

Grace looked at him differently. Vera noticed that too. It was not obvious. Nothing in this place seemed obvious unless someone wanted it to be. But Grace’s voice softened when she said, “Thomas.”

Thomas.

The name settled in Vera’s mind with a strange, almost painful weight.

Thomas Shelby looked at Grace first, then Harry, then Vera.

His gaze did not linger at first. It passed over her the way it passed over everything else, collecting details. Then it came back.

Vera kept wiping the same stretch of bar because stopping would make her hands too noticeable.

“New girl?” John asked, leaning one elbow on the counter.

Harry answered before Vera could. “For tonight.”

“For tonight?” John’s grin turned toward her. “That sounds tragic.”

“It sounds temporary,” Vera said.

Arthur laughed. “She’s got a mouth on her.”

“I’ve been told.”

“Not enough, I’d wager.”

Vera looked at him. “Give it time.”

John laughed properly at that, delighted.

Thomas did not.

He took a cigarette from his case and set it between his lips, still watching her with a quietness that felt more dangerous than Arthur’s noise or John’s grin. Vera found herself standing straighter without meaning to, irritated by the instinct. She did not know this man. She did not owe him nerves.

Harry set drinks down for Arthur and John. Grace poured for Thomas, her movements smooth and practiced.

Vera reached for a glass only because Harry nodded toward a man waiting at the far end of the bar. She turned to serve him, grateful for the excuse to look away.

The man at the end was already drunk and annoyed by waiting.

“About time,” he said.

Vera set the glass down and held her hand out for the coins. “Then pay before I change my mind.”

His eyes narrowed, but he dug into his pocket. One slipped from his fingers and rolled beneath the bar. Vera bent to catch it before it disappeared. When she straightened, Thomas Shelby was still watching her.

Not openly.

That almost made it worse.

Grace placed his whisky in front of him. “Tommy.”

Tommy.

So Thomas became Tommy when spoken of by people close enough to risk it.

Vera had no idea why that mattered to her.

Tommy picked up the glass but did not drink. “What’s your name?”

It took Vera a second to realize he was asking her.

She turned. “Vera.”

“Vera what?”

“Hart.”

John’s grin widened. “Vera Hart. Pretty.”

“Do you practice that tone,” Vera asked, “or does it come naturally?”

Arthur barked out a laugh. John looked as if Christmas had come early.

Tommy’s expression barely changed.

“Where’ve you come from, Vera Hart?”

There it was again.

The question everyone seemed to want answered.

Vera had been in this world for only a handful of hours, but she already understood that a woman without an origin was a problem. Men liked to know where a woman came from. It told them who owned her, who might come looking, who could be blamed if something happened. Vera had no answer that would satisfy that kind of thinking.

So she chose the lie she had been building all night.

“London,” she said.

Tommy took the cigarette from his mouth. “London.”

“Yes.”

“Which part?”

Vera held his stare. “The part people leave.”

John laughed under his breath.

Arthur reached for his drink, still amused. Grace went very still beside Vera, though her hands kept moving.

Tommy did not laugh.

He lit his cigarette, the brief flame throwing a hard glow across his face before he shook the match out. He took his time, and Vera hated that too. The silence was not empty. It was full of him deciding what he believed.

“And why would London send you here?” he asked.

“It didn’t send me. I left.”

“With no bag?”

Vera’s stomach tightened.

Tommy’s eyes moved once to her coat, her empty hands, the apron tied around her waist. She had not realized until that moment how carefully he had already counted the details.

“No money,” he continued. “No people. No story except the one you think of when asked.”

Vera’s fingers tightened around the cloth in her hand. “I said London.”

Tommy watched her for a moment, cigarette resting between his fingers.

“Aye,” he said. “You said it.”

The way he answered made her wish she had chosen anywhere else.

John’s smile faded a little, not gone, just sharpened by interest.

Grace looked down at the glass she was drying.

Vera swallowed back the first answer that came to her. It would have been too sharp, too quick, and she had already learned enough tonight to know when a room was waiting for her to make herself smaller or make herself a target.

She did neither.

She held his stare and said nothing.

Tommy watched her for one more second.

Then, at last, the corner of his mouth moved. It was not quite a smile, but it was close enough to unsettle her.

He picked up his whisky.

“London,” he said again.

Vera said nothing.

Tommy took a sip, then set the glass down. “No.”

The word was soft.

It cut through her anyway.

“No what?”

“You didn’t come from London.”

Vera felt Grace’s attention flick toward her.

Harry stopped pretending not to listen.

Tommy reached for his cigarette and straightened. “Try again when you’ve had more practice.”

He turned away before Vera could answer.

Arthur and John followed him toward the back room, still throwing comments at each other, but Tommy did not look back. He did not need to. Whatever he had meant to do, he had done it.

Vera stood behind the bar with the cloth twisted tight in her hand.

The room slowly returned to itself around her. Men resumed their conversations. Glasses clinked. Grace moved beside her, pouring another drink as if nothing had happened.

Vera stared at the wet ring Tommy’s glass had left on the bar.

She did not know him.

She did not know Grace.

She did not know this pub, this street, this hard gray world that had swallowed her whole and demanded she find a way to stand upright inside it.

But when Thomas Shelby had looked at her, something inside Vera had gone still in a way that felt too much like memory.

That was impossible.

All of this was impossible.

Vera picked up the cloth again and forced herself to keep working, because work meant she could stay near the fire when the night ended. Work meant a few coins in her palm. Work meant not being pushed back into the street.

For now, that was all survival had to be.

But Tommy Shelby knew she was lying.

The inside doesn’t help its reputation, either. 

There’s floral wallpaper that’s seen better decades and dark wood furniture with too many carvings. And doilies. So many damn doilies… 

A super creepy porcelain doll even sat on a shelf in the hallway, which Dean already snatched and hid under Sam’s covers as a prank.

And Sam, nice and accommodating as he is, still asked the older lady at the reception for another room for you. Fully booked, she told you due to the media spectacle, though, because everyone and their mom decided Sleepy Hollow is the place to be right now. At least that means Dean can still catch some sleep and doesn’t have to worry about your car starting in the middle of the night. 

He then dropped his duffel on the floor, took one look at the setup – two beds, one couch – and made the decision in about half a second.

“You take the bed.”

You cocked a brow at him, immediately suspicious. Smart.

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he shot back, already kicking off his boots. “Couch is closer to the door.”

Which is true.

Also happens to mean he’s got a clear line of sight to the exit, the bathroom door (which leads to the bathroom window), and you. Not that he says that part out loud. Doesn’t need to. But he’ll know when you try to sneak past him. In other words:

If you decide to go tinkle, tinkle, little star, he’s gonna watch you where you are. 

Not in a creepy way, though – he’d like to emphasize that part. He’s going to let you pee in peace, but he will listen to a potential window opening and your feet leaving the tiled floor. 

You rolled your eyes at his response but took the offer anyway, muttering something under your breath about “paranoia,” “control issues,” and “serial killer vibes.”

Dean ignored that. Well, for the most part, he did.

Sam, of course, played peacekeeper like always, offering to grab extra blankets and takeout, making it all sound so goddamn normal as if this isn’t the weirdest setup they’ve had in a while.

And then, somehow, despite everything, you and Sam kept… chatting.

At first, it was only case-related, and Dean was able to live with that. It should’ve stayed that way. But then it drifted to little comments, quiet jokes, and shared looks Dean doesn’t like one bit. The two of you acted like you’ve known each other longer than a couple of awkward run-ins and one coffee.

Dean stayed out of it. On purpose. Sat on the arm of the couch, cleaning his gun and pretending not to listen. Didn’t entirely work, though.

Because, every now and then, you’d laugh.

Annoyingly so, because then that stupid feeling – that quiet, irritating little twist in his chest that makes zero sense and pisses him off more the longer it sticks around – came rushing back. 

But it’s all just noise. Dean knows that. It’s just Sam being Sam, and you being… whatever the hell you are.

Eventually, the room settles, however, and the lights finally go out.

Sam’s out first while you take a little longer. Dean can hear the subtle shifts, the occasional sigh, and the mattress creaking softly as you get comfortable. For a few minutes, he wonders if you’re actually gonna try something – bolt, pull a trick, or disappear into thin air.

You don’t, though.

Somewhere between keeping one eye half-open to watch you, Dean’s thoughts then start to blur. The last thing he registers is your silhouette on the bed, half-lit by moonlight slipping in through the too-narrow windows.

And then, the fuzzy edges and orange filter are back, which means his watchful eyes have finally fallen shut, and he finds himself right back in bizarro-dreamland again.

Great. Is it too much to ask to get some peaceful rest every now and then?

This time, he’s down at the pond, still about twelve years old. It sits at the edge of the trees, the surface still, only breaking in ripples where the breeze skims across it. The sunlight is softer and golden now where it spills through the brush, and the heat of the day has dulled into something easier, a late-summer hush settling over everything as the world is winding down for the day.

Dean isn’t, though. His thoughts are still racing.

Usually, it feels peaceful down here, but now it feels like he swallowed a stone and it got stuck somewhere behind his ribs. He still doesn’t have the words for it at twelve, doesn’t really know how to name that feeling yet, but he knows he doesn’t like it. 

He sits at the edge of the pond in the tall grass, one knee pulled up, the other stretched out, heel digging absentmindedly into the dirt. The blades of weed bend under his fingers where he’s been pulling at them, stripping them down to nothing and letting the pieces fall again. There’s also a small scatter of stones beside him. A few skipped over the water, but most of them sunk. He scuffs the toe of his boot against the dirt again and watches it crumble.

Behind him, the world feels far away, discolored and muted. The house is out of reach. But still, every once in a while, yours and Sam’s voices carry over the distance, your laughter echoing down the hill. 

But Dean keeps his eyes fixed on the water in front of him, jaw tight, trying not to think about it. About you. About the way you said it.

My magic.

It all still sounds damn wrong in his head.

He frowns at himself, picking up a small rock and tossing it into the pond. It skips once, twice, then sinks again. And then–

“There you are!” your voice suddenly cuts through the quiet, bright and breathless.

Dean stiffens in an instant before his eyes wander over his shoulder to steal a glimpse. He sees you come running down the slope toward him, a little unsteady on the hill, cautious enough not to trip, but determined nonetheless. One strap of your short denim overalls is twisted, the other hanging off your shoulder. A few strands of hair stick to your forehead from running. There’s also dirt along your arm and a little on your cheek now from whatever activity you and Sammy have been up to. 

And you’re smiling. 

It’s as if nothing’s wrong and that whole conversation a few hours ago never happened. The smile is wide and easy and a little crooked. It doesn’t look like it takes any effort. It looks like it’s solely meant for him.

“I was looking for you,” you say, slowing as you get closer. “You wanna come play now? Me and Sammy wanna catch fireflies.”

When Dean sneaks another peek at you, you admittedly still seem the same. Same dirt-smudged knees. Same bright eyes. Same hopeful expression that assumes he’ll say yes like he always has before.

And for a heartbeat, something in him wavers. He pictures it without meaning to – tiny lights blinking in the dark, you chasing them across the yard, laughing, dragging Sammy along with you. It should sound fun. It probably would’ve been. 

Before.

Because then, the word comes flying back.

Witch.

It spreads over everything, dimming the edges of your smile and turning something that used to feel easy into something complicated and wrong.

“No, thanks,” he mutters, averting his eyes back to the water, his heel digging more into the dirt. “Told you I don’t wanna play.” He grabs another rock, throws it harder this time. It doesn’t skip, though, just sinks. “Just go with Sam. Leave me alone, okay?”

The words land blunt and cold. He knows it the second they leave his mouth, but he doesn’t take them back.

Then, there’s a long pause behind him. He still doesn’t dare to look back at you.

“Why are you being weird?”

He scoffs to deflect, keeping his gaze fixed on the water. “I’m not.”

“You are,” you insist and step even closer. He can feel you there now, just off to his side, small but impossible to ignore. “You won’t even look at me and your aura is different, too.”

Dean’s frown deepens. “My, what?”

“It’s pine green,” you say like that explains everything. “But usually, it’s apple green. You’re sad.”

Bullseye. 

He straightens a little, shoulders going rigid. His grip tightens around another stone in his palm. “I’m not sad,” he snaps, pushing himself up to his feet in one swift motion. “Stop reading me.”

He finally looks at you then, but it’s quick and guarded. The eye contact is only necessary to get his point across and not something he actually wants. He brushes his hands off on his jeans to break it again, hoping he can wipe that strange feeling away along with the dirt.

“Maybe I just don’t wanna hang out with you anymore,” he adds for emphasis and clarity. 

His only option here is to double down because he doesn’t know how else to handle this – you standing there and looking at him like you can see every damn thing he doesn’t want you to see.

That one finally seems to hit and reaches the desired effect. He sees it this time – the way your face falls and confusion gives way to hurt.

“Why?”

It’s so quiet and careful he barely hears it. You’re asking a question you’re not sure you want the answer to. Your voice doesn’t match the way you looked when you first came down the hill – happy.

The smile is gone.

Instead, your mouth is pressed into a tight line, trying to hold it together. Your eyes are glistening as if the setting sun is catching them at the wrong angle, but Dean knows it’s not actually the light. 

There’s a part of him that knows this is the moment to backtrack. To shrug it off. To say something else. But that knot in his chest pulls tighter instead and twists more and more.

You’re not supposed to be like this. You were normal. 

Before you started talking about magic and auras and things he can’t see but knows are real because his dad told him they are – and that they’re bad. Dangerous. Evil.

Things you don’t trust. Things you don’t get close to.

But he hates that look on your face right now. Hates that he’s the reason for it. It makes him feel… bad. So, if you’re bad and he’s bad, what does that mean?

The feeling doesn’t go away. It just mixes with everything else – the confusion and the frustration and the anger and the sadness. 

You’re the one who changed. This is your fault, not his. He hasn’t changed. He’s still the same. And if you hadn’t done that, if you were still normal, then he wouldn’t have to feel this way. Why is he the bad guy here? 

“Because you’re weird now, okay?” he blurts out, the words coming out rougher than he means them to, pushed by something he doesn’t fully understand. “You’re all… witchy and stuff.”

It sounds stupid even as he says it, but he doesn’t have better words for. Doesn’t have the language for what he’s trying to explain. So it comes out like that instead.

Blunt. Clumsy. Mean.

When your lip trembles, he’s flooded with instant regret, but he has no idea how to take something like that back either.

“Do you hate me?”

The question is so small it almost gets lost in the canyon between the two of you. He doesn’t know why, but it knocks the air out of his lungs. It gets harder and harder to breathe. 

Because the answer? The answer isn’t simple. 

He doesn’t hate you. He knows that much, deep down, even if everything else is in disorder. But you’re asking him like it’s yes or no – and it’s not.

It’s confusing and weird and uncomfortable and he doesn’t understand it, and the more he tries to, the worse it just feels. But there’s something scared and stubborn and taught in him that recoils when he thinks about you now. He doesn’t know how to explain that. Doesn’t know how to say anything that makes sense of the mess inside of him.

And you? You’re standing there, looking at him like you need an answer he doesn’t know how to give.

So, he ends up saying nothing at all. Just stares somewhere past your shoulder, jaw tight, completely silent.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees your face change, though. Sees the moment it sinks in.

Why does that make the feeling in his chest worse instead of better? This was supposed to help and not backfire. 

It hurts. Like, a lot. 

“Fine,” you finally snap, voice wobbling despite the anger that flashes across your face. “Then I don’t like you anymore either.”

Dean winces, barely noticeable from the outside, but he definitely feels it on the inside. 

“You’re mean and stupid,” you add with another huff. 

The words hit, but not in the way insults usually do. Oh no, these ones? They stick and sink somewhere deeper than they should.

Something broke, but you turn on your heel before he can fix it. Before he can react and figure out what to say – or even try to. 

And then, you’re running.

Back up the hill, away from the pond, away from him. You become smaller with every step until the trees start to swallow you up whole.

And Dean? He just stands there at the edge of the water, shoves his hands into his pockets, balls them into fists, and watches you go.

Dean’s barely awake. 

In fact, he’s not anywhere close to even opening his eyes to little slits yet. If there’s a stage between dead asleep and pre-awake, he’s probably in that one. His body surely hasn’t caught up to any signs of alertness at all, the morning thick, his head heavy, thoughts slow. He just lies there on the couch, one arm slung over his tummy, the other hanging off the edge, fingertips brushing the rough fabric.

But his brain’s becoming more and more vigilant, picking up on the background murmur. There’s two voices pulling at him – Sam’s and yours.

“…no connection between any of them?” you’re asking. Your voice is clearer than the rest, sweeter too, like honey in Earl Grey tea. It cuts through the fog easier, almost like sunshine.

Dean breathes out slowly through his nose, still not moving, but his lips twitch a little. Something else wakes up too, stretching under the blanket and under his boxer briefs. 

To be clear, though, that’s got nothing to do with you personally. Happens every morning whether you’re here or not. It’s just a natural occurrence. And yeah, sure, the nice timbre of your voice facilitates that a little, especially when he imagines what it could say instead of case-related words. Like, harder please or fuck, Dean, right there. 

Okay, fine, now he’s really just making it worse on purpose. He tries to refocus and hears papers shuffling. 

“None that I could find so far,” Sam answers with a sigh, frustration lacing his tone. “Different jobs, different neighborhoods. No shared hobbies, no family overlap, nothing obvious.”

“So… random?”

“Maybe not random,” Sam says. “Just… something else.”

Dean’s brow twitches slightly at that. Yeah, no kidding.

“You said ghost yesterday,” you say after a small pause, more thoughtful this time. 

“Could be a poltergeist, too.”

“What’s the difference?”

Dean huffs quietly under his breath, eyes still closed. Cute.

“Ghosts are usually tied to a place or an object,” Sam explains, shifting in his chair slightly, judging by the squeaks. “Poltergeists are more… aggressive. They throw things, move stuff around, escalate faster. They’re more chaotic and less focused.”

“Huh.” 

Dean can hear the pen in your hand tapping lightly against the table. Thinking. Always thinking.

“Decapitation doesn’t exactly scream ‘random chaos,’ though,” you add after a second. “Feels more premeditated than spur-of-the-moment.”

The corners of Dean’s mouth tug slightly upward. Yeah, exactly.

But then, something else sneaks through the cracks in his mind – ripples in the water, sunlight through the trees, a tinier voice. 

Do you hate me?

Dean’s eyes tighten shut for half a beat. Then, he pushes himself up before his brain can wander any further, the couch creaking under his weight as he sits forward and rubs a hand down his tired face. His neck twinges, but he ignores it.

“Depends what you’re dealing with,” he rasps, voice still thick with sleep.

Both you and Sam look over. The two of you are seated at the small dining table like this is some kind of domestic morning routine Dean definitely didn’t sign up for. Papers are spread out between you, a laptop open, coffee cups half-empty, and a plate with what looks like actual breakfast sits in the middle.

Dean stretches his arms over his head with a quiet groan, maybe a yawn, back popping, making no effort to hide the fact that he just woke up on a couch that feels like it was designed by someone who hates spines.

“Morning,” Sam says.

“Debatable,” Dean mutters.

You’re already watching him, that familiar hint of amusement tugging at your lips. “Look who finally joined the land of the living.”

Dean drops his arms and squints at you. “Yeah, yeah. Some of us don’t wake up at the crack of dawn for fun.”

“It’s not dawn,” Sam interjects.

“Feels like it.”

“You sleep like a bear, you know that?” you add casually and rise from your seat, grabbing a third coffee cup from the tray.

Dean frowns. “I do not.”

“Oh, you do,” you insist as you snatch a paper bag as well. It’s perfectly greasy at the bottom, the delicious smell of bacon winding up his nose, and his stomach reacts before his weary brain has even caught up to it. “Didn’t even stir when I left.”

That finally cuts through the last of the grogginess.

Dean straightens, brows lifting. “You left?”

“Mhm.” You hum as you casually stroll his way. “Figured if I’m stuck with you two, I might as well make sure you don’t starve… or actually have food that isn’t gas station jerky.”

“You went out?” he asks, tone sharpening just a notch. “By yourself?”

“Yeah,” you say, a smirk rising on your lips. “Crazy concept, I know.”

Dean exhales through his nose, pushing himself fully to his feet now. “But that’s–”

“What?” You tilt your head, brow arching. “Illegal?”

“No, that’s not–” He shakes his head clear. All the different smells hitting him at once make it hard to concentrate, and he doesn’t even know if it’s the coffee, the food, or you, but you’re definitely getting too close for his liking. “You’re not supposed to just–”

“Exist without supervision?” You’re clearly teasing him now, a playfulness gleaming in your eyes as you hold the coffee cup and brown bag out to him. “Don’t get your panties twisted now. You didn’t even notice I was gone.”

“I noticed,” he mutters as he takes the items, accepting them almost like a peace offering. 

“Sure you did.” The smile on your lips, however, clearly states that you don’t believe him one bit. 

“I said I’d keep an eye on you,” he grumbles before taking a gracious sniff of the food inside the bag.

God, that smells good. His stomach’s growling. 

“And you did,” you reply, shrugging lightly, but the teasing edge in your smile is still there. “You just weren’t very good at it.”

“I was asleep.”

“Exactly.”

He grimaces but stops arguing further. You’re already half a coffee into the morning while he hasn’t even had his first drop yet. He knows when he’s in a losing battle. So, he glances down at the cup in his hands before taking a sip.

Black. No sugar. No cream. Exactly right.

His eyes drift back to you, slightly bewildered. “How’d you know?”

“Oh, your aura told me you take it as black as your soul.”

Dean squints. “Wait… It did?”

Your face stays completely serious for several seconds before the first crack shows in the façade, and a snort escapes your throat. 

“No, I’m just messing with you,” you retort with a bubble of laughter. “Sam told me you like it as black as your soul. I’m paraphrasing, of course.”

Dean turns his head slowly toward his little brother, who conveniently doesn’t look up from the papers in front of him.

Traitor.

He scoffs under his breath, but there’s no real heat behind it as he takes another sip. You hum, satisfied, already turning away and heading back to the table. He watches you sit down, pick up your pen, and slide right back into it with Sam, all easy and natural, like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

It shouldn’t look like that. Shouldn’t feel like that.

And then, for the tiniest second, the image overlaps with a smaller version of you again, younger, looking at him like–

Do you hate me?

His jaw tightens slightly around the rim of the cup.

Mean and stupid.

Dean takes another gulp, harder this time till he almost chokes on it or burns his tongue, which ever comes first, and shoves the weird feelings in his chest down again with the caffeine.

“Crap,” Sam mutters all of a sudden, breaking the moment as he flips his laptop around. “Guys, we’ve got another one.”

Your attention snaps to him immediately. “Another body?”

“Yup, found this morning. We should go to the crime scene right now. Local PD got there less than an hour ago.”

“Awesome.”

Dean’s head snaps toward you, finding a bright grin on your lips. You’re not horrified. You’re not even fazed. If anything, you look… excited. 

He cocks a brow at you. “Awesome? A guy died.”

“Actually, it’s a woman,” Sam chimes in. 

“Same difference.”

“What?” You shrug your shoulders, looking at him. “I’ve never worked a decapitation scene before. What’s the problem?” 

“You’re excited.”

“I’m interested,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

“Someone’s missing their head,” he points out dryly.

“Yes, which is objectively unusual.”

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. Because, yeah, it admittedly is.

He spent half of yesterday going over the first three victims, trying to find a pattern that made sense. Clean decapitations like that aren’t exactly common in his line of work either when they’re not caused by other hunters. It is interesting. It’s a good case. He just–

“Still weird you’re this into it,” he mutters into his coffee.

Your eyes narrow slightly, arching an eyebrow. “Oh, and you’re not?”

Dean shrugs, taking another sip like it’s no big deal. “Meh. I mean, it’s a–… it’s a… case.”

Sam makes a noise that sounds like he’s trying not to laugh, but Dean ignores him skillfully. 

“Well, whether you’re into it or not, there’s an active crime scene waiting,” you say and push your chair back, grabbing your denim jacket.

Sam nods, already gathering his things as well. “Let’s go before they start clearing it.”

When going to a crime scene, the drives usually feel like routine. Dean keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose near the gearshift as he lets whatever surroundings roll past the windows – white picket fences, corn fields, woods. It doesn’t really matter when he focuses on the road ahead. 

Sam’s also in the passenger seat like always, half-turned with his laptop balanced against his knee, skimming through what little they have on the fourth victim.

But this drive’s still different than all the other ones that came before it, because, this time, Dean’s eyes keep drifting to the backseat and flicking to the rearview mirror every so often. 

When there’s a light rustle of fabric behind him, he sneaks another glance at you in the back and watches you pull on your CSI jacket – navy-blue, official, the three letters stamped across your front and back in yellow.

You smooth it down your arms, adjust the collar, and settle into it without hesitation, like you’ve done this your whole life. By the time Dean turns onto the street, you don’t look like someone tagging along anymore – you look like you belong.

Dean exhales hard through his nose and forces himself to concentrate back on the road again as he finds a space to park, eventually pulling in behind a patrol car.

Sam shuts his laptop with a soft click just as Dean kills the engine. “Fourth victim is like the others.”

“Still no connections?” Dean asks.

“None,” Sam sighs in frustration. “Think our best bet is a cursed object at this point, considering every victim was found at a different location.”

From the backseat, you hum lightly. “So no ghost or poltergeist?”

Sam smiles patiently. “Could still be either. But it’s definitely not tied to a body or burial ground. It’s moving around.”

“But the murders only started two weeks ago, so whatever we’re looking for, it’s gotta be new in town, right? Something must’ve triggered it,” you muse. 

Dean shoots you a look in the mirror. “You always this eager about headless bodies?”

You meet his stare head-on. “You always this grumpy before noon?”

He scoffs, not bothering to answer, and takes an assessing sweep around the street.

The fourth victim’s house sits dead center in the sort of neighborhood that seems to trim its hedges with a damn ruler. Everything is exact and perfect to a tee – lawn cut short and greener than it needs to be and flowerbeds arranged like a diagram. There’s not a single weed out of place, not a leaf where it shouldn’t be. It’s all tree-lined streets and white fences, radiating a curated postcard calm that feels a teeny-tiny bit too pure and sober, considering there’s a body waiting at the end of it.

Control freak, Dean notes internally as he jumps out of Baby and adjusts his suit jacket. Sam mirrors him and straightens his tie, slipping right into federal agent mode. 

“FBI,” Sam greets a patrol officer straightaway, flashing his badge as they approach the yellow tape. “Agents Hetfield and Sambora.”

A subtle snort escapes you as you follow them, ducking under the tape.

Dean stops in his tracks and raises a brow at you. “You got something to add?”

“Yes,” you say with a long sigh. “Those names are ridiculous.”

“They’re fine.”

“They’re obvious, bad, and lazy,” you shoot back. “I clocked them the first time you showed up at my scene. Might as well introduce yourselves as walking classic rock playlists next time.”

Dean frowns. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t have to,” you counter with a challenging smirk. “I just called you Agents Metallica and Bon Jovi in my head the whole time.”

Sam exhales a long-suffering sigh that sounds suspiciously like agreement. “Told you.”

Dean shoots him a look. “Oh, c’mon–”

“They’re not subtle, Dean.”

Dean scoffs, slightly irritated by the sudden team-up. “They work.”

“They scream fake,” you and Sam argue at the same time.

Dean blinks between the two of you, outnumbered but refusing to acknowledge it. He brushes it off with an eye roll. 

“Yeah, and?” He shrugs defiantly. “What’re you going by, Sabrina?”

You hesitate a little before holding up your ID – your real one.

Dean lifts a stern brow. “You’re serious?”

“I don’t exactly carry fake IDs,” you say defensively.

Dean lets out another scoff, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, maybe you should. Using your real name? That’s how bad things find you.”

That one finally lands. Score for him. You don’t have a comeback for it, and Dean knows it. He doesn’t push further, just nods once like the point’s been made, and turns toward the house as the leading detective of this investigation approaches.

“FBI Agents Hetfield and Sambora. Hope you don’t mind,” Dean says smoothly, thumbing back at you over his shoulder, “we brought our own crime tech.”

“Detective Griffith,” he introduces himself and gives you a quick once-over before shrugging. “Be my guest, guys. We could use the help.”

Eagerly, you’re already rushing past the detective once you’ve gotten the green light, nitrile gloves snapping on as you step over the threshold. Dean follows a little slower, eyes adjusting to the interior.

The inside matches the outside, the house being just as controlled as the yard. Everything’s aligned, spotless, and untouched. It’s the kind of clean that feels more like pressure than comfort, though. 

Except for the kitchen – that’s where the illusion finally breaks. There’s tons of blood smeared across marble tiles and a headless body where it shouldn’t be.

“Walk us through it,” Dean tells the detective. 

“The victim is sixty-two year old Martha Crane. No husband, no kids. Lived here alone. Neighbor found her this morning,” Griffith says. “Came by after she didn’t answer her phone.”

“No forced entry?” Sam asks.

“None.”

Dean bobs his head, scanning the room, but his attention keeps swerving back to you.

You’ve already dropped into a crouch near the body, focused, precise, and methodical. Your hands hover before you touch anything, eyes tracking the wound, the angle, and the space around it. You act like you’re reading something written under the surface.

“Angle’s consistent,” you murmur. “Single motion.”

Admittedly, it’s… good. You’re good. Dean notices that but obviously refrains from stating it out loud.

“How far did the head roll?” you ask suddenly then, not taking your eyes off the corpse and the blood spatter by your feet.

The cop blinks. “What?” 

“The head,” you repeat, glancing up briefly. “Where was it found in relation to the body?”

“Uh… about twelve feet,” he replies hesitantly. “Near the doorway.”

You rise to your feet with a nod, filing it away as you assess the space. “Rolled quite a bit,” you mutter. “I’m guessing the perp used a sword or blade of some kind. Probably swung it like a baseball bat to reach that kind of distance.”

Dean’s brow furrows slightly, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “You always start with those questions?”

You don’t look at him, focusing back on the evidence in front of you. “Only when it matters.”

“Right,” he huffs under his breath and keeps watching you work.

“Victim complained about something last night,” Detective Griffith then adds. “Said she heard… hooves.”

Hooves. 

Dean glances at Sam, Sam glances back, and even your attention seems to waver for a second at that, your hand stilling in the middle of depositing a Q-tip from the wound into a plastic bag.

“…Hooves,” Dean repeats.

“Yeah,” the detective says and lets out a snort, clearly not buying it. “She thought someone was riding a horse nearby. Accused the guy next door of hiding one in his backyard.”

You shift your position down to the floor again, scanning the area with more intent. Your fingers then brush lightly along the tile before you stop, pinching something between your gloves.

“Welp, that’s not hers,” you murmur.

Dean pushes off the wall and steps closer. “What isn’t?”

You hold it up for him to see, and it’s a strand of hair – long and black. The victim’s hair, on the other hand, is short and white. 

“Horse hair,” you state. 

Dean narrows his eyes. “You’re guessing.”

“Nope.”

“Alright, I’ll bite,” he says and cocks an eyebrow. “How do you know it’s from a horse, huh?”

You hesitate a moment, chewing on your bottom lip as if you don’t really want to explain your answer. “It has a… horsey aura.”

Dean stares at you, deadpan but completely dumbfounded on the inside.

Even the detective blinks at you. “Did she just say aura?”

See, Dean himself took more issue with the word horsey, but every man for himself, he supposes. 

But you? You don’t even react to either of them, choosing to brush past the raised brows. Back at that crime scene in Salem when Dean first met you, he clocked a few stares from your colleagues as well and didn’t know what that was about. Now he thinks he does. 

“It tastes like hay, okay?” you hiss with a defensive shrug. “You know, stables, carrots, a little sugar…”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean cuts you off, rubbing a hand down his face. “I think we get it, Jennifer Love Hewitt. We’re not doing that.”

He pads a few steps into the less frequented dining area, gesturing for you to follow, which you do with a knitted brow.

“Doing what?”

“That,” he grunts, hands motioning vaguely at you. “The aura, the tasting, the questions – tone it down.”

Your brows crease a little more, confused. “It’s relevant.”

“It’s weird,” Dean counters. “You’ve got a normal job, right? You gotta know you can’t go around talking like that – about auras and magic and God knows what else… ‘Cause, news flash, That’s So Raven, normal people usually find that freaky.”

You hold his gaze for a second before it contemplatively drifts to the side. “Actually, most of my colleagues already think I’m weird,” you reply, lips pursing as you scratch your neck. “This isn’t exactly new.”

Dean lets out a long sigh. “Oh, I can see why.”

Your jaw tightens, but instead of snapping, you just stroll back into the kitchen and pull back the small rug next to the body, pointing down at a pool of half-dried and sticky blood underneath it.

“Also,” you say, “hoof print.”

Dean follows your finger and tilts his head at the partially blood-smeared but very horsey evidence. 

He throws you a look. “Why don’t you start with that next time, huh?”

The detective curiously leans in, squinting at the print. “How the hell did a horse get inside this house?”

Again, Dean glances at Sam, Sam glances at you, but no one chooses to answer that question.

As you straighten again, you pull out another evidence bag from your jacket, holding it up for them. There are reddish-brown flakes inside. 

“I found trace amounts of rust,” you explain. “Whatever blade is being used for these decapitations is old and corroded. That’s where the residue’s coming from.”

Dean arches a brow skeptically, studying you. “You sure about that?”

When you meet his eyes this time, the irritation fully creeps in. “No, I just like collecting random dirt.”

Sam presses his lips together, clearly holding back a comment, but Dean doesn’t let it go. 

“Or you’re jumping ahead.”

“I’m not,” you grit through your teeth. “It’s on the wound.”

But Dean? He hums like he’s not convinced, even though he is, which causes you to take a deep breath. Jesus, you’re sensitive. But pushing you is easier than–

He doesn’t finish that thought.

“Alright,” Sam cuts in, stepping between the two of you just enough to break the line of fire. “I think we’ve got everything here for now.”

Dean nods once, still watching you for a second longer than necessary before turning to the front door, you and Sam following closely behind. As he walks down the pristinely white porch steps, he already notices the crowd of neighbors and reporters that has accumulated behind the yellow tape in small clusters, watching and whispering like vultures. 

He tries to ignore them as best as he can, already halfway to the Impala when something cuts through the noise and catches his ear:

“…not like anyone’s gonna miss her.”

He stops cold and turns on his heel toward the voice, locking in on a young blonde in her mid-twenties, chatting with the rest of her neighbors. She finds his eyes and already looks like she regrets the careless words, gaze dropping and arms around her tightening as soon as she realizes she’s been overheard. 

“Miss,” Dean says, flashing his badge as he steps into her space. “FBI. You wanna repeat that?”

She startles, eyes widening. “I–… no, I didn’t mean–”

“You said no one’s gonna miss her,” Dean presses, deep voice already edging sharp enough to cut. “That’s a pretty bold statement about a murder victim.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “I was just–”

“Just what?” Dean prompts. “Because right now it sounds like you’re withholding information from a federal investigation.”

The woman folds in on herself, shoulders tensing. “I don’t know anything,” she says, backtracking even a physical step. “I’m sorry I said that. I don’t want any trouble. I had nothing to do with it. I swear.”

Dean leans in more, erasing the space she created. “Then don’t make this harder than–”

“Hey,” your voice suddenly chimes behind him. 

Skillfully, you step between them, not forceful or confrontational, but just enough to break the pressure Dean’s been building. Your shoulder brushes his as you pass, however. It’s a subtle nudge, but he knows it was definitely fucking intentional. 

“It’s okay,” you tell the young woman gently in a soothingly sweet and understanding tone. “Ignore him. He does that.”

Dean inhales sharply. “I do not–”

You, however, seem to follow your own lead and ignore him entirely. Instead of batting even a single eyelash at him, you angle toward the woman and focus solely on her.

“You know, gotta be honest with you,” you start, your voice sounding almost conspiratorial. “As soon as we saw that manicured front lawn, we knew Martha Crane was a complete control freak.”

The woman’s shoulders lose a bit of tension, ears perked as she listens to you. After seemingly weighing whether she can trust you or not, she lets out a light scoff. “Understatement of the century.”

“Yeah, trust me. I know people like that. Judgmental assholes, am I right?” You laugh a little, causing the young woman to laugh as well. “Hell, I work with people like that. The FBI’s full of them. Actually met this guy recently – full-on control freak. Got a huge stick up his ass. He’d criticize me at every turn and throw a fit when things didn’t fall into his very narrow-minded worldview.”

Dean’s expression morphs into a full scowl. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who you’re talking about – him. It’s fucking him, right?

Funny. Clever. Mistake.

He’s definitely going to shoot you for it. 

“God, that guy sounds awful,” the woman huffs, wrinkling her nose. 

C’mon now… He ain’t this bad, is he?

“Oh, he is. Total fucking prick,” you say and roll your eyes theatrically. Then you dare to shoot him a quick, mischievous sideways glance before turning back to the young witness. “These people just like control and can’t handle it when things don’t go their way.”

The woman scoffs in agreement once more. “Yeah, that honestly sounds like Martha.”

Dean steps in again but forces himself to dial it back a little this time. “The victim?”

The woman nods. “She complained about everything. Noise, lawns, pets – anything she could report, she did.”

Another neighbor, a family father in his forties, steps forward as well. “Called the cops on my kid’s birthday party once.”

“She tried to get my fence taken down,” a soccer mom adds.

More neighbors then chime in with their own stories. It builds, piece by piece, irritation turning into collective hatred. By the time the chatter dies down again, the first woman just gives a shrug of her shoulders. 

“She was a judgmental bitch. I’m glad she’s dead.”

Welp, and people say living in suburbia is the dream…

Dean then only nods once, lips pursed. “Alright, thank you, miss.”

You give her a reassuring smile as well before heading back to the car. Dean turns with you, but the second the two of you are out of earshot, he lets out a grunt to get your attention and make his irritation known.

“I could’ve handled that.”

At that, you stop, still mid-step, and spin toward him. The motion is so abrupt he almost bumps into you. 

You arch an eyebrow, lips twitching in amusement. “Oh, could you?”

Dean lifts his chin, squaring off in front of you. “Yeah.”

If you were a guy, this would probably turn into a dick measuring contest. Or a pissing contest. Man, guys are gross.

“With what?” you shoot back. “Threatening her into silence?”

“I was applying pressure,” he argues defensively. “It works.”

“It almost didn’t,” you fire back. “She was two seconds away from shutting down completely.”

“I had it under control.”

You snort a disbelieving laugh. “No, you didn’t.”

Dean steps closer, the irritation climbing, nostrils flaring slightly. “I was setting it up.”

“Setting what up?”

“For you to swoop in,” he replies cleverly. “Good cop, bad cop. You ever heard of that?”

“Oh, bullshit,” you scoff and cross your arms. “No, you fucking weren’t.”

“Yeah, I was.”

“You almost tanked the whole thing,” you retort. “There was no setup.”

Dean scoffs, rolling his shoulders. “You got what we needed, didn’t you?”

“Because I fixed it.”

“Yeah, only because I softened her up first.”

“Oh no, you scared her,” you counter. “Which isn’t surprising since that seems to be your go-to method. Ever thought about actually giving people some sympathy, grace, and understanding instead of yelling and threatening everyone around you to do your bidding?”

Dean exhales a harsh breath, dragging a hand over his jaw. “You don’t know how this works. Any of this.”

You step closer, matching him, frustration finally breaking through to its full extent. “No, I just do this for a living. And unlike you, I actually get paid for my job and didn’t get my badge from an arts and crafts store.”

Dean laughs your jab off, although he surely gasped internally. How fucking dare you?!

“Look, I’m just trying to make sure you don’t get yourself in trouble, Sabrina,” he snaps. “Or, you know, killed.”

“I’m not the one causing problems. Not to mention, a few weeks ago, you’re the one who wanted to kill me,” you shoot back. “And now, you’re also the one breathing down my neck, criticizing everything I do like you’re just waiting for me to screw up.”

“Well, maybe I am.”

“Oh my God, pick a damn side!”

Dean frowns in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You heard me,” you snap. “I didn’t even want to be here. You made me stay and guilt-tripped me into it, and now you’re second-guessing my every move. Make up your damn mind, dude! Am I a problem or not? Do you trust me or not? Do you actually hate me or not? ‘Cause all this indecision is driving me nuts. Even your aura is a huge mess, by the way.”

Dean blinks, shaking his head clear as all your words still swirl around his mind and try to find a place. “What, now?”

“This whole time, it’s been flip-flopping,” you huff. “Red, green, red, green – like a fucking stoplight on amphetamines. So, which one is it? Stop or go?”

Red.

Dean stills.

Red?

The memory – no, the dream because it’s definitely not real – crashes into him within seconds and floods his mind. The sunlight through the trees reflects off the water’s surface, almost blinding him, but he can still see your face, how your lip quivered, and how your eyes stung with tears. 

Do you hate me?

You said his aura was green back then, apple green or maybe pine, but green. But it shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t. Because none of it was ever real. He just made it all up… in his head… like a normal person.

Fuck.

“Red?” he asks out loud, his voice several notches quieter than it was before. He already hates himself for asking in the first place. 

It shouldn’t get to him the way it does. You shouldn’t. 

“Yeah, mostly red, actually,” you say, still exasperated from the argument, chest heaving. 

But Dean only studies you for another minute, trying to line it up, trying to make it make goddamn sense. “What does that mean?”

You hesitate for a beat, staring at him tiredly before you exhale a long breath. “It means you’re reactive, impulsive, and you don’t think things through. And right now? You’re kind of being a giant dick.”

Dean purses his lips. Admittedly, both real-you and dream-you are masters of delivering insults that stick. Is dick the grown-up version of mean and stupid? Probably.

Before he can respond, though, his little brother cuts through the tension before it can fully escalate again.

“You guys good?” Sam checks, his hazel eyes flickering warily between you and Dean.

Both of you fix your eyes on Sam, but neither of you responds.

“Okay,” Sam sighs and scratches the back of his neck. “I think we should head to the library next. I mean, the whole hooves thing makes me think we might actually be dealing with the Headless Horseman. Maybe we can find out who it is, because this thing’s definitely mobile.”

Dean nods, still hung up on that whole red-green thing, but you shake your head slightly, brows creasing. Figures.

“Actually, I wanna process the evidence first. Might give us a clue about the weapon and where to find it,” you say. 

Dean then finally dares to look at you again, brow furrowing lightly. “Thought you already did that with that whole horsey aura thing.”

“That’s not–… You know what? Never mind.” You press your lips together, biting back whatever comment you wanted to make, and simply turn to Sam. “Point is, I need a lab. Don’t exactly have one here. The rust, the hair… There’s more there.” Then you smack your lips, musingly looking between the brothers. “You guys do breaking and entering, right?”

Sam and Dean exchange a look.

Of course.

Dean sighs. “Yup, we do.”

“You guys go. I’ll hit the library,” Sam says, not even arguing (or volunteering). 

“Fine. I’ll go with her.” Dean nods and rolls his eyes slightly. 

But you? You immediately grimace and wrinkle your nose. 

“Do you have to?” you question and then tone down the hostility a little by clearing your throat. “I mean, can’t Sam come to the lab with me, and you can go to the library?”

Dean’s lips rise to a smirk at that. “Not a chance in hell, Sabrina.”

Dean Winchester is by far the most irritating person you’ve ever met in your entire life.

The forensics lab at Sleepy Hollow PD has a familiar rhythm you know all too well from home. The machines hum in the background, the fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and the steel counters reflect a clean surface. It’s a space that makes sense, where things follow rules and where answers exist if you know where to look.

And at first, Dean’s presence is just background noise like the rest of the interior. A shift of boots here, a faint tap of fingers there, and the soft click of his tongue against his teeth, like he’s trying to fill silence that isn’t asking to be filled. He clearly doesn’t know how to exist in stillness, but it’s manageable. 

Annoying, but manageable. 

You try to ignore it. You really do. You’ve worked in worse conditions than a mildly irritating human being before. Your focus simply zones in on the sample in front of you, on the familiar routine of gloving up, setting tools in place, and letting muscle memory take over.

But then he sighs – long, loud, and entirely unnecessary. The kind that almost demands acknowledgment.

You close your eyes for a second before glancing over your shoulder. “Do you mind?”

Dean looks up, a little startled. “What?”

You gesture vaguely in his direction. “All of… that. Can you not?”

He frowns, glancing down at himself, then around the room, genuinely confused. “I’m not doing anything.”

You hold his gaze for a moment longer, weighing if explaining basic self-awareness is worth your time before coming to the conclusion that explaining it would cost more energy than tolerating it. So, you turn back to your microscope without another word, and for a few minutes, it seems to work.

Then the damn tapping starts again. Different pattern this time. Worse. It’s less rhythmic and more erratic, as if he’s finally gotten bored enough to start experimenting with new ways to be even more annoying. 

You exhale a long breath. “Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

You don’t even turn this time, adjusting the microscope in front of you till the image sharpens under the lens. “If I have to explain it, you’re already too far gone.”

Silence finally follows, but it’s so quiet now that it almost seems suspicious, and you’re already afraid it might not last all that long.

Still, you take advantage of the brief pause from the human distraction behind you. The residue sharpens into focus again, clearly uneven and aged, not indicating any modern weapon. You track the patterns and mentally catalogue the details like you always do.

But then, behind you, something clinks.

You freeze, turn your head, and find Dean holding a pair of tweezers.

“Put that down,” you tell him scoldingly.

Stumped, he looks at them, then at you. “I’m just–”

“Put. It. Down.”

He does, though not before inspecting them like he’s admiring their craftsmanship. You then watch him drift to the next station, fingers already moving again with zero impulse control. He brushes over surfaces, picks up a tray, and tilts it slightly.

“You’re going to contaminate something,” you warn.

“I’m not touching anything important,” he retorts, which is exactly the sort of thing someone says right before they touch something important.

And a second later, you hear a distinct rattle.

You close your eyes. “Dean.”

“I didn’t break it.”

“That’s not the standard I usually aim for.”

He actually huffs a small laugh at that, then leans against the counter for all of three seconds before pushing off again. The pacing comes next – slow loops at first before they get tighter with every pass as if the entire room is shrinking around him.

You don’t need to look to track him. You can feel it – the restless energy, the constant motions, the sheer refusal to simply settle down.

But annoyingly and deeply inconveniently, you’re unfortunately aware of him in other ways as well.

Every time he brushes past you a little too closely, there’s that faint scent of leather, gun oil, and something warm again. Something unmistakably him. It persists just long enough to distract you and pull your focus away from the work in front of you.

You frown slightly but force your attention back at the task at hand, even though the whole thing is quite… unhelpful.

When yet another metal tray clatters behind you, you resign and reach for your headphones, sliding them on without a word and letting the music flood your ears. Blessed silence wraps around you as you get back to work and let the Beach Boys fill in as white noise instead.

However, that only lasts about halfway through Good Vibrations before the music cuts out all of a sudden.

Jolted out of your peace, you blink and turn to see Dean standing right next to you now, holding the cord of your headphones between his fingers. He looks at you more curious than apologetic, though, which is honestly even more irritating. If you yell at him now, it’d feel more like reprimanding a toddler who doesn’t know any better. 

“You can’t just shut me out like that,” he says almost reproachfully.

“I was working.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he replies like that’s the main issue altogether.

You snatch the headphones back from him, setting them gently down on the counter. “What do you want?”

He shrugs, pursing his lips. “What are you doing?”

You shoot him a deadpan look. “Working.”

“No, I mean, how,” he clarifies. “Walk me through it.”

Your brow scrunches. “What? Why?”

“I wanna know how it works.”

You narrow your eyes at him slightly, trying to figure out if this is yet another setup. Is he trying to undermine you again? Is this a test?

“You want me to explain forensic processing to you,” you repeat slowly. 

“Sure.” He shrugs again. “Why not?”

Your mouth opens and closes before you study him for a beat. He’s still restless. Still too fucking much. But there’s at least something quieter underneath it now. Maybe it’s curiosity – or maybe he just needs something to latch onto to fill the silence with something other than his own thoughts. 

“Fine,” you sigh at last, turning back to your station. 

Dean smacks his lips and leans over your shoulder like a bored kid in a museum. “So, what’s that?”

“Evidence.”

“Yeah, I got that,” he scoffs. “What kind?”

“The kind you don’t contaminate by hovering,” you reply flatly.

But Dean? Yeah, he leans closer anyway while you shut your eyes briefly, inhale deeply, and count to three. 

“Is that the rust stuff?” he asks then.

“Yes.”

“From the wound?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“And you think it’s from a blade?”

“Yes, Dean.”

He nods slowly, processing it. But then, his mouth opens once more. “Could be something else.”

You decide to level with him, meeting his green eyes. “Like what?”

He shrugs his broad shoulders. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

Dear Odin, Freyja, and Thor...

What have you done wrong in your life to be punished like this? 

Patience is a virtue. Patience is a virtue. Patience is a–

“On the slide is trace residue,” you explain. “I’m checking composition, degradation, age – anything that might tell me where it came from. You can look if you want.”

You take a step back from the microscope to let him take a peek. He hesitates for a moment but then leans closer, not crowding, but still near enough that you’re aware of him in a different way now. His aura is steady, warm, green as he glimpses through the eyepiece. 

“See that breakdown pattern?” you ask quietly. “It’s consistent with oxidized iron. Lines up with older weaponry.”

He pulls back from the lens and glances at you. “Like a sword?”

“Maybe.” You shrug, swaying your head from side to side. “If I had to guess, I’d say Civil War era most likely.” 

He hums, considering that, and you notice how he doesn’t argue for once. He just takes it in and lets it sit. Miracle of miracles. 

“Gotta say, kinda cool you can tell all that from a few flakes of rust,” he says, then takes a glance around the lab. “But you know, for a place that deals with dead bodies and blood, this is… weirdly clean.”

“First of all, not that many dead bodies here. You’re confusing it with the morgue. I’m not a medical examiner,” you say with a small chuckle. “And second of all, cleanliness is kind of the point of a lab.”

He purses his lips, shrugs. “Yeah, but still. You’d think there’d be more–, I don’t know… more gore.”

You give him a dry look. “You want more gore?”

“Just saying. Feels misleading.”

“Please stop talking.”

As you focus back on your work and switch slides to examine the horse hair next, you expect him to hit you with another trifling question about evidence. But when he speaks again, he suavely changes subjects, and you realize his questioning before was just supposed to warm you up for the real interrogation.

Was he just buttering you up? Are you really that easy?

Granted, aside from his interaction with a witness earlier, he’s admittedly good with people. You watched how easily he convinced the detective on the scene to trust him and how smoothly he talked his way into this lab by simply tossing the pretty receptionist a cocky smile and a few charming lines. 

That was kind of a bonus point. 

And sure, you technically knew this side of him existed because he showed it to you before – before he knew you who you truly were. It’s still different to observe it from an outside perspective, though. You can see the appeal more clearly if you blend out the fact he held a gun to your head not that long ago. 

“So,” Dean starts and blows a raspberry, mustering surely all the casualty he can possibly find. “What did you and Sam really talk about at that diner yesterday? What’d he tell you?”

You freeze imperceptibly for a second but keep your eyes on the sample. “You know, he’s your brother. You have access to him. Why don’t you just ask Sam?”

“Oh, I will. Don’t worry about that,” Dean says. “But I’m asking you now.”

You snort a little. “Is this you trying to see if our answers will match?”

“Maybe,” he admits. “Just humor me.”

You exhale softly, shutting off the microscope, your eyes finding his. “We talked about the demon. He told me what happened to your family,” you share carefully. You can tell by the flickers in his aura that he’s getting nervous. “He also told me about that hunter that worked with my grandma.”

“Bobby?”

“Yeah.” You confirm with a nod and lick your lips, shifting on your feet a little. “Then I showed him the letter from my mom I found in Mia’s basement. It was written for my twenty-first birthday, but Mia never gave it to me.”

That seems to catch his attention, his eyes lifting to you. “A letter?”

“Yup.” You reach for your bag, pulling it out. You hesitate for a tiny second before holding it out to him. 

Dean looks at it, then back at you, and there’s a gleam of surprise in his gaze as his brows lift. “You’re just gonna… hand that to me?”

“You asked.” You shrug lightly, although your fingers hold onto it a second longer before letting go for good.

He takes it carefully – that’s what you notice first.

Carefully.

Not the way he handles everything else in this room, like a bull in a china shop – absent-minded, restless, careless. His grip is suddenly contrastingly measured and cautious. It almost seems like he’s aware this is something that matters.

He unfolds it, juniper eyes scanning the page, and then he goes shockingly still – not quiet in the way he’s been trying to be. Completely still. You’re not even sure he’s still breathing. 

You watch him and fix on his aura without really meaning to. Outwardly, his jaw tightens slightly, and his gaze lingers longer on certain lines. But his aura? The rich and deep forest green desaturates and cools, becoming a bit more muted as if someone turned the brightness down. But a soft blue starts to bleed through it, merging it to a teal shade – sea pine. It pools mostly around his heart, concentrating there. 

Are your mom’s words actually affecting him? You’re not entirely sure, but you think you can pick up pieces of his own grief and loss. 

When he finally finishes reading, he folds it back up just as carefully as he opened it and hands it back to you wordlessly.

“Thanks,” you say, strangely softer than you intended. 

Dean just nods and doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t say anything at all.

It’s… unexpected to say the least. And somehow, it’s still more telling than anything he could’ve said. If he hadn’t tried to shoot you only a few weeks ago, you probably would’ve even started to like him. At least, you would’ve considered him a decent person and not a scathing, intolerant maniac with a gun. 

You tuck the letter back into your bag and start chewing on your lower lip, scrupling about trusting him enough to goad him into telling you more about the demon. If he thinks he can work an angle with you to get more information, maybe so can you.  

“Sam also told me about the ritual, by the way,” you say after a beat. “The one my mom seems to talk about, too. The one I’m supposed to do to unlock more power or whatever.”

Dean smacks his lips, slightly arching a brow. “He did?”

“Yeah, he thinks I should do it.”

That response forces him to scoff under his breath, shaking his head. “‘Course he does.”

“You don't?” you ask, curiously raising a brow. “Why’s Sam so convinced then?”

Dean lets out a deep breath, running a hand over the back of his neck as if he’s still debating to say what he really thinks or not. After a brief pause, he seems to land on the former. “‘Cause Sam’s willing to do whatever it takes to kill that demon.”

“Whatever it takes?” you repeat, brow furrowing.

Dean’s gaze meets yours briefly before he averts his eyes again. “Yeah.”

“But you’re not,” you deduce from his reluctance.

He shakes his head, jaw locking, but he still doesn’t look at you. “No.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause I already lost enough.”

The words slip out, and as soon as they do, he pushes off the counter, pacing away from you with a shake off his head. He rubs a hand over his mouth as if he wants to push the words back inside. 

He doesn’t elaborate, but you can see it now, clearer than before – there are lines he actually won’t cross. Not again. Not ever. Not for anything. 

Not even for the evil thing that killed his parents.

He licks his lips and dares to glance at you again, straightening slightly. “All I’m saying is… you’ve got a life, alright?” he says, his deep voice steadying with every further spoken syllable. “You know, a real one – job, place, people. You don’t just throw that away chasing something like this,” he adds. “Sam… he’s already too far in it. He doesn’t see the line anymore.”

You stare at him for a moment, letting the message sink in. “So you don’t think I should do the ritual?”

“Correct.” He exhales slowly. “Look, once you’re in, you’re in. There’s no clean way out of it, alright?”

“Sam seems to think there is.”

“He’s wrong.”

You hold his gaze for a moment, your mind racing with every possible option. But no matter how hard you think about it, you find yourself staring down a fork in the road, not knowing which path is the right one. So, you look to Dean for answers. 

“What d’you think I should do?”

He bites his lip, staring out the only window in the room, mulling over your question for a minute or two before he meets your eyes again. “I think, uhm… you don’t make that call just ‘cause someone else is pushing you to,” he says carefully. “You make it when you’ve got no other choice left. And right now, you’ve still got choices.”

You nod slowly, letting his warning seep into the back of your mind, but there’s something else tugging at you. 

“Do I actually still have a choice?” you ask then, scoffing a small, humorless laugh. “I mean, Sam said this thing might still find me. That it might come after my family.” 

Dean’s jaw grinds as if he doesn’t like the fact that his brother put that idea into your head. But what would his solution have been? Not tell you and watch you and everyone you love die? Is that his end goal? You think he’s surely not that cruel before remembering the same guy tried to murder you in cold blood. 

His head bobs for a moment before a click of his tongue follows. “It could.” 

And for a while, neither of you speaks then. But the tension is softer and more velvety than it was at the crime scene. It’s not looking for a fight anymore. 

“Look,” he starts, and you find his eyes again. “Don’t worry about the demon. Me and Sam can handle it, alright? It’s not gonna come after you or anyone close to you.”

Slightly skeptical, you cock a brow and cross your arms. “You sure?”

He hesitates a second before his Adam’s apple bobs around a swallow. Then he meets your eyes. “I promise.”

Your heart skips a few beats. You’re honestly not sure you can trust his words. How could he ever promise something like that? Most of all, though, why would he? You know he hates you and everything you stand for. 

“Alright.” Dean then straightens abruptly and rubs his palms together, nodding toward the exit. “Are you about done here, or is there more horse hair?”

“No, uh, I think I’ve got it all,” you reply and pull off your gloves. “Just have to clean up. Shouldn’t take long.”

Dean nods quickly, suddenly in a slight hurry, almost bumping backwards into a metal cart. “Great, uhm, I’m gonna go ahead and grab a bite. I’ll wait for you by the car.”

“Okay, yeah,” you agree and spin back to your station, gathering your slides and evidence bags.  

He heads for the door and doesn’t touch anything on the way out. You notice that. Maybe there’s hope for him after all. But as his hand reaches for the handle, he stops unexpectedly and turns back to you. 

“You–, uh, you want anything? I can grab you something, too.”

You stump for a second. Because honestly? That’s the last thing you anticipated. 

You shake your head slowly. “Uh… no. I’m good.”

He frowns slightly. “You sure? You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Your brow furrows, head tilting a little as you assess him. You can’t even tell if he’s serious right now or playing another angle again. You wouldn't put it past him to poison your food. He seems strangely sincere, however. His aura does, too. 

Is that considered weird or normal? Or is it only weird because he tried to kill you and now seemingly worries about your food intake, but it’d be completely normal under different circumstances?

“Yeah, uhm, I’m fine… really,” you reply and swallow lightly. “But, uhm, thanks.”

Dean gives you a nod. And then, he’s out the door within seconds, practically fleeing the lab. 

Yeah, it’s weird, isn’t it? Definitely weird. 

When Dean and you finally make it to the library, Sam’s exactly where the two of you left him – buried behind a stack of books that’s grown in both size and instability. He’s halfway through one, another marked with a pen, and a third is open but has been clearly abandoned mid-thought. Dean’s sure if his little brother could read two at once, he would.

Dean remains a step behind you, hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket, as you stroll ahead without hesitancy. You seem to feel comfortable here, which makes sense, considering you went to college and probably spent a lot of time in libraries. At least, you don’t strike him as someone who partied their way through it. You’re too smart for that – kind of like Sam.

Two nerdy peas in a dusty pot. 

You lean slightly toward the table behind Sam, eyes already eagerly scanning his little brother’s spread of research. “Find anything?”

Sam finally blinks up at that, slightly delayed as he pulls himself back into the present. “Working on it,” he replies, then glances between you and Dean. “You guys? How was the lab?”

You give a slight nod toward Dean, a small, teasing smile rising on your lips. “Has he ever been tested for ADHD yet?”

Dean’s brow furrows wildly at that. Sure, he was aware you were a little annoyed by his antics, but it wasn’t that bad, was it? It’s not his fault labs and libraries are indefinitely boring. 

Sam lets out a soft chuckle in response, nodding along like he’s agreeing with you. “Not yet, but I wouldn’t rule it out,” he quips like it’s a well-documented phenomenon. “If anyone’s a textbook case…”

The creases in Dean’s brow deepen. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” 

Sam shrugs lightly, already looking back down at the page in front of him. “Just saying, man. You don’t exactly thrive in environments that require… stillness.”

“Well, anyways, human distractions aside,” you start, organizing your thoughts, “I managed to process the residue from the wound. It’s iron-based and heavily oxidized, but the corrosion isn’t uniform and refined in a way modern alloys are. There are inconsistencies in the structure – impurities you don’t really see in anything manufactured post-industrial standardization.”

Sam's shoulders pull back slightly, his attention sharpening. “So older metal,” he deduces. 

Dean, on the other hand, is amazed his little brother even understood an ounce of that. He only caught about half of it and can’t help but notice that you used a lot more technical jargon with Sam than you did with Dean back at the lab. 

Were you dumbing it down for him? 

Dean would be offended if he wasn’t too fascinated by the way you speak – certain, steady, laying out all the answers without second-guessing. 

His mind drifts back to the lab, the words in your mother’s letter still swirling around his head. It’s not the magic part that got stuck, however – not the blood moon, the legacy, or any of that witch-destiny crap he’s been taught to side-eye since he was old enough to hold a gun. It’s the rest of it that haunts him. 

You are loved beyond measure.

His jaw grinds slightly as that line echoes through his skull again. It’s the part that doesn’t let go. It almost leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, hitting somewhere deeper than he’d like – a place he usually keeps locked down tight. It’s memories he doesn’t need right now and things he rarely lets himself think about unless it’s late or quiet or he’s had one too many beers and his guard slips just enough to let it hurt for an hour or two. 

He’s seen grief before – lived in it, breathed it, and carried it around like a second skin. But that letter wasn’t just grief. There was a warmth underneath it, and it rewired something in his brain. 

Suddenly, you’re not just a witchy wildcard anymore he needs to keep at arm’s length. You became the girl again he first saw before he knew you liked to write spells in glitter gel pens – the girl who lost her mom and who got handed something she never asked for and is now stuck dealing with the fallout.

Same as him. Same as Sam. Maybe just a different flavor. 

Dean meant every word he said back at the lab – about you having a life, about staying out of this mess, about not doing some weird ritual. He doesn’t want to watch you get dragged into something that chews people up and spits them out, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the job, the fight, or the next thing trying to kill you. You’re not supposed to end up like this, running around chasing ghosts and curses and things that don’t stay dead. That’s not your lane. It shouldn’t be.

But seeing you like that – like someone who had a life before all this, someone who still has one – makes everything a hell of a lot more complicated. And the more he thinks about it, the less it feels like it’s even his call to make. Not anymore. Maybe it never was. It certainly seems like it doesn’t really matter what either of you wants.

Because if that letter also made one thing painfully clear, it’s that none of this started with you.

Family legacy. Awakening. Power waiting for you. Destiny. 

God,he hates that word because it’s just another way of saying you don’t get a choice, wrapped up in something that sounds nicer than it actually fucking is. 

You didn’t ask for any of this – not the magic, not the demon, and not whatever target just got painted on your back the second you turned twenty-one. Dean already knows how this goes, seen it play out too many times to count – once you’re in, you’re in. It doesn’t matter how normal your life used to be or how much you want to keep it.

For all his talk back at the lab, he’s slowly starting to realize it might be too late to walk it back now. 

Because the truth is, it’s already circling you. Things are already set in motion. Lines are being drawn. And he knows better than anyone that once something like that sets its sights on you, it doesn’t just let you walk away unscathed.

Your voice then snaps him out of his thoughts, forcing him to concentrate back on the case at hand – something he actually can fix.

“Yeah, it’s consistent with hand-forged steel,” you confirm, looking at Sam. “The carbon distribution’s uneven, which points to older smelting methods. It’s not something mass-produced, and it hasn’t been preserved well, either. There’s evidence of long-term exposure to moisture, maybe even soil.”

“Timeline?” Sam asks.

“Pre-modern production. Likely 19th century, give or take,” you reply. “Depends on how it was stored – or not stored. I think Civil War era would be the most consistent fit.”

Sam nods slowly like he understood all of that. He then leans back a little in his chair, thinking it through. “Okay, so we’re looking for a Civil War-era blade, possibly tied to a spirit,” he muses, tapping his pen against the page. “Problem is there are a lot of Civil War soldiers buried around here. Some not even officially recorded. Unmarked graves, battlefield spillover…”

“So too many candidates,” Dean concludes.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “If this is a soldier tied to a weapon, it’s not gonna be easy to get a clean ID.”

You shift your weight slightly, following along, but there’s a small crease between your brows now. “But the Headless Horseman legend – wasn’t that from a different war?”

Sam nods, already reaching for one of the books. “Yup. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow was originally about a Hessian soldier. Revolutionary War. Not Civil War.”

“So it doesn’t match,” you infer.

“Not exactly,” Sam replies. “But that’s not that unusual. Local legends change over time. People see something they don’t understand, and they use whatever story fits best to explain it.”

Dean picks up on that thread. “So if something starts taking heads off, folks are gonna call it the Headless Horseman whether it lines up with Irving or not.”

You nod slowly. “Alright, so the name sticks, even if the details don’t. So, what? This all could just be a coincidence that there’s an actual Headless Horseman in Sleepy Hollow?”

“Seems like it,” Sam says.

There’s a brief pause as you think it over before glancing between them. “Okay, but how do the victims connect to the weapon? If it’s a cursed object… how does that work?”

Dean answers first. “Usually? You touch it.”

“Or you move it, disturb it,” Sam adds. “Anything that establishes contact. Some objects can affect people just by being nearby, but physical contact’s the most common trigger.”

You absorb that, head bobbing in thought. “So all four victims would’ve had to come into contact with the same object.”

“Yeah, most likely,” Sam confirms.

Dean pushes off the table and straightens. “Which means there’s gotta be a place where all of them could’ve run into it without knowing what it was.”

His little brother is nodding as well, probably having circled that same idea. He flips another page, scanning quickly before something seems to click.

“I might have something,” Sam says then, opening up his laptop and turning it toward you and Dean. “There’s a history museum here in town. It’s small, but they’ve got a special exhibit right now. Weapons, uniforms… that kind of thing.”

Dean leans in just enough to glance at the screen. “Open to the public?”

“Yup,” Sam says. “Regular visitors, tours. Judging from the homepage, people can get pretty close to the displays.”

You lean in as well, skimming the details. “That would explain how unrelated victims end up exposed to the same object,” you say. “Different people, same location.”

The pieces line up enough to be worth chasing. 

Dean rolls his shoulders and readily fumbles for his keys in his pocket. “Alright, guess the museum’s our next stop.”

As you enter the museum with Sam and Dean, you instantly lose any sense of a timeline, clocking at least three different centuries fighting for shelf space within the first minute of being here. You’ve honestly never seen anything like it. The entire place looks like someone tried to preserve history but then gave up halfway through organizing it. 

A faded Union uniform slumps beside an old musket leaning against the wall, which almost threatens to fall over if someone breathes too damn hard, while a case of antique and mismatched teaspoons sits next to it, labeled in barely legible handwriting and fading ink. 

Nothing matches, nothing flows, and whatever system might have existed here certainly died a long damn time ago.

You take it in for a moment, head tilting. “If I did this at work, I’d be fired before lunch.”

Dean shuts the creaking door behind you, glancing around with something closer to amusement than concern. “Oh, c’mon, it’s got character.” 

“Character isn’t a filing system,” you mutter, spotting four different labeling styles within the same six feet, which make your stomach churn.

Sam doesn’t engage, already drawn like a moth to a stack of papers. He locks onto the nearest surface that looks remotely administrative and heads straight for the counter. “Excuse me? Is anyone here?” he calls. “Do you have a catalogue? Inventory records? Anything that organizes–”

“‘Course I do,” a gruff voice cuts him off.

The owner emerges as if he’s been summoned by the word catalogue alone, shuffling out from behind the desk. He’s probably closer to ninety than eighty in age, wrinkled and hole-littered cardigan buttoned unevenly, glasses slipping down his nose as he eyes all three of you with suspicion before he strangely seems to fix on Dean the most.

“You look like a toucher,” he says.

Dean stumps, blinking at the old man. “I–… what?”

You can barely stifle your laugh, shoulders shaking from holding back too much. “Oh, he is,” you add with hurting cheeks. “Especially on public transportation.”

Dean’s head snaps to you with a glare, which only makes you bite your lip harder.

“Well, don’t touch anything here, boy,” the man adds with a warning look.

You shoot Dean a sideways glance as the owner turns away again. “Oh, he clocked you instantly.”

He frowns, somewhat defensive. “I do not look like a toucher.”

“You touched everything at the lab, too. You’ve got zero impulse control. You practically radiate ‘I wonder what happens if I poke it.’”

He purses his lips like you caught him there, but before he can argue further, the owner reappears with an armful of binders. No, not even an armful – multiple trips. By the time he’s done, there are eight thick, overstuffed binders stacked on the counter, loose papers sticking out of all sides.

Sam stares at them like he’s been personally insulted.

“I wrote everything down,” the old man says proudly, patting the top binder. “Every item. Buttons, coins, spoons… Got a lot of spoons. People like spoons.”

You glance around the room again. There are, in fact, an alarming number of spoons. And guess what? Dean’s restless fingers are already sifting through some of them. You smile in amusement, shaking your head slightly at him. You really can’t take this guy anywhere. 

Sam then carefully opens the first binder, flips a page, then another, his brow creasing deeper with each passing second. “Is this… organized?”

The man pauses, considering it like it’s a philosophical question. “My wife used to do that.”

Sam waits, but the old man doesn’t elaborate.

“And now?” Sam prompts after a full minute with no answer.

“She died twenty years ago.”

Dean gives a solemn nod. “So we’re freestylin’. Got it.”

Sam exhales a long-suffering breath, staring down at what appears to be fifty years of unsorted acquisition logs written in increasingly inconsistent handwriting. “So, everything’s just… in the order you got it?”

“Yep.”

“For twenty years.”

“Yep.”

You fold your arms over your chest, looking between the binders and the rest of the room. “Alright, so we could spend the next six hours playing archaeological bingo, or we could not.”

Dean perks up at that. “Big fan of not.”

Sam looks at you, a smile forming on his lips, already catching on. “You have something faster?”

You reach into your bag and pull out your notebook, flipping it open on the counter. “I can narrow it down,” you explain. “Find the object directly instead of digging through… whatever this is.”

Dean watches you, one brow lifting judgmentally as you pull out a pen – a purple glitter gel pen.

“Really, Mini Milano?”

“Purple’s for magic targeting magic,” you tell him without looking up. 

He snorts under his breath. “‘Course it is.”

Sam, bless him, doesn’t question it, though. “Go ahead.”

“C’mon, we don’t need magic for this,” Dean grunts. “Can’t we just, I don’t know, use our eyes?”

“Dean, look around you. This whole place is a mess. A spell will save us hours,” Sam counters before Dean can double down. 

The older brother then grumbles something under his breath, but he refrains from saying anything else. You do catch the way he shifts, though. You can read the subtle discomfort in his aura – how he’s a little more on edge now, a little more wound tighter. Magic’s clearly still not his favorite thing in the world. 

Your attention then lands back on the empty page in front of you, the words already forming as you focus on the intent, pen moving with deliberate care. 

Objects bound by curse or spite,Hidden now from mortal sight,Reveal to me what must be known,The thing that claims what’s not its own.

You mutter the lines under your breath before closing the notebook, letting the magic flow through the room. 

And for a full minute, it seems like nothing happens.

Dean clicks his tongue. “See? We could’ve just–”

A purple glow suddenly lights up the entrance, cutting him off mid-sentence as his attention shifts. All three of you turn at once.

There is an old sword mounted just off to the side, glimmering purple from your spell. It’s positioned right where anyone walking in could see it first. It doesn’t look particularly remarkable. The metal is darkened, the hilt is worn, and age sits heavily in every inch of it.

The corners of Sam’s mouth twitch with a satisfied smile. “Guess that’s gotta be it.”

You follow him, studying the blade more closely. The corrosion patterns match your findings in the lab. It lines up too neatly to be anything else.

Behind you and Sam, Dean suddenly clears his throat. “Uhm, guys?”

You and Sam slowly turn and glance at him. Dean rubs the back of his neck, not quite meeting your eyes. There’s a slight flush in his cheeks as well, and it slowly begins to dawn on you. 

“So… funny thing,” he begins.

“No…” You’re already shaking your head, guessing what’s coming next. “You didn’t, did you?”

“There’s a sign, okay?” Dean defends, gesturing toward the display.

You spin and see that there is, in fact, a sign. Interactive Display – Feel Free to Touch. You stare at it for a moment longer before turning back to him.

“I might have… touched it,” he admits in case it still wasn’t clear, although that fact has already been very well established by now.

Sam gapes at him. “You what?!”

Dean throws his hands up. “It’s right by the entrance. It literally tells you to touch it. What was I supposed to do? Ignore the sign?”

“Yes,” both you and Sam reply flatly.

You close your eyes for a moment and press your lips into a tight line, counting to three again. “Let me get this straight – you touched a random sword in a museum where we were looking for a potentially cursed sword?”

Dean purses his lips, then shrugs his shoulders as if that was a reasonable life choice. “In my defense, I didn’t think that’d be the murdery one, alright?”

Sam rubs a hand down his face. “Dean…”

You, on the other hand, just look at Dean and weigh several responses, eventually discarding all of them in favor of a long and slow breath out.

“You realize what this means, right?” you ask.

“Yeah, I’m probably cursed. Got it,” Dean sighs with an annoying lack of panic in his voice.

Sam, meanwhile, is staring at the tempting sign again like it just solved half the case. “That’s how they’re getting cursed.”

You shoot him a curious look. “The victims?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Public display. Encouraged contact. Anyone who walks in and touches it–”

“–walks out marked,” you finish.

Dean cocks his head slightly, brow knitted. “So what? I’m just the latest idiot who touched it?”

You hum, nodding. “Seems that way, yes.”

Dean shoots you a small glare while Sam already turns back toward the counter. 

“Sir? Do you keep a guest book?” he asks the owner. “Visitor log, anything like that?”

“‘Course I do,” the man says, shuffling back and returning with a worn notebook. “Not many people sign it, though. Shame, really.”

Sam flips it open immediately, scanning the entries while you lean in slightly to look. It doesn’t take long for you to find the names of at least two victims. 

“Welp, guess we’re finally getting warmer,” you murmur.

Sam closes the guest book and looks back at the owner. “How long have you had that sword? The one by the entrance?”

The old man squints, thinking. “Oh, not that long. Couple weeks, maybe.”

Sam and you exchange a look. It fits the pattern.

“Have all the people who signed the guest book in the last few weeks touched that sword?” you ask the old man. 

“Oh, more than that,” he replies, making you frown. “Probably hundreds. Got a lot of tourists recently because of those murders. Sword’s popular.”

Great.

“Do you know where it came from?” Sam presses. “Or who it belonged to?”

“My wife used to keep track of that,” he says, voice softening. “Had a system. Labels, dates…”

“Yeah, we’ve established that,” Dean mutters under his breath. 

Sam tries again, a little gentler. “Is it written down in the catalogue?”

The man looks at the binders, then somewhere past them, his gaze drifting out the window. “The spoons are all accounted for,” he murmurs. “Except the silver one. That went missing… ’98. Or Friday.”

Oh no… Is he sundowning?

Sam stills, recognition dawning on his face. “Okay,” he says with a sigh, turning to you and Dean. “I think we won’t get anything useful out of him anymore.”

Dean whistles lowly. “Yeah, he’s gone.”

The owner nods to himself, satisfied with something none of you are a part of anymore, and shuffles back behind the counter where he came from.

“But that’s good news, right?” Dean says then, causing your brow to knit. 

“How’s that good news?”

“Well, if a lot of people touched it and only four got their heads chopped off, means I might not be cursed,” he reasons cleverly. 

Your brows pinch a little more together as you cock your head to the side, taking a closer look at him from head to toe. “No, you’re cursed.” 

“Wow. Encouraging,” he says dryly. “Little Miss Optimistic over here, huh?”

Sam’s brow creases as well, squinting at you. “Wait… Can you actually tell if he is or not?”

“Yup,” you reply, nodding. “I mean, I never spotted a curse before in someone’s aura, but this one seems pretty clear.”

Dean frowns. “How so?”

“For starters, there’s a petunia-purple rope around your neck now that wasn’t there before,” you quip and grin a little. “Kinda looks like someone already marked the spot.”

“Petunia?” He arches an eyebrow, wrinkling his nose. 

That’s what he takes issue with?!

“Yes, petunia.” 

Sam sighs again and stares down at the mountain of binders in front of him. “Alright, let’s take these back to the B&B and go through them one by one,” he suggests.

Dean glances once more at the sword, then at his brother. “So what’s the plan? I just wait around until I hear hooves and something tries to decapitate me?”

You snort under your breath. “That does seem to be the current trajectory.”

“Awesome,” he grumbles. 

Sam gathers the binders with effort, stacking them into something barely manageable. “Look, if we figure out who the sword belonged to, we can figure out how to stop it.”

“And preferably before you make history as victim number five,” you add.

“Good to know where I stand,” Dean scoffs, then motions with his chin to the sword. “What about that thing? Can’t just leave it here and let more people touch it.”

Sam gives him a tired smile. “Well, since you’re already cursed, how about you take care of that? We’ll head back to the B&B and get a head start.”

“Fine,” Dean huffs, rolling his eyes.

You frown slightly, thumbing toward Dean. “Wait, he’s getting out of research that easy?” 

Sam chuckles. “Trust me. You’ll thank me later.”

You side-eye Dean for a second, already seeing those fingers twitching again, and nod in understanding. “Yeah, I think I get it.”

Dean blinks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” you and Sam reply simultaneously, causing the older Winchester to glare at both of you. 

You’ve noticed that Dean gets even more irritated when Sam and you seem to be on the same wavelength. It’s kind of entertaining, though, to see that vein in his forehead twitch. You think you might start doing it on purpose soon just for that reason. 

“Guess I’ll take care of that sword,” he mutters grumpily, shaking his head. 

“You do that,” you quip, smirking. A knight and his sword. “You are a toucher, after all.”

Dean gives you the driest look you’ve seen so far. “You’re really not gonna let the touching thing go, are you?”

You shrug lightly. “I’m at least documenting it mentally.”

“For what?”

“A growing body of evidence against you.”

He snorts an amused laugh while Sam’s already heading for the exit, all eight binders in his large arms. You follow, casting one last look at the sword, and pretend not to notice the slight curve of your own lips as you push the door open and step back out into the daylight.

▶️ Chapter 4: Do You Hate Me? – June 26

The museum and lab scenes get me every time lmao. Guess we've learned for certain now that Dean's a toucher (and we can cross off him getting cursed from our Supernatural bingo card) 🤣 Which of Dean's psychic/witch-inspired nicknames won in this part, though? How much did that dream hurt? And do you think Sam will murder them both by the end of the next chapter? I think he's about done with their bickering lol. And lastly, what's your opinion on this mysterious ritual (aka which brother do you agree with)? 😜

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You scoff under your breath, shaking your head a little as you gather the cards again and put them back into the deck.

Well, that was an enlightening reading…

Opposite you, Dean shifts on the couch, green eyes flicking to you. “Alright, seriously,” he huffs. “What the hell are you doing over there? You keep making faces.”

“Working,” you reply quickly.

“Looks like scrapbooking.”

“Looks like you’re avoiding your reading.”

“I’m reading,” he mutters. “I just hate it.”

A small smirk tugs at your lips as you slide the last card neatly back into the deck, but then another one slips free and flutters down onto the mattress.

Oh no… Not this again. Guess the universe didn’t get the memo you’re done with your reading and decided to give you an encore.

You know this card belongs to you and not to the boys. Lucky you. But as you peek at the card, your brow wrinkles deeply.

The Lovers.

For a full minute, your brain stalls. Your eyes follow the angle of the card, but not to the left, not toward Sam at the table, but to the right, toward the couch, toward–

No… Nuh-uh. Nope. Ew, gross. Absolutely not.

Dean’s eyes flick to you again for half a second before swiftly looking away like he got caught doing something he shouldn’t. You stare at him for a moment, because really?

Really?!

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The sight of your father standing in the doorway felt almost surreal, because despite spending the better part of a week forcing yourself to accept what Ben had uncovered, despite reading every report placed in front of you and reliving every memory you had ever shared with the man now standing in your apartment, there was still a small and irrational part of you that had hoped he would somehow look different, that he would appear guilty, broken, desperate to explain himself, or at the very least affected by the possibility of losing the only person who had remained in his life after your mother's death. Instead, he looked exactly as he always had. His suit was immaculate, not a crease visible across the expensive material, his hair was neatly styled, and his expression carried that same carefully crafted softness you had spent years associating with comfort and familiarity, which now only made your stomach churn because you could no longer tell where your memories ended and his manipulation began.

Ben moved instinctively before you even realised you had taken a small step backwards, positioning himself slightly in front of you with the ease of someone who had spent years putting himself between danger and the people he was responsible for protecting, his shoulders broad and tense beneath his shirt while his gaze swept over every member of the security team crowded into the hallway as though assessing how quickly each person could become a threat. Your father's eyes shifted towards him.

"Soldier Boy," he said, forcing a smile that no longer seemed nearly as convincing as it once might have. Ben's expression remained unchanged.

"I've been informed about the incident that took place a few days ago, and I've arranged for additional personnel to be stationed nearby, reinforced surveillance to be installed throughout the building, and twenty-four-hour monitoring until we can guarantee that my daughter's safety isn't compromised again." Ben folded his arms. "There's no need." Your father's eyebrows lifted. "No need?"

"No." Ben's voice was calm. "I'll move her." You looked up at him. Ben hadn't mentioned relocating. Not to you. Not once. "I'll arrange another apartment under a different name, install my own systems, and handle everything personally." Your father's expression hardened. "And where exactly did this ridiculous idea come from?" Ben almost smiled. "From watching this entire situation unfold."

"I don't follow."

"No, I don't imagine you do." Your father straightened. "Explain." Ben tilted his head slightly. "You've spent weeks talking about security."

"Yes."

"You've spent weeks talking about protecting her."

"Of course."

"You've spent weeks insisting she's safe."

"She was." Ben laughed softly. "She wasn't." Silence settled over the apartment. "Someone knew where she was staying." No response. "Someone knew the apartment layout." Nothing. "Someone knew her routine." Your father's jaw shifted. "Someone knew enough to walk straight towards her bedroom instead of heading towards the bathroom he supposedly asked for." Your father's smile faded. "What exactly are you implying?" Ben looked at him. "I'm implying that every precaution you've supposedly put in place either failed spectacularly or was designed to fail."

"That's absurd."

"Is it?"

"Yes." Ben stepped forward slightly. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks less like incompetence and more like a setup." Your breathing caught. Ben hadn't told you this. He had suspected it. All this time. And he hadn't told you. Slowly, you looked at him. "You think I was the target?" Ben glanced at you. "I couldn't prove it."

"But you thought it."

"Yes." The word settled heavily inside your chest. You turned back towards your father. His face immediately softened. "Sweetheart."

"Were you trying to get rid of me too?"

"No!"

"Were you?"

"No."

"Stop lying." His eyes widened. "You're the closest thing I have left to your mother." The words almost made you laugh. Almost. Instead, your expression remained empty.

"You killed her."

He froze. "You don't believe that."

"I do."

"You don't."

"I do."

"You're upset."

"No." You stepped closer. "I'm finally seeing you." Silence followed. "You keep saying I'm all you have left." You swallowed. "But you had Mom." No response. "And you murdered her." For a moment, genuine panic seemed to flicker across his face. Then it disappeared. The concern vanished. The sadness vanished. The performance vanished. Slowly, a smile spread across his lips. Then he laughed. Actually laughed. Ben stiffened beside you. Security personnel exchanged uncertain glances. Your father sighed dramatically. "Fine." Another chuckle escaped him. "You got me."

You stared. He shrugged. "She was exhausting." Tears gathered in your eyes. "She wanted everyone included." He rolled his eyes. "She wanted opinions."

"Feedback."

"Compassion." He scoffed. "People don't deserve compassion." "They deserve leadership, someone has to make difficult decisions." His smile widened. "She couldn't."

"So I did."

"You poisoned her."

"Yes."

"You watched her die."

"Yes."

"You buried her."

"Yes."

"And then you used her death to control everything she built."

"I improved everything she built." Something inside you cracked. Ben stepped forward. "We're done here." Your father smirked. "Are we?" Movement happened suddenly. Too suddenly.

One moment he was standing still. The next, his hand disappeared inside his jacket. Soon enough a sharp pain bloomed under your right rib, crimson painting your hands as you held your side in shock. 

Security reacted immediately. Ben reacted faster.People shouted. Several members of the security team lunged towards him. He swung wildly. Not with precision. Not with planning. Just desperation. Trying to create an opening. Trying to escape. Ben moved immediately. He shoved you backwards behind the sofa before launching himself at your father, years of training taking over as instinct replaced thought. They crashed into the wall. The pistol clattered against a nearby table.

Your father lashed out. Ben blocked the strike. Drove him backwards. Pinned him against the floor. Years of restraint disappeared. Years of anger surfaced. Years of watching you grieve a mother you barely remembered while loving a man who never deserved that love surfaced. "You poisoned her," Ben hissed. Your father laughed through split lips. "You love her." Ben's expression darkened. "What?"

"You love my daughter." Silence. Ben didn't answer. He couldn't. Because despite everything happening around him, despite the struggle, despite the shouting security personnel pulling your father away in handcuffs, his eyes instinctively searched the room. Searching for you.

Checking if you were hurt. Checking if you were crying. Checking if you were breathing. And when he finally found your gaze fixed on him from across the apartment, pale and shaking holding your side.

The moment Ben's eyes landed on the line of blood pooling in your shirt and hands, any remaining anger directed towards your father seemed to disappear entirely, replaced almost instantly by concern as he pushed himself upright from where security personnel had finally managed to pull him away from the struggle.

His breathing was still uneven from the fight, his knuckles already beginning to swell from the punches he had thrown, and there was a small split above his eyebrow slowly leaking blood down the side of his face, yet none of it appeared to matter to him as he crossed the room in quick strides and dropped down in front of you.

"Let me see it."

You glanced down at the wound, noticing that the sting radiating from it had slowly begun making itself known now that the adrenaline was finally fading. A small huff of laughter escaped you despite yourself. "Still bossy."

"Still bleeding."

Before you had the chance to argue any further, one of his arms slipped behind your knees while the other supported your back, lifting you effortlessly from the floor as though you weighed absolutely nothing at all.

"Ben-"

"Nope." He carried you towards the kitchen. He carefully settled you onto the kitchen counter before disappearing briefly into the bathroom, returning moments later carrying antiseptic wipes, bandages and what looked like half the contents of the medicine cabinet.

You watched him move between your knees, concentrating far too hard on cleaning the wound, and removing the bullet while muttering under his breath about stubborn women and people who apparently enjoyed pretending injuries didn't exist. His expression softened slightly.

For several moments neither of you spoke.

Ben finished securing the bandage around your waist before letting out a small sigh of satisfaction, as though he had somehow just completed open-heart surgery. "There." He stepped back. "You're officially patched up." You smiled weakly. "Thank you." He shrugged. "Part of the job." But his voice lacked its usual confidence.

It almost sounded uncertain. As though he wasn't entirely sure protecting you was simply his job anymore. Movement near the doorway caught your attention. Security officers were escorting your father through the apartment and out into the hallway, his hands restrained behind his back as the polished image he had spent years cultivating finally crumbled around him. For a moment, he turned. His eyes found yours. You weren't sure what expression he expected to see. Sadness. Regret. Love. Perhaps even forgiveness.

Instead, all you could manage was quiet acceptance. Because despite everything he had done, despite the lies, despite your mother, despite the attacks and manipulation and years of emotional distance you had once blamed yourself for, he had still been your father.

He had been the man who taught you how to ride a bike. The man who sat through school performances. The man whose approval you had spent years desperately trying to earn. And now he was also the man who had murdered your mother. The man who had viewed you as expendable. The man being led away in handcuffs.

It hurt. Of course it hurt. But strangely, it didn't hurt as much as you thought it would. Perhaps because the person you had loved no longer truly existed. Or perhaps because someone else had quietly begun occupying the space he was leaving behind. You felt warm fingers wrap around your hand.

Looking down, you found Ben standing beside you, his thumb absentmindedly brushing across your knuckles while his eyes remained fixed on the hallway where your father had just disappeared. "You okay?" he asked quietly. You watched the front door close.

Listened to the sound of footsteps fading away. Then you looked back at Ben. At the bruises blooming across his face. At the split lip he hadn't bothered cleaning. At the exhaustion hiding beneath his eyes. At the man who had thrown himself into danger over and over again without hesitation simply because he couldn't bear the thought of losing you. And for the first time in weeks, your answer felt honest. "No." A small smile tugged at your lips. "But I think I will be." Ben studied you for a moment before nodding. "Good." He paused. "Because I've kind of gotten used to having you around." You laughed softly. "And?"

"And," he said, a crooked smile finally appearing for the first time in days, "I'd hate to have to go back to talking to myself."

The laugh that escaped you felt lighter than any sound you had made since learning the truth, and although losing the man you once called your father would always leave a scar, sitting on the kitchen counter with Ben standing between your knees and fussing over a scrape as though it were life-threatening made you realise that perhaps losing someone who never truly loved you had simply made room for someone who already did.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed this one pls lmk if you would like to be tagged in any more future fics or series!!

perm tags: @jjjenx14 @globetrotter28 @cranberrysauce666 @cunningtalismanmechanism @biancalinkas @morphineh @itfeltlikeak1ss 

The first thing you noticed when you stepped out of your bedroom that morning was the unsettling stillness hanging over the apartment, because despite the early hour there was usually some indication that Ben had already been awake for hours, whether that came in the form of freshly brewed coffee drifting through the rooms, the sound of him moving around the kitchen while reviewing reports on his tablet, or simply the faint presence of someone occupying the space with a confidence that made the apartment feel simultaneously safer and much smaller than it actually was.

The silence immediately placed you on edge, although you could not tell whether that feeling stemmed from the strange atmosphere around you or from the lingering awkwardness you had carried with you since the previous evening, because the brief exchange the two of you had shared before going to bed had left you lying awake for far longer than you cared to admit while replaying every word, every glance, and every subtle shift in his expression that suggested your relationship had begun drifting into territory neither of you seemed willing to acknowledge out loud.

Trying to push those thoughts aside before they could consume your entire morning, you made your way down the hallway toward the kitchen, only for your footsteps to slow the moment you noticed something that immediately sent a wave of alarm through your chest, because the front door was standing partially open despite the fact that Ben treated apartment security with an almost obsessive level of seriousness and had spent weeks reminding you never to leave an entrance unsecured under any circumstances.

For several seconds you simply stared at the narrow gap between the door and its frame while your mind struggled to process what you were seeing, because there was no logical explanation for it being open unless something had gone terribly wrong.

"Ben?" you called out, although your voice sounded far less confident than you intended. When no answer came back, the anxiety twisting inside your stomach intensified to the point where remaining still became impossible, causing you to move quickly through the apartment while calling his name again, only to be met by the same unsettling silence that seemed to swallow every sound you made. 

As you approached his office, however, you became aware of another noise that instantly accelerated your heartbeat, because somewhere beyond the partially closed door you could hear the unmistakable sounds of a struggle taking place, accompanied by heavy breathing and the scrape of furniture moving violently across the floor.

Acting entirely on instinct rather than common sense, you pushed the office door open and immediately found yourself frozen in place as the scene before you unfolded with such startling intensity that your brain required several seconds to fully comprehend what you were looking at.

The stranger's body collapsed heavily against the floor after the blow connected, leaving a tense silence hanging throughout the room as Ben remained crouched over him for a brief moment, his chest rising and falling rapidly from the exertion of the fight. Then his eyes found yours. For a second, genuine shock crossed his face.

Not because of the unconscious man lying at his feet, nor because of the damage scattered throughout the office, but because you were standing there watching everything unfold. The reaction was almost instantaneous. Whatever focus had been directed toward the attacker disappeared completely as his attention shifted entirely toward you. He rose from the floor so quickly that you barely registered the movement before he was crossing the room, closing the distance between you in a matter of seconds while his expression transformed into something you had never quite seen before. Concern. Pure, unfiltered concern. Without taking his eyes off you, he reached back and pushed the office door shut firmly behind him, creating a barrier between you and the unconscious man still sprawled across the floor, before immediately turning his full attention toward you once again. "Are you hurt?" The question came so quickly that it was obvious he hadn't given himself time to think about anything else. You simply stared at him. His hands found your shoulders before you could answer. "Look at me." His voice was firm but noticeably softer than usual. "Are you hurt?" The intensity of his concern caught you completely off guard, because despite the violent scene you had just walked into, despite the attacker lying unconscious only a few feet away, despite the obvious adrenaline still coursing through his system, the only thing Ben seemed remotely interested in was whether you had been harmed. "No," you managed to say. His gaze immediately swept across your face, your neck, your arms, checking for injuries you didn't even know he was looking for.

"Did he touch you?"

"No."

"Did he get near your room?"

"I don't think so." Only then did some of the tension leave his body. Not all of it. Not even close. But enough for you to notice. The realization settled heavily in your chest as you watched him standing there, sweat still running down his forehead while his knuckles were streaked with blood that clearly wasn't his own, because despite everything that had just happened, despite the danger and violence and chaos surrounding him, his first instinct had not been to secure the attacker or assess the damage. His first instinct had been to make sure you were safe.

By the time the apartment had returned to something resembling normality, you still felt as though you were moving through a strange and disorientating dream, because despite the fact that the evidence of the morning's events had been almost entirely erased, your mind remained stubbornly fixed on the image of Ben standing over the unconscious attacker with blood on his hands and fury in his eyes.

The office door had remained closed for nearly forty minutes after he had ushered you away from it, leaving you alone in the living room with nothing but your racing thoughts and the occasional muffled sound filtering through the wall to keep you company, and although you had spent much of that time attempting to convince yourself that everything was under control, the uneasy feeling lodged deep inside your chest refused to disappear.

At some point during those forty minutes, Ben had somehow managed to remove the unconscious man from the apartment entirely, although you had absolutely no idea how he had done so without attracting your attention, and judging by the fact that there was no longer any sign that a violent confrontation had taken place only a short distance away from where you sat, he had also cleaned the office thoroughly enough that nobody would ever have guessed what had happened there.

The entire situation felt almost impossible to comprehend because only a few hours earlier your biggest concern had been the lingering tension left behind by the previous night's conversation, whereas now you were sitting in an apartment that had been the scene of an attempted attack while trying to process the fact that someone had come looking for you. Curled into the corner of the sofa with your legs tucked beneath you, you watched Ben move around the kitchen preparing coffee with the same calm efficiency that seemed to define everything he did, and although he appeared outwardly composed, you found yourself noticing details that had escaped your attention earlier when adrenaline and fear had clouded your judgement.

The sleeve of his black shirt had been torn near the shoulder, exposing a narrow line of reddened skin beneath the fabric, while faint bruising had already begun forming along one side of his jaw and a scrape stretched across his knuckles, creating visible reminders of the fight that had taken place only a short time ago.

Those injuries should not have affected you as much as they did, yet every mark seemed to reinforce the reality that he had willingly placed himself between you and someone who had intended to cause you harm, and the knowledge sent a complicated mixture of emotions moving through your chest that became increasingly difficult to ignore. Gratitude was certainly part of it, because there was no denying how much he had done to keep you safe, but admiration had begun weaving itself through those feelings as well, growing steadily stronger the more you thought about everything that had happened, while another emotion lingered beneath the surface with enough intensity to make you actively avoid examining it too closely. Eventually Ben carried two mugs into the living room and placed one carefully on the coffee table in front of you before lowering himself into the armchair opposite the sofa, and although the silence that settled between the two of you was not entirely uncomfortable, it carried an undeniable tension that made it impossible to relax completely.

Something had changed between the two of you that morning, and although neither of you seemed willing to acknowledge it directly, you were fairly certain Ben could feel it just as clearly as you could. After several moments had passed, he released a slow breath and looked down into his coffee as though gathering his thoughts before speaking. "You deserve an explanation." The words immediately drew your attention toward him, and although his gaze remained fixed on the mug in his hands rather than meeting your eyes, you could tell from the tightness in his expression that he had been carefully considering how much he intended to tell you. "What happened?" you asked quietly. The muscles in his jaw shifted slightly before he answered. "The man this morning contacted me three days ago and claimed he worked for a private security firm that specialises in residential protection." A humourless smile touched his lips for the briefest moment before disappearing again. "According to him, he wanted to discuss additional security measures we could implement throughout the apartment to make sure you remained as safe as possible." You frowned slightly as you considered that explanation. "What kind of measures?"

"He suggested things like expanded surveillance coverage, reinforced access points, updated emergency procedures and several other recommendations that sounded perfectly reasonable on the surface, which is exactly why somebody unfamiliar with this kind of work might not have questioned his intentions." The implication settled heavily between you. "But he wasn't actually interested in any of that." The certainty in Ben's voice made your stomach tighten. "Did you know he was lying?" He considered the question for a moment before answering. "Not for certain, although I was suspicious enough to keep a close eye on him from the moment he arrived." His response did not surprise you in the slightest because Ben trusted very few people, and the number of individuals who seemed capable of earning that trust appeared to shrink with every passing day. "He knew enough about security procedures to sound convincing, and he had clearly spent time researching both the apartment and the people living inside it, which made it difficult to identify exactly what was wrong at first." The knot in your stomach tightened further. "He knew about me."

"He knew exactly who you were." A cold sensation spread through your chest as the reality of that statement settled over you. "We spoke for around fifteen minutes before he asked where the bathroom was, and for a short while everything appeared completely normal." You immediately understood where the story was heading. "He went straight toward your room." The answer sent an uncomfortable chill through your entire body because the implications became clear immediately, forcing you to imagine just how close the stranger had come while you remained asleep and completely unaware of the danger approaching your door. "What happened after that?"

"I intercepted him before he reached your room." The simplicity of his answer somehow made the situation feel even more frightening, because knowing Ben meant understanding that the reality behind those words had almost certainly been far more violent than he was willing to describe.

"You beat the shit out of him." His expression hardened slightly. "He wasn't interested in having a conversation." Your gaze drifted briefly toward the office as memories of the morning replayed themselves inside your mind, bringing with them flashes of blood, bruises and the unconscious body sprawled across the floor. "You dragged him into the office afterwards." For the first time since the conversation began, something softer appeared in his expression. "Yes, because the last thing I wanted was for you to wake up and walk straight into that." You found yourself staring at him for several moments as the sincerity behind those words settled over you, because he said them so casually that it almost sounded as though protecting you from something traumatic was the most natural thing in the world, despite the fact that most people would never have found themselves dragging an attacker across an apartment floor before sunrise. His concern had never felt performative. It had never felt forced. Instead, it seemed woven so deeply into who he was that he barely appeared conscious of it himself. The realization hit harder than you expected, and before you had time to talk yourself out of it, you were already rising from the sofa and crossing the room toward him.

Ben looked up in confusion, clearly not expecting your sudden movement, but before he could ask what you were doing your arms had already wrapped around him, causing his entire body to freeze beneath your touch.

For a moment he seemed completely caught off guard by the gesture, as though the possibility had never even crossed his mind, and yet after several seconds his arms slowly came around you in return, surrounding you with a warmth and sense of security that immediately brought tears to your eyes. Only then did you fully realise how frightened you had been. Only then did you understand how close everything had come. Only then did the relief begin catching up with the fear. "Thank you," you whispered against his chest, your voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. "I really mean it." His arms tightened around you ever so slightly, and although the movement was small, it somehow communicated more than an entire conversation ever could.

For a brief moment the outside world seemed to disappear completely, leaving only the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear and the comforting certainty that he was there. Unfortunately, reality eventually returned. You felt the shift almost immediately as Ben became aware of the position the two of you were in, causing his body to tense before his hands settled gently on your shoulders and created a small amount of distance between you. The movement was not unkind, nor was it harsh, but it carried the unmistakable message that whatever existed between the two of you needed to remain firmly contained behind professional boundaries.

By the time he stepped back, the familiar walls had already begun rebuilding themselves around him. Before either of you could address the moment that had just passed between you, the sharp sound of his phone ringing cut through the silence, instantly drawing his attention away. The second he looked at the screen, every trace of warmth disappeared from his face, and the sudden change in his expression was so dramatic that it immediately caused unease to settle inside your stomach. Whatever name or number had appeared there had clearly not brought good news.

"I need to take this," he said, his voice noticeably tighter than before. Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked toward his office, leaving you watching from the sofa as he disappeared inside and pulled the door mostly closed behind him, although a narrow gap remained that offered a partial view of the room beyond. At first you attempted to respect his privacy, but your curiosity quickly got the better of you, and before long your gaze had drifted toward the opening just as he answered the call. From where you sat, only part of his face was visible, yet even that was enough to make your pulse quicken because within seconds the colour began draining from his features while his jaw tightened and his shoulders became rigid, making him look as though he had just received the worst news imaginable.

As the conversation continued, you found yourself straining to listen despite knowing you probably shouldn't, but the words remained frustratingly muffled and impossible to understand, leaving you with nothing but the increasingly alarming expressions crossing Ben's face. Then, without warning, he looked up and caught you watching through the gap in the doorway, and after holding your gaze for a brief but unmistakably deliberate moment, he reached forward and shut the door completely before continuing the conversation out of sight.

After the office door closed completely, leaving you separated from whatever conversation was taking place on the other side, you remained sitting on the sofa for several minutes with your attention fixed on the dark wood in front of you, despite knowing perfectly well that staring at it would accomplish absolutely nothing, because the increasingly uncomfortable feeling settling in your stomach had already convinced you that whatever news Ben had received was significant enough to alter the entire atmosphere of the apartment.

The silence that followed seemed to stretch endlessly, interrupted only by the occasional muffled sound reaching you from behind the wall, and although you repeatedly attempted to distract yourself by scrolling through your phone, turning on the television, and even wandering aimlessly into the kitchen in search of something to occupy your thoughts, your attention inevitably returned to the office every single time.

Eventually, after what felt considerably longer than it probably was, the handle finally turned and the door opened. Your head lifted immediately. The moment Ben stepped into the living room, you knew something was wrong. Over the weeks you had spent living together, you had become surprisingly familiar with the different versions of him that emerged depending on the situation, despite the fact that he often behaved as though he were an unreadable fortress of sarcasm, confidence, and carefully maintained emotional distance. There was the version of Ben who constantly irritated you with dry remarks delivered so casually that it was impossible to tell whether he was genuinely teasing you or simply incapable of having a normal conversation.

There was the version who became frustratingly overprotective whenever he believed you were taking unnecessary risks, often responding with a level of concern that bordered on irritation because worrying seemed easier for him than admitting he cared. There was also the version who occasionally looked at you for slightly longer than necessary before abruptly redirecting his attention elsewhere, as though he had caught himself thinking something he had no intention of acknowledging. The man standing in front of you now, however, felt entirely unfamiliar.

He crossed the room without saying anything, which immediately struck you as unusual because Ben rarely allowed silence to exist for long periods of time when the two of you were alone together, and although his comments often arrived disguised as sarcasm, they were still comments nonetheless. This time there was nothing. No observation. No joke. No irritated remark about you staring at him. No glance that lingered for half a second longer than it should have. Nothing. The absence of those things unsettled you far more than you wanted to admit. Without speaking, he walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator before standing there for several seconds, appearing to stare at its contents without actually registering anything in front of him. You watched carefully. His shoulders looked noticeably tenser than before. His jaw remained clenched. Most importantly, he seemed determined to avoid looking directly at you. That fact alone immediately set alarm bells ringing inside your head because Ben had never been the sort of man who avoided eye contact. If anything, he used eye contact as a weapon, often holding someone's gaze with enough confidence and intensity to make them uncomfortable before they even realised what was happening. The fact that he suddenly appeared unable or unwilling to look at you directly suggested that whatever had happened inside that office was serious enough to shake him. "Ben," you said quietly. He reached for a bottle of water without turning around. "What?" The response should not have bothered you, yet something about it felt wrong. Not because it was rude. Because it was empty. There was no humour in it. No frustration. No emotion at all. "What happened?" The refrigerator door closed. "Nothing." The answer arrived immediately. Too immediately. You stared at him.

"You're a terrible liar." A brief flicker crossed his face before disappearing. "I'm not lying." The response lacked conviction. You rose slowly from the sofa. "Then tell me why you're acting like this." His expression hardened slightly. "I'm not acting like anything." The irritation beginning to build inside you intensified. "Ben, somebody tried to attack me this morning, you disappeared into your office looking like someone had just handed you the worst news imaginable, and now you're acting as though you've forgotten how to have a conversation." For a moment he said nothing. The silence felt deliberate. Calculated. As though he were carefully choosing which words not to say. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded noticeably colder than before. "Drop it." The words landed heavily between you. You blinked. "What?" His gaze finally lifted to meet yours, and the expression staring back at you carried an authority that immediately reminded you of exactly what he had spent most of his life doing before becoming your bodyguard. "Drop it." The repetition was sharper this time. More commanding. Less request and more order. Ordinarily the tone might have worked because Ben possessed a presence that naturally encouraged compliance, but after everything that had happened throughout the day, being ordered to stop asking questions only irritated you further.

"No." His jaw tightened. "You don't want this conversation." The certainty in his voice made your frustration spike. "And apparently you've decided that for me."

"You don't understand."

"Then explain it." His gaze shifted away again. The movement was brief, but you caught it. That was all the confirmation you needed. Whatever he was hiding involved you. Otherwise he would have already shut the conversation down and walked away. "If my safety is at risk, then I deserve to know what's going on."

"It isn't." The answer arrived too quickly. Again. You folded your arms. "Do you honestly expect me to believe that?" The tension in the room seemed to increase immediately. Ben's patience was visibly fraying now, although beneath the irritation you could see something else lurking there as well. Something that looked disturbingly similar to guilt. "Stop asking."

"No." His eyes closed briefly. "Seriously."

"No." The conversation continued spiralling from there, each question drawing a shorter response and each refusal making you more determined to push forward, until the frustration between the two of you had become so thick that it seemed to fill the entire apartment. For perhaps the first time since meeting him, Ben looked genuinely trapped. Not physically. Emotionally. As though he were standing in front of a door he desperately wanted to keep closed while knowing it was only a matter of time before it opened anyway. "What happened during that phone call?" you asked. He remained silent. "What did they tell you?" Nothing. "What does this have to do with me?" Still nothing. You took another step forward. "Ben." His shoulders stiffened.

"What aren't you telling me?" The question lingered in the silence between you. You watched his expression carefully and realised that every answer he refused to give was somehow confirming your fears more than any explanation possibly could. By now it was obvious that whatever information he had received involved your family. It involved your mother. And judging by the look on his face, it was bad enough that he would rather argue with you for an hour than say it aloud. Your voice softened slightly. "What happened to my mother?" The reaction was immediate. Subtle. Yet impossible to miss. His jaw clenched harder. His shoulders became rigid. Something in his eyes changed. The sight made your stomach drop. Because suddenly you knew there was an answer. A real answer. One that existed beyond the vague explanations you had been given your entire life. "What aren't you telling me?" you repeated.

For several seconds he simply stood there. Then whatever restraint he had been desperately holding onto finally slipped.

"Your father killed your mother."

The words arrived without warning. Without preparation. Without mercy. The moment they left his mouth, the entire room seemed to fall into silence. You stared at him. Your brain heard the sentence. It recognised the words. Yet somehow it refused to understand them. Because out of every possibility you had imagined, that had never been one of them. Your father was the only family you had left. The only constant in your life. The man who had spent years insisting he loved your mother. The man who had spent years insisting he was innocent. The man who had looked you directly in the eye and sworn that he had nothing to do with her death. Across from you, Ben looked as though he regretted the words the second they escaped him. The colour had drained from his face. His expression was tight. Careful. Almost horrified. As though he knew he had just shattered something that could never be repaired. Meanwhile, a far more painful realisation was beginning to settle over you. Because if Ben was telling the truth, then every explanation your father had ever given you had been a lie, every carefully controlled conversation suddenly took on a completely different meaning, and every moment of emotional distance that had existed between the two of you throughout your life suddenly seemed far easier to understand.

No wonder he always kept you at arm's length. No wonder something had always felt missing. No wonder every attempt to get close to him had felt strangely one-sided.

Because if he had killed your mother, then perhaps he had never looked at you and seen a daughter at all, and had instead spent years seeing nothing more than the final piece of evidence he needed to convince both the world and himself that he was an innocent man.

The days that followed passed with a strange heaviness hanging over the apartment, as though the truth Ben had revealed had settled into the walls themselves and refused to leave, making every room feel slightly smaller and every silence feel infinitely louder than it should have. You barely spoke during that time. The revelation concerning your father had not arrived as a single devastating blow that could be absorbed and understood in one moment, but rather as a wound that seemed to reopen every few hours whenever a memory surfaced unexpectedly, causing you to question whether any part of your life had ever been as straightforward as you once believed.

Sleep became increasingly difficult.

Whenever you closed your eyes, memories appeared whether you wanted them to or not, forcing you to replay conversations with your father that suddenly sounded different when viewed through the lens of what you now knew, while moments that had once seemed insignificant began demanding your attention as though they had been quietly waiting years for you to understand them properly. Ben watched all of it happen.

He noticed the dark circles forming beneath your eyes and the way your shoulders seemed permanently weighed down by thoughts you could no longer escape, and although he made several attempts to start conversations during those first few days, each one was met with little more than a shrug, a nod, or a noncommittal sound that made it clear you were still trying to process everything. The distance frustrated him far more than he cared to admit. Not because he expected gratitude for what he had done.

Not because he believed you owed him conversation. The frustration came from the fact that every protective instinct inside him seemed to be screaming for action while there was absolutely nothing he could do. He had spent most of his life solving problems through movement, planning, preparation, and decisive action, but grief was not something he could fight, and heartbreak was not something he could drag into a room and neutralise through force. More than once he caught himself watching you from across the apartment and imagining what he would say if he allowed himself complete honesty, because some increasingly reckless part of him wanted to cross the room, pull you against him, and promise that no matter what happened next, he would never allow anyone else to hurt you.

Fortunately, the more rational part of his brain remained strong enough to prevent him from doing anything quite that foolish. Unfortunately, it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that his feelings had moved well beyond professional concern. Without consciously meaning to, he began paying attention to details that had absolutely nothing to do with security. He learned which books consistently held your attention longer than others and could often tell from your facial expressions whether you were enjoying what you were reading before you had even turned the next page. He learned that your confidence often revealed itself through small changes in appearance that most people would probably never notice, because on days when you felt stronger you tended to wear colours that drew attention rather than hiding from it, while difficult days often resulted in oversized jumpers and clothing chosen more for comfort than presentation.

He learned the subtle differences between your genuine smile and the polite version you offered when you wanted people to believe you were doing better than you actually were. He learned the rhythm of your mornings, the routines you followed without realising, and the tiny habits that made you unmistakably yourself. Every one of those observations should have concerned him. Instead, they became the highlight of his day. The realization irritated him endlessly because none of those things fell within the responsibilities of a bodyguard, yet he found himself remembering them with an ease that made it impossible to pretend they were accidental. The truth was becoming increasingly difficult to avoid. If somebody removed every contract, every payment, and every professional obligation connecting him to you, he would still remain exactly where he was. The knowledge should have alarmed him. Instead, it felt embarrassingly natural. 

Almost a week passed before the silence between the two of you finally broke. That morning had started much like every other morning before it, with the apartment remaining unusually quiet while sunlight spilled through the windows and cast long shadows across the floor. Ben sat at one end of the sofa pretending to focus on paperwork spread across his lap, although his concentration had been steadily deteriorating for most of the week, while you moved around the kitchen preparing breakfast with the slow, thoughtful movements of someone whose mind was occupied elsewhere. Eventually you emerged carrying a plate of toast and a mug before making your way into the living room and lowering yourself onto the opposite end of the sofa. The silence lingered for several moments. Then, without warning, you spoke.

"Do you know anything else about my father?"

The sound of your voice caught him completely off guard. Although the question itself was unsurprising, hearing you voluntarily initiate a conversation after days of near silence created an immediate sense of relief that spread through him before he could stop it. That relief lasted only a few seconds. As soon as he looked at you properly, he realised something had changed. Your voice still sounded like yours, but there was a sharpness beneath it now, a determination that had not been present before, as though the grief that had consumed you during the previous week was beginning to transform into something else. You wanted answers. More importantly, you intended to find them. Ben immediately set the paperwork aside and rose from the sofa before heading toward his office.

Several minutes later he returned carrying every relevant file, report, and document he could gather, placing them carefully across the coffee table until the polished surface nearly disappeared beneath the growing pile of evidence. The sight alone made the entire situation feel more tangible. For days the truth had existed primarily as words. Now it existed as paper. Witness statements. Financial records. Investigation summaries. Photographs. Names. Dates. Evidence.

You began working your way through the files while Ben remained nearby, answering questions whenever they arose and watching the gradual shift in your expression as each page reinforced the reality you had been desperately trying to deny. Eventually you stopped reading and looked up. "I want the attack reported to my father." The request immediately caught Ben's attention. "Why?" Your gaze remained steady. "Because I want to see how he responds." There was a cold logic behind the statement that had not existed a week earlier, and after studying your expression for several moments he realised arguing would accomplish absolutely nothing. A short while later the call was made. The response arrived quickly. Additional security measures would be implemented immediately, and both of you were instructed to remain where you were until further notice while a larger protection detail was organised. That was all. There was no urgency in his voice. No demand to speak with you personally. No concern for how you were coping after learning that someone had attempted to attack you inside your own home. The entire conversation felt procedural. Efficient. Detached. When the call ended, the silence that followed seemed deafening. You stared at the files spread across the table for a long time before finally speaking. "He doesn't care." The words emerged quietly, but there was no uncertainty behind them. Ben didn't argue. There was nothing left to argue. You already knew the answer. Several minutes passed before your attention returned to him. "Do you know why he did it?" Ben understood immediately. He lowered himself into the armchair opposite you.

"Your mother was respected in ways your father never was." You listened without interruption. "People trusted her because she listened to them, valued their opinions, and believed that success meant bringing people with you rather than climbing over them." His gaze dropped briefly toward the documents. "Your father saw leadership differently." A bitter edge entered his voice. "He believed power belonged to whoever was willing to take it, and he viewed compassion as a weakness rather than a strength." You remained completely still. "The more influence your mother gained within the company, the more threatened he became, because she was proving that people would willingly follow someone who treated them with respect." The explanation grew heavier with every word. "He decided removing her was easier than competing with her." A tear escaped despite your efforts to stop it. "He poisoned her." Ben nodded slowly. "The substance was never identified at the time, which made it almost impossible to trace." You looked away. "He watched her die." The pain in your voice was impossible to miss. "Yes." Another tear followed the first. "And then he used her death." Ben remained silent for several moments before answering. "He used the sympathy surrounding her death to consolidate control of the company, because very few people were willing to challenge a grieving husband who had just lost his wife." The room fell silent.

You stared down at the papers while tears continued slipping quietly down your cheeks, and although your face remained almost completely expressionless, the tears themselves betrayed exactly how much damage those truths were causing. After several moments Ben leaned forward. His hand lifted carefully beneath your chin until your gaze met his. Neither of you spoke. With a gentleness that seemed entirely at odds with his reputation, he brushed away the tear resting against your cheek, allowing his thumb to linger there for a brief moment before pulling away. Instead of moving back, you found yourself leaning slightly into the warmth of his touch. You find your own hand moving involuntarily to mirror him, as you pull him in, desperation practically clawing its way out as your lips crash together.You feel the tension in bens shoulders ease instantly as he deepens the kiss. What began as a careful kiss quickly became something far more desperate, fuelled by weeks of restraint neither of you could maintain any longer.  Something in him snaps quietly as he pulls you onto his lap, the kiss deepening with an intensity that feels controlled but undeniable, like he has been forcing distance for far too long and has finally stopped pretending it was enough. Reality crashes back into you all at once, and you manage to pull away just enough to form the words, “We shouldn’t be doing thi-”  voice trembling as you try to steady yourself, but the protest you begin to make never fully leaves your lips before he closes the distance again, silencing you in a way that feels less like interruption and more like inevitability, his voice low and rough against yours.“You have no idea how long I've waited for this” a deep voice grumbles into your bottom lip. 

Then a loud pounding echoed through the apartment. The sound shattered the moment instantly. The pause between the two of you was instant as you realise what exactly has just been interrupted. Ben rose to his feet at once, every protective instinct returning in a heartbeat as his posture straightened and his attention shifted toward the front door. You quickly sat upright while he crossed the room, fixing your hair as best as you could. When the door finally opened, the sight waiting outside caused every muscle in his body to tense. The hallway was filled with security personnel dressed in dark suits, their presence creating an imposing wall of bodies that stretched almost the entire length of the corridor.

Standing at the centre of them all was your father. For several seconds nobody spoke. Then his eyes found yours over Ben's shoulder. A slow smile spread across his face. For most of your life that smile would have been comforting. Now it sent a chill down your spine.

Because for the first time, you found yourself looking at him and seeing not your father, but a man you were no longer entirely sure you had ever truly known.

Part 5-20/06

A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, I'm sorry it was so late, I thought it would be a good idea to slip and fall practically on the top of a mountain. lmao

perm tags: @jjjenx14 @globetrotter28 @cranberrysauce666 @cunningtalismanmechanism @biancalinkas @morphineh @itfeltlikeak1ss 

Taglist: @levibabymama @evangeline-catawanee @muhahaha303 @zestiang

Mere weeks after the horrors of harmony, you accompany Ben to his brother's burial and funeral reception—a large event considering he was beloved in the community and known as a hero. Seems the only person you actually recognize is your boyfriend, though he’s been understandably closed off and reserved since he'd gotten the news.

When you step outside for air as he talks to some people you don't know, his father comes to stand next to you on the empty deck, facing the massive yard.

A minute passes before he breaks the silence. "I've known about the apple since the day it happened. You are terrible at climbing trees, even worse at getting helped off 'em."

You turn your head sharply in his direction, eyebrows in furrowed confusion, and he looks at you in amusement. "You think I don't know what goes on under my own roof?" He clicks his tongue. "I thought you would be good for him, that maybe he just needed someone different to show him why he should aim to be the best man he could be."

You cross your arms in front your chest, more for comfort than defense, as you continue to listen quietly.

"Thought with you he’d have more motive to shape up and stop getting sent back from those schools, you seemed like a good enough girl. Your father built some benches for one of my factories, sturdy and reliable. Figured you couldn’t have been terrible bein’ raised by a hardworking fella like that."

He looks away from you and into the yard for a moment.

"I didn’t expect him to go anywhere near the army, after what his brother went through, how he came back. No I thought he’d finally wise up for good. He was supposed to get a respectable job, nice dame on his arm. Get married, have a couple rugrats running around callin' me grandpa. I would’ve handed over the mills to him, keep the legacy going, make our family proud..."

He sighs deeply, his expression dampening as he turns to look at you once more. "But of course, only thing he could manage is the lazy route, the easy one."

At that you can't help but speak up, "It was actually far from easy, believe me. What he went through—"

"Was entirely his decision." He interrupts sharply, and you bite your tongue.

"I don't know how you could've, encouraged that ridiculous train of thought. Super powers? Please. It's not natural, and it's a damn shame he took you down with him sweetheart."

Your jaw clenches, but you opt to keep your silence, mindful of where you were. He shakes his head, clicking his teeth again before taking a step closer.

"I'm telling you this now, he will disappoint you if he hasn't already. Not a matter of why, just of when. It's who he is, it's in his nature—the walking embodiment of what could've been."

A strong arm wraps around your waist moments later, the solid feel of Ben's embrace startling you for a second. He looks between the two of you, at his father's stoic expression, your tense form. "Everything alright?"

His father merely stares, at his son's face, yours, the arm snaked around you and back up into Ben's eyes again. He walks away without a word, but his expression told you both everything you needed to know.

Your eyes stay on him as his form retreats into the crowd, his words lingering in your mind and it takes a hand on your cheek to snap you out of it. "You good?" He murmurs.

"Mhmm." You manage, steeling yourself. Not the time or place to unravel. With a deep breath, you turn to face him and bring your hands up to his shoulders, rubbing them in soft circles. "I'm fine. How're you holding up?"

He wants to question you further, since he was unable to pick up any hints of your conversation outside with all the chatter surrounding them inside. Maybe if he had focused harder, but there's too much going through his own mind—the unit leader for his upcoming assignment let him know he'd be shipping out in a week for the war (or whatever it was Vought really wanted him to do).

You don't tell him what his father said that night.

Even when it's all you're thinking about the longer time goes on, as you slowly watch him slip away from you. Unknowingly proving the words true—not what you wanted, but what happened anyway.

Left with nothing more than the thought of what could've been.

Soon after the funeral and just before Ben got shipped off, the group gets summoned to the building they'd designated as Vought Headquarters.

He still hasn't said much since then, but he keeps a careful eye on you. Full of wonder and questions, surely. You think maybe he doesn't ask because of the lingering guilt he feels, at what happened to you.

The less he knows the better.

You're in a small room—several couches, tables with water and snacks among them filling the space. You watch the others walking around antsy, wondering what this was going to be about, but thankfully it's not long before someone walks in to explain.

"Alright if I could please get everyone to stand in a line, shoulder to shoulder, we have much to discuss regarding your image!"

An enthusiastic woman with an interesting outfit, strong voice and a southern accent sizes you all up eagerly. It's like she's already dressing everyone in her mind. "But of course, where are my manners? My name is Lottie, i'm here to assign your figure names and costumes, courtesy of Vought."

Everyone goes along with it, cautious but not questioning. She starts with names, going down the line that started with the blonde woman and ends with you. She reads each file, asks more about the documented powers, and brainstorms out loud in real time, then assigns the name.

So you can heal injuries? And you look absolutely ethereal my dear, we shall call you Private Angel. Our lovely healer, the perfect combat nurse.

Hmm...super underwater speed, you can breathe down there too, and you're very durable...like a Torpedo. The perfect coastal machine to aid our navy.

Extreme durability...wow. You can fly? It says you have a tendency to land heavy...the most accurate Bombsight we have if you ask me. Air force's best assist.

She gets to Ben, and you can't help but shuffle slightly closer to him. You don't like the way she's eyeing him at all, like she wants to devour him whole. Can't exactly blame her but, still.

Also extremely durable...tremendous super strength, great in combat, toxin resistant...everything a perfect solider should be. Soldier Boy.

Your eyebrows furrow the slightest bit, and she reluctantly turns her attention from him to you, side eyeing your proximity for a moment.

"And you...well the only thing in your file is 'unworldly durability' and 'teleportation'. Not much to work with there...how about you show me? Teleport to the other side of the room." She smiles, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. Instead you zap across the space with a purple glow, and back next to Ben in seconds.

Her eyes literally light up with glee.

"Oooo okay okay, bright and sudden...a beautiful hue...unworldly durability...I got it! Like the formation of a new star, you will be known as Nova."

She claps her hands and gets ready to move onto costumes.

Everyone gets moved into the photo room after being given their new outfit—except you.

You're still wearing your black trousers, a silky plum colored blouse under a cute bolero jacket and black slip on loafers. Not that you mind, you're comfortable. Ben can't say the same in his fitted leather costume, but damn if he didn’t look good.

You're standing off to the side with him away from the others, helping with a few adjustments. He watches you quietly, fondness in his chest at the sight of you so focused.

"Mmkay, just gotta secure this here, I think, and—is that too tight? Can you move okay? Talk to me baby i'm flying blind here."

He finally smiles, grabbing your fussing hands in his gloved ones and placing a gentle peck onto them both. "I'm fine, thank you."

You soften in return, taking a breath and smiling nervously back. "Of course." You murmur. "Here, let me help you with these um, goggles?"

"Protective eye wear."

"Protective where, they're literally empty. Like glasses but just the frame." You tease, easing them onto his pretty face anyway. "You look gorgeous."

He huffs. "I do not look gorgeous, I look handsome. Dashing. Unbelievably good looking—"

"And don't forget incredibly humble." You deadpan.

He just smirks. "Of course."

For a moment, it was just the two of you like the old times. Playful banter and tender affection, exactly what you've both missed and needed. But it's interrupted by Lottie walking in with an excited squeal.

"Oh you guys look wonderful!! Fantastic, lets get your pictures taken!"

She ushers everyone except you to the photo backdrop in the corner of the room, and Angel looks in confusion. "Wait, why doesn't she get to be a part of this? And where's her costume? Doesn't seem very fair."

Lottie looks through her chart. "Well, she's not in the notes."

"I'm more behind the scenes, just here to get you guys from point A to B—think of me as your cosmic chauffeur." You explain, and she tilts her head. "So you don't get to be in the pictures?"

You assure her it's fine, and she reluctantly gets into place where Lottie is ushering her to. Ben watches with a slight clench in his jaw, understanding why, but not liking it. You were never meant to be a part of whatever Vought had planned for the group of survivors.

And they certainly weren’t trying to give you any sort of ammunition against them now, but you didn't mind the slightest bit, wanting no part of it. You're still only here to support Ben and for your own comfort.

After everything you just want to be close to him; you're not sure how you'll withstand the time apart. You'll cross that bride when you get there.

They follow Lottie's directions, smile and strike their poses. For about an hour it goes on, group photos and individual until they hear a final shutter and a cheerful clap. "Alright, I think we got it! It'll take about a day to get the results, but I'm sure they're perfect."

Everyone relaxes, wandering around the room, grabbing snacks or talking to Lottie, but Ben goes to bring you closer and stops the photographer from putting away his equipment just yet.

"I want one with her, but not for them. You give it to me when it's ready. Deal?" He hands over a wad of money, and the guy easily agrees.

Your heart warms at the gesture, and he holds you gently from behind, wrapping strong arms around your frame. Your hands lay gently atop of them, both of you smiling softly into the camera.

With a click and a flash, the moment is captured.

As he gathers his equipment up and leaves, Ben still holds you in his arms, turning you around and smirking at the sight of your lovesick face. "What?"

"That was sweet."

"Need something to hold me over during our time apart sweetheart."

"...Okay now it's less sweet, perv." You smack his arm playfully.

He laughs. "Hey I meant that sincerely, whenever the bullshit gets to be more annoying than usual I'll just...look at that picture, let it ground me or whatever. Your face is all I need to see for my heart to be at ease doll."

You snort, face warming up regardless at the cheesy line. "Romantic."

"I agree." He brings a hand up to caress your cheek.

You smile up at him, and he leans down to give you a tender kiss.

Bombsight catches the interaction from where he stands, smiling softly. He'd hope to find something like that someday, he thinks to himself.

After two extra pecks you finally part, and you take his hand in yours as you start moving closer to the group again.

"Okay everyone, if you can please gather 'round, we need to discuss next steps—"

Before Lottie could finish her sentence, something gets thrown through the window, crashing through the glass and releasing a loud and steady blare of high frequency sound waves, affecting everyone in the room.

For you it lasts a couple seconds, then it feels as if your body adjusts to the noise. Still ringing, still feeling some pressure on your ears, but you had enough stability to focus.

With an inhale you look for whatever was thrown in, a small grey device that landed in the middle of the room. You zap yourself over to stomp on it, and the ringing stops for a moment.

Everyone takes a breath, before it starts up again, but this time through the open window. They grunt, moving their hands to cover their ears again and you zap yourself outside in the direction it's coming from.

A burly man stands next to a strange device—looks almost like a record player—facing the building, producing those sound waves. He's startled by your sudden appearance, clearly not expecting you to pop up in front of him like that. "The hell—"

You don't let him finish before you're punching the device, your strength shattering it into silence before it even clatters to the ground. He picks it up, exclaiming angrily. "You dumb broad, look what you did!"

You roll your eyes and grab him by the arm, zapping the both of you back inside. He shakes your hand off and makes the mistake of sucker punching you. You barley even feel it, still, the damage is done.

In seconds Ben is crossing the space and scooping him up by the throat, choking him out. The gadget clatters to the ground, and you zap it onto the empty coffee table before placing a hand on your boyfriend's arm.

"Hey, he can't talk with a broken windpipe, put him down. I'm fine, m'sure his hand hurts more than my face." You say softly, and he looks at you, holding him up for only another moment before he lets him drop to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

The guy's coughing and wheezing, you take the opportunity to zap yourself and Ben a bit further from everyone, to his discontent. The abruptness of it throws him off. "Don't do that—"

"Are you okay? Your ears are bleeding—"

"Quit fussing, I'm fine." He grumbles but you just sigh, using a soft handkerchief from your pocket to gently clean the blood away.

Around the room, some Vought 'agents' had shuffled in to detain the culprit, Angel reluctantly healing him enough so he could talk on their orders. Another group in suits shuffled in soon after to collect the strange sound devices and take them for investigation.

Everyone was seemingly alright, no permanent damage, and you were all dismissed for the day.

It took some time for the strange phantom feeling of pressure to go away for the both of you, longer for him, taking the time to lounge at home. Something you hadn't done much lately; time with him you cherished despite the circumstances.

He observes you throughout it, when you feel better and start on dinner. As you're eating quietly with him at the table, eyes tired but full of love. You were being gentle with him, showcased especially later with the soothing feeling of your hands on his skin in the shower.

After so much grief weighing him down lately, it felt amazing having someone care for him so tenderly, wholeheartedly and sincere.

You took your time to wash him gingerly, extra careful when you get to his face, and by the time he's able to open his eyes again he can't take it anymore, sliding his hands up to cradle your jaw and bring you into a loving kiss. Not rough, not hungry, just...sweet. Words he'd hardly said lately pouring through his actions the rest of the night.

Calm before a storm.

The day before phase one begins and the team gets shipped off, Fredrick and Clara analyze the fresh photographs in his office, discussing their images and super personas, among other things.

"Everything is in motion, should go according to schedule. How did the fail-safe test go?" He asks his wife, skimming through the individual pictures, before looking at the group ones.

She smiles at first, "They are susceptible to the sound—it affects them enough to slow them down if the need calls for it." She starts to hesitate. "But...the machine was destroyed...and Ritchie was captured. He won't talk, I've made sure of it. We are down a man however."

He takes a deep breath. "Thanks to Nova, I'm assuming?"

She nods, and he clicks his teeth.

"We cannot risk losing everything on the chance that this girl might change her mind, Clara."

"I know, I have a plan."

He rolls his eyes, but she continues. "Isolation. We can't get rid of her, so she has to leave on her own—and the only reason she's even around is because of Benjamin. We separate them."

"Have you not heard the phrase, distance makes the heart grow fonder? Or do you choose not to remember?" He quips in their native language, and she sighs.

"Men like him are predictable, darling." She retorts carefully. "With enough power and distraction, he is sure to gravitate towards things she is no where near interested in. I assure you."

For a long moment, he's quiet, thinking. Looking between his wife and the pictures laying on the table. With a final nod, he simply responds with "We will see."

Saying goodbye was a lot harder than you thought it would be.

You knew it would hurt, but you didn't expect the deep ache in your chest to settle in so quickly at the thought of so much time apart, and the painful silence that followed his departure.

The entire night before had been spent in each other's arms—talking, thinking, feeling. Enjoying each other's presence and affection while you still could, much needed for you both.

Your picture together from the day of the photo shoot came in the mail that morning, and Ben shows you as you're plating breakfast. Two small 3x4 rectangles, one for you and one for him.

You smile at the sight of them.

Quiet music plays on the record player as he holds you close, settled on his lap. Perks of your power—you don't actually have to drive anywhere, which meant he could stay with you until roll call. But the time came eventually, and you parted with a tearful goodbye.

"Be safe, yeah?"

"Baby you realize I'm like, practically indestructible right?"

"Practically." Your pout gets to him, and he rolls his eyes to deflect.

But your hands are still on his cheeks, caressing soft skin, asking him to please come back to you.

And he can't help but soften, assuring you with a gentle kiss and a low murmur. You're stuck with me sweetheart, promise.

A part of you counts that as the last time you really saw your Ben. The version that came back was too hard, too cold. No longer did you see the warmth reserved for you in his eyes or in his demeanor.

Once again his father's words had come to haunt you.

The first few weeks were the hardest.

Without him around your mind was free to spiral, about what you went through at Fort Harmony, about what your life has become.

It's why you accepted small jobs from Lottie—transportation mostly. Easy to stay on schedule, no annoying road trips, no nausea inducing train rides. Just a flash and a brief moment of disorientation, well worth it if you asked her though.

Your first day, you accidentally bump into a guy who was rushing into the building like his ass was lit on fire, zapping right into his path. The box he carried falling—papers scattering everywhere.

"Shit, I'm sorry. You alright?"

He looks a little taken aback, maybe you shouldn't have cursed.

"Woah...where did you come from??"

Oh, right. Your powers.

You busy yourself with picking up some of the papers, helping him gather them back into a pile he plops back into the small cardboard box instead of answering him. He straightens up, clearing his throat as you finally meet his eye. "Sorry about that."

He shakes his head "Oh no problem, it's alright. Probably shouldn't have been rushing like that anyway."

You hum in agreement. "I'm sure they won't fire you for being a few minutes late."

His face drops, suddenly remembering the reason for his rushing. But he didn't wanna leave without introducing himself at least, it was the polite thing to do. "I'm uh, Theo, by the way."

You nod, "You work for Vought?"

"Yeah I'm their new creative director—gonna help them come up with their signature design." He smiles.

You squint slightly. "Isn't that what Lottie does?"

"Well uh, no. She works with the people under Vought, I'm working with them. She takes care of the asset personas and I'm in charge of the company's image as a whole." He rambles, adjusting the box in his arms.

You hum quietly in response, smiling politely as you bid him goodbye. "Well, sorry again, glad you're alright. Have a good rest of your day."

He seems a little disappointed, but smiles back nonetheless. "No worries, really, I'm sorry too. See you around!"

You watch him scurry into the building and sigh.

Barley day one and you're already messing up, you've got to be more careful. Get a firmer grip on your abilities.

The work isn't too bad, though sometimes you're bored out of your mind, which leads to thinking. So you try to multi-task, busy yourself, revel in the distraction. Taking the time to train, to get a better hold of yourself so you don't accidentally hurt anyone.

You're lucky that civilian wasn't carrying hot coffee or something.

Distractions only work for so long though, and you couldn't escape the loneliness taking root in your soul. You needed something soothing, something familiar. It's why you chose to go check in with your parents after weeks of radio silence.

You knew it would go poorly the moment you appeared on the lawn of the house you once called home. Your mother immediately scowling at the sight of you, your dad bracing himself for what he knew was coming.

"How dare you show your face here again."

Your eyebrows furrow, "Mom—"

"No, let me stop you right there." Her voice grows angrier. "You don't think we would've reached out after those suits came down here to tell us what had happened with you if we wanted to? But you made your choice, and it wasn't us. Wasn't a noble profession, or a life where we'd actually become grandparents someday. You took that from us."

A slight tremble in your small cracking voice appears. "I-I didn't—"

"You chose to be a whore, followed that man without a ring on your finger into something you were never supposed to be a part of, and now look at yourself. At what you've become. You were always difficult, but now, instead of someone honorable you're a complete and utter abomination."

That stops anything you had to say, eyes watering.

"The day you left, I officially lost both my kids. Because of you. And i'll never forgive you for that." Her voice wavers, but the venom in her stare remains. "And for what? A rich boy who doesn't give two shits about you. You think he would've done the same for you? He'll toss you aside once you've served your purpose, and you'll think of me when he does."

Your chest feels tight, a stubborn lump lodged in your throat.

"Get the hell off my property, I don't ever want to see you again."

With that she gives you one last tearful look of disdain, before turning around and walking back inside the house.

Tears silently stream down your face, lip quivering as you watch your dad step closer to you after a moment. "Dad..."

Without a word, he takes a small rectangle from his shirt pocket, warm hands placing it into yours before walking away, following his wife.

You unfold it.

It's a picture of you and Max, taken the day of his third birthday when you were only seven, a simpler time. Your dad had saved up so much for this photo, working extra jobs and holding on to the little memory in his shirt pocket, close to his heart, for decades.

The way he just gives it to you now, no hesitation, no problem...it hurts yours in a way you didn't think was possible.

You'd always been closer to him, especially after the accident that claimed your brother's life, and the resentment your mother started to feel towards you began to build. The annoyance, the hatred. For having the audacity to survive since her son couldn't.

He was always there to hold you, to remind you it wasn't your fault, to make you feel better. Now he can't even stand the sight of you in a photograph.

That's the last time you see either of them.

After a few months of working for Lottie here and there, a few members of the unofficial team come back to town—except for Ben.

He's still busy, one of the managers had told you. But it seemed strange. Bombsight and Angel came back, why couldn't he?

Your new assignment was transporting them to wherever Vought needed them to go. Meetings, events, more meetings, commercial sets, whatever.

You stayed hidden in the shadows, doing your job quietly. At first you did ask about Ben, when Bombsight introduced himself officially and thanked you again for helping him when they initially got to Harmony.

"They separated us, to be honest. Also I spent more time in the skies than on the ground. But I will say, when I was around the base I'd see him practically glued to Clara's hip. Not sure what that was about."

It made you feel sick.

You could teleport to him...you think. The problem comes with obtaining his exact location. In order to go somewhere, you need to know where you're going. You're still learning to navigate these abilities.

Slowly you start to bond with Bombsight—Robbie. Angel was polite but kept her distance for reasons unknown to you both. You didn't take it personally though, she was still nice.

Robbie was kind, very respectful. He'd listen to you talk about Ben, hearing you vent about how much you miss him. You'd be there for him too, hearing him out on his own issues; familial ones, frustrations about his love life. It felt like you were gaining an actual friend for the first time in a long while.

Then he randomly gets reassigned again, somewhere nobody wouldn't tell you. Makes you wonder if it was intentional. You're not stupid, you know the only reason Vought has kept their end of the truce is so you don't retaliate. Doesn't mean they can't be petty though.

Overtime you take less jobs, opting to stay home instead despite Lottie and her team's annoyance. They couldn't make you go though and the sadness was starting to drain your energy more with each passing day.

By the time Ben did come home, months later, you were almost a complete shell of who you once were. Of the bright eyed girl he fell in love with, the woman who followed him to hell because of what she felt for him in her heart.

Peace and quiet with your love was all you wanted, all you craved.

You didn't realize how hard he was trying to cope with the conversation he just had with his old man, you couldn't have possibly known that his first stop wasn't the house—it was his old one, where we went to talk to his father. Hoping to have finally made him proud like all the people cheering for him in the streets. But he was hit with a cruel reality when his father expressed nothing but disgust and disappointment.

Saying that he cheated, took the easy way out. Telling him those powers didn't matter cause he would let everyone down eventually, including you if he hasn't already.

And when he got home to you telling him that they should run away from everything he just accomplished? It struck a nerve you didn't know had formed. You didn't mean to. But there was no shaking the voice in his head reminding him of his father's words.

He hated that some of them rang true, worried him. Because if they all rang true, everything he's done with his life thus far, what he's accomplished, would mean nothing at all.

He just didn't realize what he was trying to avoid, became the reality for you. Everything you'd done, what you went through, for the sake of staying with him, reduced to nothing in a single night.

When you decided you wanted to disappear, you meant it.

So after you'd cried your heart out on an empty beach, you waited until you caught your breath. You checked that the picture of you with Max, and the picture of you with Ben were still carefully tucked into your pocket. The only two possessions you carried, only ones you cared about. You looked up into the sky, thought long and hard. Took one deep final breath, and zapped yourself onto the moon.

It worked, to your surprise. But beyond that, you took another deep breath as you stood on the new ground. You were completely fine.

As trippy as it was, it's a welcomed distraction. You were always fascinated by the stars, by space and the unknown. Now here you were, able to start knowing them. First hand, authentically, no limitations (within reason, of course). It felt freeing in a brand new way, like a newfound purpose with no barriers.

Who had jurisdiction on the moon? No one.

So you settled your affairs on earth, quietly. Took all the money you'd earned, bought a small property in California. It was really cheap because of the location—a small house surrounded by grass and trees, next to a beautiful lake. An isolated location, surrounded by land. Difficult, nearly impossible to get to by car. The roads that led to it super tricky to maneuver, it's why the owner wanted to sell so urgently.

Clearly getting to it wouldn't be a problem for you. And it gave you an extra sense of security, a win win.

From there you fixed it up, made it cozy, your home.

You took the skills you'd learned from your dad, built a nice bench to sit on outside and watch the lake. Even planted a tree behind it, making sure it was far enough from the water so the roots could grow comfortably but close enough to enjoy sitting near it.

Your teleportation was your greatest asset, your lifeline. You didn't feel trapped anymore—caged in a bubble or a pawn in somebody's game. Hidden from Vought and from anything that had to do with such a painful past, you finally felt free.

Certainly bittersweet, but ultimately better than you've been in a very long time.

Ben couldn't say the same about life without you.

At first he brushed it off, feeling odd but focusing on the attention he was getting. Everyone wanted a piece of him, even the proposal of a day being named after him floating around. Clara was all over him since learning of your sudden departure, pushing him to be the face of whatever project she was cooking up.

But it caught up eventually.

It was in everything. How the house was just silent all the time now. No jokes he could easily laugh at, no genuine conversations. Everybody around had a motive behind their words, all wanted something from him. He could see right through them.

Even within the team they were more formally putting together come the 50s, there were no sincere connections. Angel was polite, she never made any moves on him. Robbie was getting more annoying by the day and Torpedo, well...he never talked much. To anyone.

All he could think of the more years passed and the more shit went down, was how much he missed you. The regret eating away at him throughout the decades, after Clara broke it off for good because he "couldn't fulfill her vision", whatever the fuck that meant.

Long after the team disbanded, it's short but chaotic run.

Even during his time with Payback in the eighties, when he was with Countess trying to have a semblance of the life he once discarded, all he could think about was you. Your softness, your light. He could only hope you were having somewhat of a good life, wherever you were.

And when he's in captivity, it's not Countess or Clara he thinks about—it's you. Wishing nothing more than to see your face one more time, not only in his memories. He knows if he was given that chance, he would do anything not to fumble it, again.

back in the present

Your hand is still trembling a bit when you slowly ease it back, out of his grasp and close to your chest.

He looks like he wants to protest, but knows he has no right to contest anything. "Are you alright? The hell was that."

You nod. "M'fine, just used a good bit of energy." You start to walk past him, but he places a hand on your arm, uncharacteristically gentle.

Whatever he's going to say gets cut off with a tired sigh, as you carefully shake it off. "Ben I didn't come here for you, okay? If it had been up to me, we wouldn't even be having this conversation right now."

Ouch. Don't lash out, he reminds himself.

"I just...it's been so long."

A contemplative hum escapes you. "It has. Do you remember why?"

"You left."

"You told me to." You rebuttal immediately, and he wisely doesn't try to defend himself again. "I'm not doing this, okay I'm tired, and I've said what I needed to say."

You don't give him another chance to answer, walking over to your friends, watching as the mystery crew beside them scramble to seem as if they hadn't been eavesdropping. Or, trying to.

"Robbie, what the fuck?"

He looks apologetic, "I didn't know, all this would go down, alright. These people were holding Goldie hostage and once Ben showed up I knew the best way to resolve the situation...was to..."

"To call me in as a distraction for my ex?"

"And to help her, which you did."

You can tell he does feel bad for bringing you into this, rubbing a hand over your forehead. "Okay, but why did they take Goldie?"

"We just want the V1." You hear one of the guys chime in, thick British accent, a little weary of you. After what they just witnessed, you don't blame him.

"Compound V1? As in the little blue serum?"

At his confirming nod, you snap your head back to Robbie. "Why do they think you have that?" Guilty silence has you scoffing in disbelief. "God dammit, do you have some on you? Seriously?"

"It's for Goldie! I, I don't wanna lose her. And I can't stop time. This can give us a chance."

You shake your head. "Everything you've heard me talk about in regards to that shit over the years, all the harm, and you want to inject the love of your life with it, are you actually fucking insane—"

"What other choice do I have! If you had this back then you know it could've helped Rue."

You flinch back without even thinking about it, the words feeling like a slap to the face, and he immediately regrets it, cursing himself softly. Goldie wheels herself close enough to smack his leg, giving him a look.

"Wait no, I'm sorry. That's not fair of me to say." He backtracks, complete sincerity in his voice.

You take a deep albeit shaky breath, refusing to cry in front of all these strangers (again). In front of Ben, who watches you both with a mix of curiosity and jealousy. At your closeness with him, your dynamic.

It's clear you two share history, he just wonders how the hell it even started, and how long it's been. Last he saw Robbie, years before his captivity, you were still nowhere to be found.

When would your paths have crossed?

the past

You'd become somewhat of a hermit, over the years.

Avoiding as much as you could about Vought, and Ben, and anything that would spike your sorrow, honestly. Peace was all you wanted, all you could manage. Your home became your solace.

You had a garden that blossomed beautifully. Flowers and plants and various vegetables—it was a wonderful way of passing the time. With your abilities you were able to travel wherever you wanted, opting to go out when it's quiet, not too hectic. Most of your interactions came from small family shops, open markets, places that still operated with cash and couldn't tell you the first thing about what a supe even was.

The places you'd gone to were peaceful, your time spent finding a mellow activity, volunteering (without necessarily exposing your powers), exploring the local wildlife and exhibits. Very different from the hustle and bustle you grew up around, but in a good way.

The only times you didn't choose peace were when you'd go on stealthy vigilante missions, in neighborhoods that needed it. When the law failed, and people continued to get hurt. Few believed it wasn't coincidence, called you phantom punishment. It was a win win—bad people would be stopped, you'd practice and evolve your abilities.

Decades pass with only a few interesting adventures here and there, some adrenaline pumping but nothing major, and when the 90s roll around you felt like you'd finally found your footing. In what were technically your seventies...geez.

You thought you'd seen it all by then, but you were proven wrong one chilly night somewhere in downtown LA, mid November of 1990. On occasion you would volunteer at shelters under an alias, one of the many things that helps you stay grounded, connected to your humanity.

You're wrapping up after a tame night, getting ready to teleport home after your goodbyes when you hear something from the nearby alley.

A small voice, pleading. A little shaky, "are you okay? why can't you wake up? I-I don't know how to help—"

You round the corner behind a couple dumpsters, taking in the sight before you. A scared little kid, couldn't have been over nine, hovering worriedly over an unconscious figure. She turns her head as she senses your presence, and you get a good look at the guy laying on the ground.

Holy shit.

"Hey, sweetheart. Are you okay? What happened? I gotcha." Your voice is low, soothing as you try not to startle her further. Poor kid is shaking.

"I was running from, over there and I came here to hide but this guy hasn't moved and it's really cold." She rambles, and your heart aches even more. How the hell this sweet little girl ended up out here with your old friend of all people you'd have to figure out, after getting them both some help.

During one your endeavors, you made friends with the lovely owners of a small clinic not too far from where your house was, after helping them with an emergency one hot summer night a couple years ago.

Not that the location would be an issue for you anyway. It was lowkey and trustworthy, the perfect place for you to zap into with two new patients at three in the morning on a wednesday night.

Scaring the shit out of Desiree at the front desk, of course.

"Jesus—dude, you've got to give some kind of warn—" She stops herself at the sight of a passed out Robbie leaned against you with one arm wrapped around him, your other one holding the little girl's hand.

She quickly pages for a gurney, a small team of nurses laying him onto it and starting to treat him immediately. The girl leans closer to you at the sight of another person in scrubs coming to a stop in front of you both, crouching slightly.

"Hi honey, what's your name?" Dr. Green asks, but the girl only hides behind you, clutching on to your hand.

You share a look with Sandra who steps back for a moment, as you're crouching down yourself to look her in the eye. You introduce yourself softly, careful not to frighten the kid further. "And that's my friend over there, she's a doctor. Means she can help you if you're hurt."

You explain, feeling the weight of the world staring at you behind big glossy eyes. "...i'm not hurt."

Your heart skips a beat. "You sure?"

"just...cold."

You nod, Sandra going to get a warm blanket for her.

"Okay, we'll get you warmed up sweetie. Is it okay if my friend takes a look at you? Makes sure you're okay? I'll stay with you the whole time."

She comes back with the blanket, and you wrap it around the little girl's shoulders—she looks at you for a moment, before nodding her head.

You ask her about her parents, and she seems to shut down at the mention. So you ask for her name.

"...rue"

"Pretty. Just Rue?"

"it's short for ruby..."

"Really, wow. Like the gemstone."

She nods slightly, lighting up the tiniest bit at that. "mommy would say I'm her favorite one."

Would. You take note. "That's so sweet. What's your mommy's name?"

"I call her mommy, but it's sah-fire."

"Sapphire?" She nods. "Oh that's so cool, you guys match pretty much."

"papa too. sorta. his name is Edward but mommy says it's close enough to emerald." She rambles, and another nurse takes note of that information, going to search for them in phone books and public records. Shouldn't be too hard to find this family with those names.

Hours later, Ruby is napping in a warm bed, safe and comfortable. No harm on her person, thankfully. You can't say the same for her family though. Sapphire and Edward Stone, a young couple not too far from the alley you found her and Robbie in.

They were on a newspaper, local house fire rattles quiet neighborhood. But they were all listed as deceased, Rue included, and alarm bells rang in your mind. You'd have to ask her about any relatives when she woke up.

Meanwhile you check on Robbie in the next room. At nine in the morning he's finally waking up, startled to see you standing over him. "Huh...how high am I right now..."

"You're not hallucinating, we're at a clinic right now."

You help him sit up, gentle hands guiding him into a sitting position before getting him a cup of water. He takes it appreciatively, still looking at you as if you were a figment of his imagination. After a shaky sip, you set the cup down on the table for him and he clears his throat.

"Whatcha doin' here?" He asks quietly.

You take a good look at him, at how exhausted he looks. The bags under his eyes, the paleness of his clammy skin. You take one of his hands in yours as you sit on the edge of his bed, your voice calm and gentle. "You had enough drugs in your system to knock out fifteen horses. Robbie, what's going on?"

He wants to lie, to brush it off and say he doesn't have a problem. Convince you to pick up some authentic supply (not that you have or would even go for it). But he's so tired. Of the drugs, and the hangovers, and the side effects and the way it doesn't solve any of his problems. Also, seeing you after all this time had to be some kind of sign, right?

So he opens up to you, about his problem with substances over the years. How much he has to take for it to even cause any effect on his super-powered body. You listen with no judgement, hearing him ramble like old times. In the end he asks for your help, and you take him in.

You also take Ruby with you, after finding no living relatives. When she awoke, she said her parents didn't have friends or family. Said she'd been hiding where she can, since her mom helped her climb out a window and told her to run and get as far from the burning building as possible. The whole thing was too strange, and all you wanted was to keep this little girl safe.

They explore your home with awe. It's a beautiful little place on massive grassy land, next to a lake, blue on the outside with whimsical star, moon and sparkles painted around the outer walls.

The roof was a shade darker, an almost navy blue, matching the window trims. The inside was painted a soft brown—same as your childhood home was—for a sense of comfort. It had three bedrooms, three bathrooms (one in your room), a cozy living room with a reading nook by the window, and a lovely kitchen—the small window above the sink facing the water. The other rooms were empty up until that point, and they got to each claim one as their own.

Decorating was fun considering you could go anywhere to get anything. Princess painted drawers for her stuff? Check. Wacky mirror? Sure. Race car be—race car bed? ...Robbie you won't fit in that.

And though she was still quiet, Ruby had a lot of fun with it. She'd lost everything—her family, her home, all her things. It broke your heart, so you made sure to make her feel as loved and cared for as you could, beyond just material.

Not that it was hard, she was the sweetest kid. With your guidance, and some from Robbie, that remained the same the older she got.

And you always made sure to keep her parent's memory alive.

A few months after taking her in, you tracked down a few photos of her family, mostly from public records. Gave her all of them except one. A family portrait from a local newspaper—her mom planted the biggest pumpkin their small town had ever seen.

She seemed to be about four or five in it, smiling in between her parents, held in her dad's arm. All of them looking so happy into the camera, the prize winning pumpkin beside them. It was in fact massive.

You framed it, placing it up in the living room, and she gave you the softest hug when she saw it, something in the gesture soothing the ache of guilt in her soul.

Realizing you weren't replacing what she lost—you were just someone new to love. Both you and Robbie, who stuck around.

He also recovered over the years, improved greatly. They both flourished with your love and care, and in return you finally felt the warmth of the sun on your skin once again.

But of course, every bit of calm, in your life tended to be followed by a raging storm.

Among the few friends you've made over the last few decades, one of them was an Astronomer. She was sweet and humble and passionate about the subject, after a few months of friendship you opened up about your abilities, told her you could help. And you did.

Every month you'd go down to the space center she worked at to help with research. Even taking them up there (the moon) with the proper precautions and equipment—not that it was known to the public. And you were only willing to do it for her, basically giving her tenure of sorts. She appreciated it greatly, relieved to have that stability for her family.

Aurora was amazing at what she did, stayed humble always. When you'd told her you had to step back for a while (after adopting Ruby) so you could focus on your kid, she was nothing but supportive. Even reaching out and checking in, she soon became Auntie Borealis (her idea of course).

It was no surprise that Rue gravitated towards astronomy, fascinated by it all throughout the years, eager to learn and grow. You'd gone back to the center when she was thirteen, after finally settling into a familial rhythm. One of the lovely ladies there would keep an eye on her if Robbie didn't tag along (while you were in space—at the base she was practically glued to your hip) but he usually did.

It's a chilly day, late November of '99.

With a fanny pack full of snacks, a notepad, her favorite writing pen and a yellow disposable camera, your sixteen year old buzzes with excitement for today's trip. She'd finally be going to the moon—briefly, with all the proper equipment. You're quadruple checking everything.

She only grumbles a little, playfully since she's still the best kid. The way you prep Robbie too makes her laugh.

Keep your harness on and do not try to fly away, I don't know how to zap into the open space yet.

I'll be on my best behavior, don't worry

You said that last time—

—I mean it this time

And he did, really mean it.

You guys arrive at the building after her favorite breakfast—blueberry pancakes and an oreo shake—meeting Aurora in the front hallway, the usual banter and chatter amongst the three of you as you made your way inside. Two interns were tagging along to hold down the base communications for the day since all three of you would be in space, chiming into the conversation every now and then. You all walk down the corridors, Ruby chattering with excitement.

"Do you think my camera will work in space? I bedazzled it last night with the kit Uncle Bobbie gave me for my birthday." She asks Aurora.

"Hmmm i'm not sure honey, but we have some specialized cameras that might, like the one she uses when she helps us out." Tilting her head in your direction. "Of course you're more than welcome to use those sweet pea."

Robbie nudges her with his elbow. "Hear that kiddo? Official space exploring equipment. You're practically an astronomer already."

You smile as she beams, "You think so?"

"Yep, know so. Nova commands outer space while Rockin’ Rob, Rori and Rue are taking over the skies together, just you wait.” He nudges her again and she giggles.

"Wait isn't space just a big sky?"

He shrugs. "Uhh maybe, I don't think so? We'll have to explore extensively to find out I guess." He teases, and she shakes her head with a smile.

“I don’t think mom would like that.”

You smile, your heart still warming every time she calls you that (she started to last year after an emotional christmas).

“I’d be fine with it…as long as you’re safe. Responsible.” You muse.

“I’m both.” She protests, and you nod.

“I know, you’ll be the best of us honey. I was talking about Robbie.”

She laughs again, the sound bringing a smile to everyone’s face. It was so joyous, contagious.

It’s all you’re focused on when the bullets begin to spray out of nowhere.

Seconds before the forcefield goes up, before you can even process the situation, what just happened—the ambush had worked in their favor.

Ammunition clatters against the dome, but all you hear is a high pitched ringing in your ears. The interns, Ava and Anna, are lying unresponsive, gone. Blood pooling from beneath them. Aurora’s hurt, placing pressure on her side, onto where she was struck. Robbie’s shaking, unscathed, saying something.

But you can’t focus on anything other than your baby girl.

Eyes still open, unmoving in your arms—you gently ease her down onto the ground. You’re trembling violently, waiting for her to blink, to move, even the slightest twitch...and you’re met with nothing but silence and a heartbreaking new reality.

You can’t fall apart yet though.

It’s like moving on autopilot.

You don’t even register how you tell him to stay with her, don’t notice how he complies immediately, tears streaming down his own face as he cradles her gently. You zap Aurora to the nearest hospital, and set your sights on the ones responsible.

They've stopped shooting by now, staring you down with their guns raised. A tactical team of roughly fifteen agents, dressed in heavy black and grey armor—and behind them all you spot Phillip. A former employee, a dishonorable one at that, he left a few years ago when Rori got promoted over him. Not without some choice words and a bitter attitude, he held a grudge for sure.

You don't have to look down at your blood stained hands to see red.

Flashes of purple are all they see, as you go picking them off one by one. Sickening cracks and grunts and screams, you tore through them all with nothing but your fists and your rage. They didn't stand a chance with your speed or your super strength.

But it seems ol' Phil had a backup plan. He uses a pager when he sees how his men drop like flies, signaling in what seemed to be a rogue group of a wannabe supe team to enter the fight.

They came in from behind him, a speedster shoving you across the room. It sends you tumbling for a moment before you're rolling back up on your feet, into a defensive stance—annoyed but not injured.

Robbie watches in hesitant conflict from under the protective dome, wondering if he should step in and help you but you turn your head to give him a look of reassurance. With that enraged glint in your eye? He knew you'd be fine. Granted this was the first time he was really watching you in action with your powers, besides the teleportation. It's safe to say he wasn't expecting what you were capable of.

The speedster darts straight to you, but with a flick of your wrist you slow him down, zapping him right in front of a solid concrete wall before releasing him back to full speed. He splatters against it instantly.

His friend—wearing some sort of golden metal around his wrists—yells in outrage. He rushes forward, stepping closer and raising his hands to launch scorching flames at you. The contraptions he's wearing are basically guardrails; instead of uncontrolled wildfire it's aimed in one place, making it more powerful, more damaging to whatever he decided to blast.

But it's still fire.

Before it can even brush against the hairs on your arm, you raise your hands and counter it with icy wind. At first you're just blasting the fire back, the strong gust becoming too much for him and his flames to handle. But you keep hitting him with that chill even after the fire's out, and he yells in agony and fear, as you freeze him. Literally, leaving him as practically an ice statue. After he's a solid popsicle, you walk in his direction towards the remaining two that are more weary than angry now. Probably slight shock.

Ice scatters across the floor under the pressure of your shoe.

The next dude to try and fight you wears a silver bodysuit with a bunch of tiny panels adorning the outfit. Turns out they were small panels of metal he could control and manipulate, mold them to his liking—he was basically wearing his ammunition. He starts launching them as tiny spears towards you in a desperate attempt to keep you back.

You dodge and weave, blocking them with simple hand movements and zapping them into empty space where they couldn't hurt anyone, way out of his control range.

After the last blade is gone he shouts, brandishing a bigger piece of metal from his boot, morphing it into a long sharp spear. He runs and launches it at you like he was performing a javelin throw at the olympics. You let it get close before taking control, flipping the sharp end towards him and launching it right back. You zap it closer before he can even think to dodge and it impales him in the heart, leaving him stuck against the wall.

By this point, Phillip has used the distraction to run outside, and the last supe standing has figured it out. You can counter any power used against you. He'd have to kill you old school, hand to hand combat.

But he should've gone ahead and joined the slimy weasel in running, standing no chance against you.

At first you just block his hits, letting him tire himself out. It's making him angrier, and one bold move is all it takes for the fight to be over. He tries to land a sucker-punch to your cheek but you weave to the side, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back painfully. You then kick the back of his leg, and he stumbles onto his knees. You use that to your advantage, wrapping your other arm around his neck and choking him out.

In a last ditch effort, he uses his power, eyes turning completely milky white as he stutters out, "I-I heard a rumor, y-you let me g-go."

Before the invisible swirl of words can reach your system, your own eyes become white as you block them out, whispering in his own ear, "And I heard a rumor you dropped dead."

He collapses like a sack of potatoes, unconscious and lifeless.

Robbie watches you scan the area, breathing heavily, covered in blood, still glowing purple. You pause when you don't see Phillip, breathing deeply and focusing. Sensing his energy outside.

You zap directly in front of the car he was trying to hot-wire in the parking lot, ripping the door off and grabbing him by the collar, flinging him onto the open pavement behind you.

He's scrambling back in a panic, shaky hands coming up in from of him. "It, it wasn't me, I-I don't, It didn't..." He can't even think of what to say, trailing off in defeat. Before you can even do anything, he takes a gun from his belt.

Doesn't point it at you when it goes off.

You stare for a moment, before stepping back and taking a deep stuttery breath. For a moment you just want to believe the last twenty minutes have been nothing more than a nightmare—that you're gonna wake up startled, at home, with your daughter and Robbie safe and sound in their rooms.

But you have to go back inside and burst that wish.

He watches you zap in front of them and approach the dome, slowly, trembling. Hears the way your heart beats a mile a minute. Rue's eyes were closed now, by his gentle hand.

You crouch in front of them, tears already blurring your vision, and he carefully eases her into your arms. She feels colder now.

You just look at her for a moment, before you bring her close to your chest, your head resting in the crook of her shoulder and a hand on the back of her head. Cradling her like you used to when she was smaller and wanted your comfort.

It's then you ultimately break down, holding her as you cry.

In Robbie's long, nearly eighty years on this earth—he's never heard anything as sad as the way you sounded that day.

It's a quiet autumn morning. The air crisp, sunrise reflecting majestically on the water.

You and Robbie stand near the edge of the lake next to your house, right beside the massive tree you had planted so long ago when you first moved here. It grew to be massive, stunning. Next to the sturdy bench you had built so long ago—that you dedicated to her parents on her tenth birthday, a small metal plaque adorning the middle—laid her beautiful headstone.

Rue Rue ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ 1983 — 1999 Beloved daughter, niece, friend, astronomer. "A new friend is only a conversation away."

You held a small ceremony for her a few days ago at the funeral home in town, letting her friends say their tearful goodbyes. Aurora was still recovering in the hospital, devastated she was unable to go. She felt so guilty, but you reassured her, told her to rest up and recover for her family. You then attended Ava and Anna's combined funeral the next day while the cremation took place.

Now, you stand here with only Robbie. You both performed the burial yourselves, spending the sunrise and early hours of the morning to make sure her resting place was as secure and cared for as possible.

With the way your tears won't stop silently flowing, you don't even bother with sunglasses. Both your eyes are red and glossy. Small sniffles are heard every few moments. He lays a gentle hand on your back, rubbing small circles near your shoulder.

"She was a great kid, and you gave her a wonderful life."

Your voice is small and congested. "I didn't protect her when it mattered."

"It always mattered. And you always did." He immediately counters, gentle but firm. "You can't blame yourself for something you couldn't have predicted. It's not fair."

You simply stare at the shiny black onyx marble, thinking of your Rue. Of the sweet kid you'd met while she was trying to help a random stranger at her small age. Even then, a heart of gold.

"None of this is fair."

He didn't have an answer for that.

the present

You clench your jaw now, willing the knot in the back of your throat to go away, your eyes stinging slightly.

"None of this is fair." You whisper, making him flinch as he remembers the echo of the conversation those words were from. Felt like deja vu with a large helping of guilt.

"Robbie that poison...it stole my entire life from me. Everything I had, everything I wanted, it took it all. Ruined it. And when I finally managed to pick up enough of the pieces to actually try and have a life again..."

He nods solemnly.

"It's truly a curse, to live this long where the only consistent thing you have is loss. I wouldn't have done that to her—put her through that. I know you wouldn't want that for Goldie either."

He sighs in resignation, looks to his love who nods at him, before taking the small container from his pocket and handing it over.

You take it carefully, opening the case and inspecting it with disdain and sorrow. So much destruction, so much pain that you've endured—all because of this tiny little thing. You're glowing as you evaporate it with a purple hue, everyone watching in fascination as it disappears.

The group all breathe sighs of relief at the fact Homelander would never get his hands on immortality. And of course, Butcher always takes an opening when he sees one.

"Oi, Tinky Winky, if you got nowhere to be, we could use your help with a little somethin'. Don't know if you've been livin' under a rock but that caped cunt you handed the belt to, he's a psychopath terrorizing the general public back in the states. Soon enough the bloody bastard's gonna want to expand, worldwide."

Your brain buffered at the nickname. "Did you just refer to me as the fucking Purple Teletubbie?"

"Ah, so you're not hiding under some boulder? You just watch the world burn and do nothing about it with all that power?"

"My foot's about to be hiding up your ass if you keep insulting me Quagmire. I've been disconnected from the general public for decades now, and that's all I'll tell you about my personal life cause it's none of your damn business. Now what's this about that guy terrorizing people?"

Ben chimes in, annoyed by your lack of attention. Irrational? Yes. But again, just how he feels. "That psychopath is my son."

Your head whips in his direction. "What?"

Okay maybe he shouldn't have chimed in.

"I almost killed your son??"

"He's—honestly the only thing that binds us is my nut. Beat my meat into a cup back in the fall of '80. I tried giving him a chance but the truth is...he's nothing more than a failed lab experiment on a delusional rampage. He's...weird." He explains, leaving you even more confused.

They each take turns giving you the rundown on who Homelander was and what he's done, what he plans to do, and by the end of it you're more than inclined to help them stop what's clearly a problem to thousands of innocent people.

It's past midnight by the time a plan is made, and you zap everyone (and their van) to a lowkey motel in the desert, somewhere in California.

You ask Robbie if he and Goldie would like to stay at your house for now, if he's ready to face it again after so long, and they agree. With a nod, you turn to face the crew. "Okay so, I'll come back here tomorrow and we can go from there? Come up with more plans? Also whatever we need won't be a problem either, as long as it has a solid location. So don't waste your gas unnecessarily."

They nod, agree, and start to head in to grab a room. Ben stops you before you can turn away. "Wait, can I come with you?"

You take a breath, willing yourself to stay strong against those shiny eyes, the pleading look on his face you used to fold for all the time. "Ben...I'm not ready to bring you into my home, like everything is just fine. Not when the only reason I even have it is because you decided you didn't want me anymore."

He clenches his jaw, nodding. There's nothing he can say to dispute facts, not with you. He remembers your heart, and knows he won't get anywhere with you through anger and demands. You may have been soft, but never naive. He's seen enough to know the version of you now is a lot stricter than the one he had planned to propose to once upon a time.

And he's willing to do anything to earn your trust back, knowing that's always been the most important thing for you.

You part ways, agreeing to see him the next morning, and he watches you zap away with an ache in his chest.

One he can only blame himself for.

part one ⟡ part three series masterlist ᝰ. ben masterlist

⋆˚࿔ notes; soooo how we feelin? 🤠 there will be more conversations and action and other goodies with ben and the crew in part three! <3 this was just getting superrr long lol, had to split it into multi parts. but ty for reading !! let me know what u think 💜💜 :')

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You slow, glance at the empty stretch ahead, then flick the wheel sharply. The Charger pivots cleanly in a tight U-turn, tires hissing against damp pavement. Gravel spits lightly as you correct and head back toward town.

“Idiot,” you mutter under your breath.

Not because of the horn.

Because you left the map.

Rain thickens slightly as you pull into the motel lot. The world smells different now—wet earth, soaked wood, ozone humming faintly in the air. Your senses sharpen automatically, cataloging everything before you consciously mean to.

You’re already out of the car and moving, keys spinning once around your finger before you catch them. The motel door opens with a dull scrape and shuts behind you.

The room is exactly as you left it. Papers spread wide. Map centered like a heart waiting to be cut open.

You step inside, shut the door, and lock it.

Rain taps steadily now against the window.

You lean over the bed first, eyes sweeping the map. Your finger traces the red marks again. Miller’s Creek. The bar. The private logging road.

It’s there. It has to be.

You grab the first case file and sit on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on your knees. The paper is already soft from handling. Your eyes skim quickly, efficiently. Time of death. Location found. Witness statements. Animal attack speculation.

Your gaze flicks back to the map.

Distance. Timing.

You go back to the file.

Nothing.

You toss it aside and reach for the second.

Rain grows heavier, tapping against the glass in a steady rhythm now. Your focus narrows again—not as distant as at the stop sign, but close. Controlled.

You read slower this time.

Line by line.

Your eyes drift once more to the map, then back down.

And then—

You freeze.

It’s small.

So small you almost miss it again.

The one detail both files share. The one thread tying the victims together in a way the reports never meant to highlight.

Your stomach drops.

“How did I miss that?” you breathe.

It’s obvious now. Painfully obvious. Sitting there in black and white like it’s been waiting for you to catch up.

You toss the second file down harder than you mean to and stand in one smooth motion.

Your hand drops automatically to your belt, fingers brushing the hilt of the silver blade there. You pull it free just enough to check the edge. Clean. Sharp. Ready. You slide it back into place.

Your other hand lifts without thinking, thumb rubbing over the silver band on your right ring finger. The metal is cool beneath your skin. Grounding.

For a split second, you consider the gun in your bag. The silver rounds you loaded not long after arriving in town.

Your jaw tightens.

No. Too loud.

You don’t need loud. Not with where you’re heading.

You grab your keys instead.

Rain is steady now when you step back outside, mist clinging to your hair and darkening your flannel almost immediately.

The thread isn’t loose anymore.

Now it’s a line.

And you’re going to follow it.

Sam knocks. A moment later, the door opens to a woman who looks like she hasn’t slept properly in days. Red-rimmed eyes. Shoulders pulled tight, like she’s bracing against something that isn’t there anymore.

They show badges. Soft voices. Condolences.

The living room smells faintly of candle wax and something floral that’s trying too hard to cover grief. A Bible rests open on the coffee table, pages thin and worn. Another sits on a side table near an armchair that no one is sitting in.

The widow folds her hands together in her lap. “He was a good man,” she says automatically, as if she’s repeated it so many times the words have lost shape. “He went to church every Sunday. Never missed. Even when he was sick.”

Dean nods once, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Calm. Professional. “Anyone he had trouble with? Arguments? Business disputes?”

She shakes her head. “No. He kept to himself mostly. Work, church, home.” Her gaze flickers toward the hallway, then back. “He read his Bible every night. Kept one by the bed. Said it helped him sleep.”

Sam’s eyes move, cataloging the room. Framed family photos. Smiling faces. A fifteen-year-old girl perched stiffly on the edge of the recliner, knees drawn together, hands tucked under her thighs.

She hasn’t said a word.

Her eyes keep darting to Dean, then away again.

Sam softens his posture slightly. “What about you?” he asks gently. “Did you notice anything different about your dad lately? Anything that seemed off?”

The girl swallows.

Her mother turns to her. “Sweetheart?”

The silence stretches thin.

Dean watches the girl carefully. Not pushing. Just waiting.

She presses her lips together. Her fingers curl tighter against the fabric of her jeans.

“He…” Her voice cracks. She tries again. “He wasn’t always… good.”

The widow’s face tightens in confusion. “Honey—”

“He hurt me,” the girl blurts, words tumbling out before she can lose them. “Sometimes. When Mom was working late. He said it was discipline. That God said children needed correction.”

The room goes very still.

Dean’s jaw locks.

Sam’s eyes close for half a second—just enough to steady himself—before he opens them again, voice careful and steady. “Did you ever tell anyone?”