ryn

THE PITT

MICHAEL "ROBBY" ROBINAVITCH / JACK ABBOT

SERIES

ACROSS THE HALL | Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x F! Neighbor/Teacher Reader [Completed]

THROUGH THE WALL | Jack Abbot x F! Unexpected Roommate Reader [Coming Soon]

STILL | Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x F! Ex Reader [On going]

AFFINTY | Jack Abbot x F! Popstar [On going]

SLICE OF LIFE | Jack Abbot x F! Best Friends Sister Reader [On going]

HELPING HAND | Jack Abbot x F! Single Mother Reader [On Going]

SINGULAR FICS

BABY FEVER | Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x F! Wife

ANIMAL KINGDOM

ANDREW "POPE" CODY

SERIES

LOVE YOU ANYWAY | Andrew "Pope" Cody x F! Brother's Best Friend Reader [Completed]

CONSTANT AS SCARS | Andrew "Pope" Cody x F! Paramedic/Friend Reader [On going]

SOUTHLAND

SAMMY BRYANT

SERIES

SAFETY | Sammy Bryant x F! Witness Reader [On going]

READY OR NOT 2: HERE I COME

TITUS DANFORTH

SERIES

Ever since you and Titus had kissed, things were different…or maybe they weren't.

The two of you never talked about that night. It was as if the kiss had never happened at all. Neither of you brought it up, and somehow life just... carried on.

Titus treated you the same as he always had. He still rolled his eyes at your antics, still bickered with you over things. If someone had been watching from the outside, they would've thought nothing had changed.

But to you, it had.

You couldn’t stop wondering if he thought about that night the way you did. Or if he had already tucked it away like it had never meant anything in the first place. For you it kept replaying in your mind, over and over, like a song stuck on repeat. Every glance, every word, every second of it.

There was an event coming up in a few days. 

Not one of the public appearances or galas you'd attended with Titus over the past several months, but something far more exclusive...a High Council ball.

You and Titus were hosting, which meant every member of the High Council and each of its core families would be in attendance. It was an evening built on tradition, power and devotion.

Like every High Council gathering, it would include its oldest custom, a sacrificial ritual performed as an offering to Mr. Le Bail.

For weeks, everyone had been busy preparing for the event. Your father and Titus had been consumed with planning, making sure every last detail was in place before the day arrived. 

Meanwhile, you and Ursula spent the afternoon in the walk in closet you shared with Titus, looking for something to wear. Dresses hung neatly along the racks, shoes lined the shelves, and jewelry boxes sat open across the counters. Each of you held a glass of wine as you browsed through the endless options, chatting and laughing while trying to find the outfit for the ball.

As you held up another dress in front of the mirror, studying the way it fell against you, Ursula glanced over.

"So," Ursula asked casually, running her fingers along a row of dresses, "how are things between you and Titus?"

"I don't know." You shrugged. You placed the dress back on the rack. "Ever since we kissed..." Your voice trailed off.

"Nothing's really changed." You frowned slightly, picking at the sleeve of a nearby dress. "I just thought it'd be... different, I guess."

"Different how?" Ursula asked.

You hesitated before giving a small shrug. "I don't know. I just thought he'd say something…”

She glanced at you out of the corner of her eye. "Have you brought it up?"

You looked at her like she'd suggested jumping off a cliff. "No."

"Why not?"

"What am I even supposed to say? 'Hey, remember when we kissed? Was that a one-time thing, or are we just pretending it didn't happen?'"

"I mean..." Ursula shrugged. "That's one way to do it."

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "I just... if he wanted to talk about it, wouldn't he have by now?"

"Maybe."

"And he hasn't. " You frowned. "He could've said something."

"So could you."

You hated that she was right.

With a quiet sigh, you picked up your wine and took another sip, letting the familiar warmth distract 

Ursula's smile softened as she watched you. "Can I ask you something?"

You nodded.

"What did that kiss mean to you?"

The question caught you off guard.

"I..." Your voice faltered.

You looked down at your glass, slowly swirling the wine around as you searched for the words.

"I don't know."

Ursula didn’t push. She just waited.

“It just…happened” 

"And?..."

You let out a slow breath, your eyes drifting somewhere far away. "And I can't stop thinking about it." 

Ursula tilted her head slightly. "You know, for someone who 'doesn't know' what the kiss meant, you seem pretty affected by it."

The words hung between you.

You had spent days trying to convince yourself it wasn’t a big deal. That it was just a mistake. Something that happened because you were both caught up in the moment and nothing more, but every time you tried to push it away, you found yourself thinking about it again.

Did it mean something? Did it not?

The realization came slowly.

It wasn’t just the kiss you couldn’t stop thinking about. It was him.

Your brows slowly knit together as every little moment began to fall into place.

Because somewhere along the way, Titus had become more than just the person who annoyed you. More than the person you bickered with or tried to convince yourself you didn’t care about.

He had become someone you leaned on when things felt uncertain. Someone who had quietly, almost without you noticing, become important to you…more than you ever intended.

And maybe that was the part that scared you the most. It wasn’t just that you wanted to know what the kiss meant. You wanted to know what you meant to him.

You didn’t have to say it out loud. Ursula already knew. The knowing smile slowly spread across her face.

"You know..." she said, drawing out the words, a playful glint in her eyes. "I might have an idea."

You looked at her cautiously. "That usually means trouble." You set your wine glass back down.

"Not trouble," she said, laughing softly. "Just... a little push."

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of push?”

Instead of answering, Ursula walked over to Titus’s side of the closet and started looking through the clothes hanging inside.

“Ursula…”

She ignored you, shifting through the shirts until she found what she was looking for. A few seconds later, she pulled out one of Titus’s button-ups and held it up triumphantly.

“Wear this to bed tonight.”

You stared at the shirt, then back at her. “You’re joking.”

“Not even a little.” She shook her head, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “Sometimes people need a little reminder of what’s right in front of them.” She held the shirt out toward you.

You hesitated before taking it, running your fingers over the soft fabric.

“Titus is doing what Titus does best,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Making things way more complicated than they need to be.”

A small laugh escaped you despite yourself. “That sounds like him.”

“So what? I’m just supposed to…”

“Make the next move,” Ursula said simply.

You let out a laugh, shaking your head as you set the shirt back down. “As if.”

Ursula raised an eyebrow, but you were already moving past it.

“Okay, come on. Back to work,” you said, trying to brush off the conversation. “We have to find something to wear.”

Because finding an outfit was a lot easier than figuring out what Titus was thinking.

Which was probably why, later that night, after a few more glasses of wine and far too much encouragement from Ursula, you actually listened to her.

Like an idiot.

By the end of the night, everything sounded like a good idea.

Including this.

You tugged one of Titus’s button-up shirts over your head. The sleeves swallowed your hands, the soft fabric hanging loosely from your frame and stopping just above your knees. 

You caught your reflection in the mirror and blinked at yourself.

“Huh.”

Sober you would’ve changed immediately. But drunk you? Drunk you figured… fuck it.

You weren’t thinking about the consequences. You weren’t thinking about how awkward this might be or what Titus would think. Your thoughts were hazy, your judgment clouded by the wine.

All you knew was that the kiss had been stuck in your head ever since it happened, and somehow wearing his shirt felt like the right thing to do.

Maybe he’d get the hint. Maybe he’d say something. Or maybe this was the dumbest thing you’d ever had. Either way, drunk you weren't thinking far enough ahead to care.

With a shrug, you turned off the bathroom light and wandered toward the bedroom, leaving tomorrow’s embarrassment for tomorrow.

The bedroom was quiet, lit only by the warm glow of the bedside lamp.

You wandered over to the bed, swaying just enough for your own balance to make you laugh under your breath.

Without thinking twice, you climbed onto Titus’s side.

You flopped onto the mattress with a satisfied sigh, hugging one of his pillows against your chest. It smelled like him, and in your wine-soaked mind, that felt oddly comforting.

“Mm… comfy,” you mumbled.

For a moment, you stared at the ceiling, trying to remember why this had seemed like such a good idea.

Your thoughts drifted before you could finish them.

A few minutes later, the bedroom door opened. Titus stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

“Hi,” you greeted him.

He barely glanced your way. “Hey.”

His voice was distracted, his mind clearly somewhere else. He started taking off his clothes as he walked to the bathroom, moving on autopilot.

For a moment, there was only the sound of running water from the showers.

You sat there for what felt like forever, lost in your thoughts, though in reality it had only been ten minutes.

The water shut off.

A moment later, you heard him moving around in the bathroom.

“You know Titus… you're always so grumpy,” you called out, unable to hide the amusement in your voice.

“Grumpy?” he called back.

A small smile tugged at your lips.

“Mhm...I have an idea of what could make you feel better…make you less grumpy” you said, your voice turning playful as a quiet giggle slipped out as you sat up. 

A few seconds passed before he appeared in the doorway in his boxers rubbing a towel through his damp hair. 

“Yeah, and what’s—” His voice caught.

The words came out in his usual flat, unimpressed tone, but he didn’t finish the sentence.

His eyes finally found you.

You were sitting, one leg tucked beneath you, looking up at him with that teasing smile.

Then he saw it. The shirt. His shirt. You were wearing his shirt.

Titus’s gaze lingered for a moment, taking in the oversized button-up hanging off your frame before slowly shifting to where you were sitting.

His side of the bed. A place you had never chosen before.

For a second, his brain seemed to short-circuit.

The sight of you wearing his shirt, sitting in his space, hit him harder than he expected. Heat rose through him, tangled with something deeper. Something that felt dangerously close to longing. An ache he had been trying too hard to ignore.

“What are you doing?”

You are trying your best to seem completely normal. “Nothing.”

He stared at you.

The silence that followed lasted just long enough for you to know he didn’t believe you.

“Cut the shit, Pip,” he said, his voice sharper than before.

His gaze moved over the scene again. His shirt. His side of the bed.

You were different.

Titus had seen you annoyed, stubborn, sarcastic. He was used to the way you challenged him, the way you rolled your eyes and argued back. But this? This wasn’t you. Not with him.

The teasing was different. The way you looked at him was different. You were softer, looser, almost playful in a way he’d never seen before.

And Titus knew you. Which was exactly why he knew something was up.

“You’re wearing my shirt…”

You glanced down like you were only just remembering. “Mhm” 

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“You wanted to?” He furrowed his brows, clearly caught off guard.

“Mhm,” you hummed, biting your lip slightly as you looked up at him, batting your lashes playfully.

He just stared at you, brows furrowed as he studied you. Like he was trying to figure out what exactly was happening.

“What?” you asked, tilting your head slightly as a laugh slipped out. “Why are you looking at me like that?

“You’re being fucking weird right now...”

“Weird?”

He gestured toward you. “You’re wearing my shirt, sitting on my side of the bed, and acting like this happens all the time.”

“Maybe it does.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Because you both knew it didn’t. Not really.

Titus looked away first, tossing the towel aside.

“You know,” he said quietly, “most people ask before stealing someone’s clothes.”

He didn’t move from where he stood. He just stayed there, watching you,

“I can give it back…” you said, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. “Better yet… why don’t you come help me take it off”

You reached for the buttons of the shirt, slowly undoing them, never taking your eyes off him.

“Pip…” His voice carried a warning, 

As you unbutton the shirt, your skin becomes visible.

“Stop it” he says. 

You kept going, revealing more skin and cleavage. If you continued, your chest would have been on full display for him. 

Titus crossed the room and caught your hands before you could undress any further.

“I said stop!” he said, his voice firm but not angry. More bewildered than anything else. “What has gotten into you?!”

Before he could say anything else, your hands slid up his chest, your fingertips brushing against his skin. Reaching up, you cupped his face, catching him completely off guard as you pulled him closer and pressed your lips to his.

The kiss deepened almost immediately. 

He caught the faint, sweet taste on your lips, mixed with the bitterness of the alcohol.

The flirting. The confidence. The way you were acting so unlike yourself. The way you were pushing past boundaries you normally wouldn’t.

The wine bottles and glasses he’d found in the walk-in closet.

It wasn’t you. Not really.

You were drunk.

He should have known.

It all happened so fast. Before Titus could continute processing this information, you tugged him down with you. He caught himself with his hands on either side of you before his weight settled above you. You rolled into him, needing him as close as possible. Your hands held onto him like you were afraid he’d leave, silently pleading for him to stay as you kept pressing desperate kisses against him.

Without a second thought, Titus reacted.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa…” he mumbles against your lips, his voice caught somewhere between surprise and disbelief as he gently pulls himself away from your grasp.

Titus immediately gets off the bed, putting some distance between the two of you as he looks at you with wide eyes.

Titus ran a hand over his face, letting out a slow, unsteady breath as he tried to collect himself. His eyes found yours again, lingering on the way you were looking at him.

“Titus…” you breathe, his name leaving your lips in a quiet whine as you look up at him, frustrated by the distance he’s putting between you. You push yourself upright. 

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief moment before letting out a slow breath again. “You’re not thinking straight.”

The words were meant for you, but they felt just as true for him.

His own thoughts were in complete disarray, tangled between concern, confusion, and feelings he’d been trying to ignore.

“No. No, we’re not doing this.” He shook his head, taking a step back.

A dry laugh left him, empty of any real humor. More like a reaction to the situation he was trying desperately not to acknowledge.

“Nope,” he muttered, shaking his head again. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re drunk!” he says.

Your brows pull together, frustration flashing across your face.

“I know what I’m doing—”

“No, you don’t.” His voice comes out sharper than he intends, not angry at you, but at the situation. “And right now, you’re not even thinking about what you’re doing!”

But your drunk mind doesn’t hear the concern behind his words. It doesn’t hear that he’s trying to protect you. All you feel is the distance he’s putting between you. All you see is him pulling away. And your mind twists it into one thing. Rejection.

“Just tell me…” you slurred, the words tumbling over each other as you tried desperately to make him understand. “Put me out of my misery, because I can’t take it anymore.”

Titus stared at you, his expression shifting as he tried to follow.

He was trying. He really was.

But the alcohol had loosened every thought, every feeling you’d been holding back, and now they were spilling out faster than you could organize them. Half your words blurred together, swallowed by emotion.

“Pip…” he said quietly. “Slow down—”

But you shook your head, frustrated, because to you it was so simple. How could he not understand?

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” you mumbled, your voice cracking. “I can’t stop thinking about that moment.”

Your eyes found him, desperate.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

That part landed. That part he understood. Everything else came in fragments.

“The kiss,” you tried again, your voice getting smaller. “I don’t know what it meant, and I don’t know if it was real. I don’t know if you—if you even…”

You trailed off, the words catching in your throat.

He knew exactly what moment you meant.

“But not just the kiss.” Your brows pulled together as you fought with your own thoughts. “It’s you. It’s always you. I keep thinking about you. I keep replaying it,” you whispered. “Over and over...Because you kissed me back.”

“You did,” you insisted quietly. “You kissed me back, Titus.” You swallowed hard, looking away for a second before looking back at him.

“And then Ursula walked in and it just…” Your voice cracked. “You act like it never happen…”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that,” you admitted, the frustration creeping into your voice. “Because that kiss felt like something. It felt like it meant something.”

Your eyes searched his face, pleading for any kind of answer.

“Just tell me if it didn’t…tell me I’m wrong…Tell me I made it up. Because I feel so stupid.”

“I don’t understand,” you interrupted, your voice rising with frustration. “I don’t understand why you’re acting like it was nothing. Was it nothing?” You looked at him, your eyes glassy. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you. And I just need to know…Was I the only one who thought it meant something?”

“Do...Do I mean something to you?” you asked quietly.

Titus doesn’t answer right away.

And somehow, that silence feels louder than anything he could’ve said.

His jaw tightens slightly.

He could tell you that he’s thought about that kiss more times than he should. That it caught him off guard because it was the one thing he’d been trying not to want. That he’s spent the last few days pretending it didn’t affect him because he didn’t know what it meant to you.

“You really want to know?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Then ask me tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow…” you repeat, almost disbelieving.

“When you’re sober,” he says quietly.

Deep down, Titus already knows what he's going to do. Tomorrow won't bring the truth. It'll bring the lie he's already decided to tell. The words sound like a promise, but they aren't. You just don't know it yet.

Before you can press him for more, Titus steps closer.

"Lay down," he says quietly.

You stay where you are, sitting up, your eyes fixed on him as he reaches beneath you for the blanket. He carefully tugs it free, and drapes it over your lap. 

"Titus..." you mumble, still watching him, still searching his face for the answer he refuses to give.

He gives a faint shake of his head.

"Get some sleep."

The tears spill over before you can stop them.

For a moment, Titus doesn't say anything. He just stares at you, his chest tightening at the sight of you breaking down in front of him, knowing he's the reason for it. You're crying because of him.

Slowly, you lie back down, turning onto your side and facing away from him. You pull the blanket closer around yourself, trying to hide the tears as if that will make them disappear. As if not looking at him will make this hurt less.

Your lips tremble as you fight to keep yourself quiet, but the pain is there in every shaky breath.

Every instinct in him tells him to reach for you. To pull you back, to hold you, to tell you that everything you're feeling isn't one-sided. He wants to comfort you. He wants to be the person who makes it better, not the reason you're hurting, but he doesn't.

Quietly, Titus moves closer, climbing into the space beside you and settling on your side of the mattress. He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t talk. He just stays there.

After a moment, he reaches over and turns off the light, leaving the room in darkness.

But even in the dark, he can still hear the quiet way you’re trying not to cry.

Eventually, exhaustion takes over, and you finally fall asleep.

Between the wine, the emotions, and everything you’d been carrying, your body gives in all at once. Once you’re out, you’re completely still, the kind of deep sleep that only comes after an overwhelming night.

But Titus doesn’t sleep.

He stays awake beside you, staring into the darkness, replaying every word, every tear, and every moment he wished he would have handled differently.

Sometime later, you shift in your sleep, slowly rolling over toward him without realizing it.

Carefully, he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair away from your face and tucking it behind your ear.

His thumb lingers, gently tracing along your cheek as you sleep, a quiet tenderness he would never allow himself to show when you're awake.

He wanted to tell you the truth… that every argument, every sarcastic comment, every time he pushed your buttons all these years wasn’t because he couldn’t stand you.

He wanted to believe this moment. More than anything, he wanted to hold onto every word you said, but there was still a part of him that was afraid.

Not because he didn’t believe you.

Because he did.

He believed you. He saw it in your eyes, heard it in your voice, felt it in every broken confession that slipped past your lips. That was what made this so difficult.

Because tomorrow will come. The wine would be gone. The emotions would settle. You would remember everything you said, everything you admitted.

And he needed to know that you would still choose him then.

Not because you were overwhelmed. Not because you were caught up in the moment. But because it was him.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do.

Deny it. Lie.

So he swallowed the truth.

Because he couldn’t take something he had wanted for so long and risk it becoming something you regretted in the morning.

Even though it was the one thing he had been waiting to hear.

And he hated himself for it because, for the first time, Titus had exactly what he’d always wanted.

You. Wanting him.

And somehow, he was the one person standing in his own way.

He had everything he’d spent so long wishing for, and yet he still couldn’t let himself take it.

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The Danforth family had been summoned to an urgent meeting with the High Council's lawyer. No one knew why, only that he had insisted it couldn't wait.

You, Titus, Ursula, and your father sat together in Mr. Danforth's old office at the hotel—now Titus's office. The room immediately brought back memories of the night you were told you would be marrying Titus. The same walls. The same heavy silence. But this time, the unease felt different.

“There is a family within the High Council that intends to challenge your family… Titus… for the Head Chair of the High Council,” the lawyer says carefully, each word measured.

Silence settles over the room. No one speaks...uncertain if they heard him correctly, or if something like that could even be said out loud.

Your father scoffs immediately. “You’re joking right?”

“Unfortunately, I’m not,” the lawyer replies.

“No one has ever challenged the Head Chair. Everyone knows better than to even try!” Your father stares at the lawyer dumbfounded. 

In all his years working alongside the Danforths, decades spent within the High Council's inner circle, your father had never witnessed anything remotely like this.

The lawyer hesitates. “Traditionally, yes. But tradition only holds as long as the other families agree to respect it.”

“After Chester Danforth passed, there’s been talk…” he adds more quietly.

Ursula says “Talk?”

“Yes,” the lawyer says. “One family has begun suggesting Titus is unfit for the role of Head Chair.”

You glance at Titus beside you. He hasn't said a word since the meeting began. His expression remains unreadable, but you know him well enough to see it, the slight tightening of his jaw, the distant look in his eyes. He may look calm, but his mind is already racing.

“That’s absurd,” your father says flatly. “Titus is perfectly fit to lead.”

“I understand,” the lawyer replies carefully. “But your family has held the Head Chair for many years without a formal challenge…”

Ursula’s eyes narrow. “Because no one has ever dared…no one has ever needed to,”

The lawyer inclines his head slightly. “That distinction is exactly what’s changed. At least one family has decided they’re willing to break precedent.”

Your father exhales through his nose, controlled but sharp. “And they think they can take the Chair from Titus?”

“They believe they can win,” the lawyer says. “That’s why they’re moving forward.”

A silence settles over the room again.

“Why now?” you ask. “Titus took the succession months ago.”

The lawyer’s expression tightens, like he’s choosing his words carefully.

“Succession secured authority,” he says. “But it didn’t erase dissent. After Chester Danforth’s passing, certain families saw an opening—old rules that were never fully challenged, precedents that were always assumed rather than enforced.” He pauses. “Now they’re testing whether those assumptions still hold.”

“How does the challenge work?” you ask.

“The challenge follows the tradition of Mr. Le Bail's cat and mouse games. Each family appoints one representative. Titus will fight on behalf of the Danforths, while the opposing family will name their own. The hunt ends only when one challenger remains alive. The surviving representative secures the Head Chair for their family.

“When will this start?” 

“If Titus accepts the challenge, it begins immediately,” the lawyer replies. “We'll meet with the other families of the high council, review the rules, formally record the challenge in the book, and then the hunt begins.”

“And if I don’t?” Titus finally speaks up.

“If you decline the challenge, you forfeit the Head Chair,” the lawyer says. “The Kensingtons would be recognized as the rightful holders of the seat. The Danforths would lose it without a fight.”

Silence settles over the room as every pair of eyes turns to Titus.

After a long beat, he asks quietly, “Which family is it?”

The lawyer hesitates.

“The Kensingtons.”

The air in the room shifts at the name.

A powerful family, old wealth, global reach, and a name tied to one of the most expensive wine dynasties in the world.

The name alone is enough to make something in Titus snap. 

He rises from his chair so abruptly it scrapes across the floor. “If they want a bloodbath,” he says, his voice low with fury, “then that's exactly what they're going to get.”

His gaze hardens. “I accept.”

Without another word, he storms out of the room, the door slamming behind him.

—

Five other High Council families were gathered in the manor’s parlor. Familiar faces drifted through your memory from weddings and formal events you had attended with Titus over the years.

Everyone remained in their own groups, contained and unmoving. Under any other circumstances there would be more social exchange. No one mingling, no crossing the invisible lines between families.

You catch fragments of conversation: some believe it’s finally time for the Danforths to be removed from the head chair, that it’s been a long time coming. Others insist the Kensingtons don’t stand a chance, arguing they’re severely underestimating Titus.

You won’t lie. You’re worried about the Danforths’ future, which is also your future. There’s a fifty-fifty chance Titus could hold the Chair… or lose it all and die.

And that thought won’t leave you. Him dying. You’ve known him your whole life. What if all of that just disappeared? What if you never saw him again?

You can’t imagine how he must be feeling, but you know him well enough to recognize it, he’s angry. The rage is there, contained but alive, coiled tightly inside him, saved for when it matters most.

And when that moment comes, you know he won’t hold back.

You watch Titus as he watches the Kensingtons, especially Jameson, the eldest son. Titus has always hated him.

Ursula used to tell you stories about High Council meetings and formal balls they attended when they were younger, where the Kensingtons would appear and tension would follow. More than once, Titus and Jameson ended up in full-blown fights.

Jameson Kensington makes his way across the room. Titus straightens the moment he sees him heading toward your side.

“Mrs. Danforth… aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he says smoothly, taking your hand and pressing a kiss to it. His thumb lingers over your knuckles. “I’m Jameson, but you can call me Jamie.”

Before you can respond or pull your hand away Titus shuts it down immediately.

“Back off,” he snaps, stepping between you and Jamie. His stance is firm and protective, clearly intent on keeping Jameson as far from you as possible.

“What?” Jamie replies lightly. “I’m only being polite.”

“Don’t touch her,” Titus says

Jameson lifts his hands in a slow, mocking surrender, a faint smile playing at his lips.

“Titus, you’re making quite the scene over a simple greeting.”

Titus steps closer anyway, closing the distance completely. “Try it again, and I won’t be polite,” he grits.

Jameson’s gaze flicks between you and Titus, amusement sharpening into something colder.

“You always were territorial,” he says lightly. “Funny thing is… that won’t matter for much longer.”

Before it can escalate further, the lawyer steps between them, placing a steadying hand on Jamie and then on Titus.

“Alright,” he says smoothly, forcing a calm smile. “Let’s not get into it now. Save that tension for the hunt.” 

You pull Titus back toward Ursula and your father. Jameson returns to his family as well his mother, father, and brother waiting on the other side of the room.

The lawyer crosses to the corner of the room where he left the book, retrieving it with careful precision. He carries it back to the center stand in the parlor and places it down on the coffee table, addressing everyone gathered.

“Families of the High Council, you are here as witnesses to the Kensington family’s official challenge to the Danforth family for the Head Chair of the High Council.”

His gaze sweeps the room.

“The Kensington family has appointed eldest son Jameson Kensington to represent them against Titus Danforth for the chair.”

“The rules are simple. One against one. The hunt ends when one is killed. The last one standing becomes the Head Chair. The location of the hunt will remain secret, and each of you may use any weapon of your choice. One of you will be brought back to the manor where we will see who returns as champion.”

“Jameson and Titus—step forward.”

The lawyer produces the registry book, instructing them to draw blood and sign their names, formally binding the challenge.

“Titus, Mr. Le Bail’s ring.”

Titus slips the ring from his hand and hands it to the lawyer.

The lawyer shuts the book with a firm snap.

“Let the hunt begin.”

Then, glancing at the room, he adds, “Gentlemen, come with me. Everyone else must remain here until one of them walks back through those doors.”

Before he leaves, Titus pulls your father into a hug first, firm and steady. Then he turns to Ursula, holding her in a tight embrace a moment longer than usual before letting go.

Both of them tell him to come back in one piece, that he’s got this, and to make them proud.

Then Titus turns to you.

Your heart sinks.

When it comes to you, you don't know what to do or what to say. No words seem big enough for what could be your last goodbye.

For the first time since this all began, the anger leaves his face.

It's just... him. His eyes search yours, softening in a way no one else in the room gets to see.

He reaches out for you, but you step back.

Not because you don’t want him, but because you’re scared of what it means if you let yourself hold on too long.

“Good luck,” you whisper.

His expression shifts instantly. The softness is gone. Anger flashes across his face sharp, hurt, controlled but unmistakable.

You know you fucked up. Regret settles fast and heavy.

He lets out a short, bitter laugh and shakes his head. “Right. Okay.” Without another word, he turns and walks away.

“Titus-”

He doesn't stop. He doesn't even glance back.

Only then do you realize how quiet the room has become.

The other families are watching. Sideways glances pass between them, silent speculation spreading as they try to piece together whatever had just happened between the two of you.

You don’t know what came over you. Without thinking, you rush out the doors after him.

“Wait!” Ursula calls, hurrying after you.

She catches your wrist in the foyer, gently stopping you before you can go any farther.

You turn to her, pressing a trembling hand to your forehead. “I shouldn't have done that…” Your voice quivers. “I shouldn't have said that.”

Ursula's face falls.

“I panicked,” you whisper, tears beginning to sting your eyes. “I didn't know what to say. I couldn't... I couldn't..."

You squeeze your eyes shut, your chest tightening with regret. All you'd given him was good luck. As if he were heading into a meeting instead of a fight to the death.

“He reached for me...” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “And I stepped away…I-I have to fix this.”

She calls after you, following as you rush to the front door but by the time you step outside, it’s too late.

A car is already pulling away down the drive.

Ursula comes up beside you, slower now, her hand hovering near your arm like she’s not sure whether to hold you back or hold you together.

Your breath comes out uneven.

“No,” you whisper, though you’re not sure who you’re arguing with. “No, I can still—”

You take another step, then stop. There’s nothing to run after anymore. Just an empty driveway. Empty air. And the echo of everything you didn’t say.

—

Titus enters the parlor with slow, weary steps, the weight of the hunt evident in every movement.

At first glance, he seems mostly intact. Dried blood streaks across his face, dark splatters stain his clothes, and his knuckles are split open and raw. Bruises bloom beneath his skin, fresh cuts marking his arms and jaw.

But he's standing.

He's alive.

Then everyone's attention shifts to what he's carrying.

Jameson Kensington's severed head.

A horrified gasp ripples through the room before Mrs. Kensington lets out a piercing scream, collapsing into her husband's arms as sobs tear from her chest.

Without a word, Titus lets the head fall from his grasp.

It hits the hardwood with a sickening thud before rolling across the floor, finally coming to a stop facing the assembled families.

The room falls deathly silent.

Titus slowly lifts his gaze, meeting each family's eyes in turn, his arms folding across his chest.

"This," he says, his voice hoarse but unwavering, "is your first and only warning."

His stare settles on the Kensington family.

"If any of you fucking THINK about coming for the Chair again..." He pauses, his expression hard as stone. "You'll end up just like him."

No one dares answer. The only sound left in the room is Mrs. Kensington's quiet sobbing.

After a long, heavy silence, the lawyer steps forward from behind Titus, clearing his throat.

“Well…” the lawyer says, his voice steady despite the crushing silence. “That concludes the challenge for the Head Chair.”

He opens the registry book, his eyes falling to the blood-bound signatures.

“By the laws of the High Council, Titus Danforth has prevailed.”

With a firm snap, he closes the book.

“Titus Danforth remains the Head Chair of the High Council.” The laywer pulls out Mr. Le Bails ring handing it back to Titus.

His gaze shifts to the Kensington family.

“Mr. Kensington… Mrs. Kensington… John…” His expression softens. “You have my deepest condolences for your loss.”

A beat of silence follows.

“You are all dismissed.”

He inclines his head solemnly.

“In the name of Mr. Le Bail.”

One by one, the families begin to move. No one speaks above a whisper. The Kensingtons remain where they are, surrounding Jameson's remains, while the others quietly file toward the doors, each leaving with the unmistakable understanding that the Danforths still held the Chair and that challenging them had come at the highest possible cost.

Youfather quietly helps the Kensingtons gather Jameson and escorts them from the manor, leaving only Titus and Ursula in the parlor.

The moment the doors close behind the last of the guests, Ursula crosses the room and wraps her twin in a tight hug.

“Are you alright?” she asks, pulling back to look him over.

“I'm fine,” Titus answers flatly.

His eyes drift around the room before settling on Ursula again.

“Where is she?”

Ursula hesitates. “She stayed upstairs.”

“In our room?”

She nods. “She didn't want to be around anyone.”

—

You remained in the bedroom after Titus and Jameson left for the hunt.

Curled up in bed, you cried, every passing minute filled with worry, wondering if Titus would ever come home.

The sound of the bedroom door opening breaks the silence.

You look up. “Titus,” you breathe, sitting up so quickly the blankets fall into your lap. Relief floods through you. You climb out of bed and hurry toward him.

“Titus, I—”

His eyes meet yours for only a brief second, long enough to register your puffy, tear-stained eyes.

Then, without a word, he brushes past you and heads straight into the bathroom.

A moment later, the door closes behind him.

The shower turns on.

You sigh and sit down on the edge of the bed, hands twisting together in your lap.

You knew you needed to make things right, but right now he needed some space, decompress for what he just endured.

After a while once you heard the shower stopped running, you knock on the bathroom door opening it slowly. 

Titus is just out of the shower, standing by the sink with nothing on but a towel wrapped low at his waist. His curls are still damp, darkened with water, and his skin is scattered with droplets that catch the light as they slide slowly down his chest and shoulders.

On the counter in front of him sits an open first aid kit. He’s rummaging through it absently, shifting items around like he’s done this a hundred times before. At your entrance, he glances over briefly, quick, before turning back to what he’s doing. 

Bruises mottled across his torso in dark, uneven patches, with fresh cuts and gashes marking his skin.

The sight makes your stomach tighten before you can stop it.

Your fingers found the rings on your hand, absently twisting them as you stared for a beat too long.

Without a word, you crossed the bathroom and reached for the supplies he’d spread across the counter.

“Sit.”

You gave a small nod toward the closed toilet lid.

To your surprise, he didn’t argue.

He made his way over, eased himself down onto it, watching you quietly as you gathered the antiseptic, gauze, and bandages.

You pulled the small stool from your vanity and dragged it over, sitting directly in front of him. Setting the supplies within reach, you let out a quiet breath as you settled in.

You’d seen him shirtless before, plenty of times, but it never felt like this.

The bathroom light caught the droplets still clinging to his skin, and for a moment, it stole your focus. Your pulse jumped, and you quickly forced your attention back to the first-aid kit before he noticed.

Without another word, you started to work, even as the tension lingered in your chest, you were still upset with yourself feeling guilty how you left things, and part of you knew he was angry with you.

You dab the wounds with antiseptic. His body tenses immediately, a sharp wince pulling across his face.

“Fuck,” he hisses, sucking in a tight breath as he tries to breathe through the sting.

“Sorry,” you frown. 

“Just keep going,” he says quietly.

So you do.

Carefully, steadily, you clean the rest of the cuts, your hands gentler now as the silence between you settles again. 

Finally, you set the gauze down and wrap the last bandage around his arm, smoothing it into place.

You don’t look up right away.

“I shouldn’t have stepped away from you earlier,” you say at last, voice low. “I panicked. I didn’t mean to make you feel like… like I wasn’t with you.”

You swallow hard.

“I’m sorry… if that was the last thing I ever—”

“Well, it’s not.” His voice cuts in gently, interrupting you before you can finish.

“You of all people should know you can’t get rid of me that easily, Pip.”

You finally look up.

His hand lifts, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips linger, tracing the curve of your jaw before settling beneath your chin. His thumb brushes lightly across your lower lip.

Your heartbeat pounds against your ribs.

His eyes search yours, lingering there for a long moment before drifting to your lips and returning to meet your gaze. The air between you grows quiet, heavy with everything left unsaid.

Slowly, he leans closer, his hand still cradling your chin as he gently guides you toward him.

And you meet him halfway.

The kiss starts soft, gentle, but it deepens quickly as something in him gives way. Whatever restraint he had left breaks under the weight of everything he’s been carrying. It turns urgent, consuming, like all the anger, fear, and relief has nowhere else to go but into you.

Your breath catches as you move with him instinctively.

You rise from the stool without breaking the kiss, drawn in close until you’re fully settled against him, the distance between you disappearing completely.

Your hands come up to cup his face, steadying him there, while his slide up along your sides and around your back, holding you like he’s anchoring himself to something real.

He trails a few lingering kisses near your neck, and you tilt your head back with a quiet breath.

His hands slip beneath your shirt, wanting to feel your skin.

“Hey, so—oh!”

Ursula stops short as she walks into the bathroom, immediately realizing she’d interrupted something. 

You and Titus both snap back to reality at once. You quickly pull away, standing up from where you were on the stool, while Titus straightens and clears his throat, shifting like he’s trying to reset himself.

“Sorry, I–” Ursula says, already starting to back toward the door.

“I was just, uh… finishing patching Titus up,” you reply a little too quickly, hoping to sound casual despite the warmth creeping across your face.

You bend down, gathering the discarded wrappers and used gauze, and move toward the small trash can by the sink, busying yourself with anything that doesn’t involve looking at either of them.

Titus stands up leaving the bathroom and goes into the bedroom. 

Ursula’s gaze flicks between the doorway and you for a moment before a faint. 

“What was that?!” she whispers to you. 

This kiss was different…different from all the others he’d ever given you.

The others had felt easier to place. Controlled. Performative, even if neither of you ever said it out loud, but this one lingered.It felt closer to the kiss at your wedding… like something unguarded. Like maybe, just maybe, he actually had feelings for you. 

Doubt creeps in just as fast. Does he actually have feelings for you? And do you even know what yours are? Or is this just both of you…caught in a moment too heavy to think clearly through? Is it guilt, from the way you left things before he walked out? Is it him, trying to come down from everything he just did… trying to forget the weight of it for even a second?

The questions twist tighter in your chest, with no clear answer anywhere in sight.

“I…I don’t know” 

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You catch your reflection in the mirror, cheeks warm, pulse hammering in your ears. Nervous doesn’t even begin to cover it, you’re terrified. The light baby blue babydoll lingerie feels impossibly soft against your skin, unfamiliar in a way that makes your stomach flutter. It’s Jack’s favorite color, and somehow knowing that only makes your nerves spike higher.

You’ve taken the time to doll yourself up, hair softly curled, makeup just enough to make your eyes stand out, lips slightly glossy. 

You shift slightly, tugging at the delicate fabric as if trying to make it feel more like armor than vulnerability. The reflection staring back at you is a mix of confidence and uncertainty, and you wonder, when he sees you, will he see both?

You smooth your hands down the sheer fabric, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Okay,” you whisper to yourself, “you can do this! It’s just Jack. Jack who makes you laugh. Jack who loves you. Jack who looks at you like you hung the moon.”

But your pulse won’t slow. You’ve never done anything like this before. You’ve never worn something so intimate, so revealing, so deliberately sexy. The thought of stepping out, seeing his face when he looks at you, makes your heart pound against your ribs.

You take one more breath, fingers tightening around the door handle. “Okay,” you murmur again. “Here goes nothing.”

You exhale, open the door, and pad softly down the hallway toward the garage. The faint scent of oil and metal grows stronger with each step, mixing with the steady rhythm of classic rock humming low from the radio.

Through the open door, you see Jack, bent over the hood of his truck, sleeves pushed up, forearms streaked with grease. The late afternoon Sun spills across his shoulders, catching in his hair as he works.

You hover just inside the doorway, out of sight from the street. The garage door is open, but from where you’re standing, no one passing by could see you, not with the truck angled the way it is. It’s your small bubble of privacy hidden in plain view.

He doesn’t notice you at first, too lost in the task in front of him. The clink of a wrench, the soft scrape of metal, the quiet hum under his breath. Then he hears the soft creak of the door.  

“Beautiful, can you pass me the—”

He looks, mid-sentence.

The rest of the words die on his lips as his eyes land on you. For a long, silent heartbeat, he just stares, lingering over you as if memorizing every detail.

Jack doesn’t say anything at first. He straightens slowly, eyes never leaving you, and reaches for the rag on the workbench. The movement is almost mechanical, wiping his grease-stained hands one slow drag at a time like he needs to make sure this is real before he dares to speak.

He lets out a slow breath, the kind that seems to steady him against a force he didn’t expect.

“God…” His voice is low, almost a whisper. His eyes widen, flicking down and back up in a slow, stunned sweep that makes your skin hum. His breath catches faintly, like he wasn’t prepared for you to look like that, like he’s not entirely sure he’s awake.

Jack blinks, swallows hard, but doesn’t look away. His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking as if he’s fighting the urge to say or do something he might not be able to take back.

“H-hi,” you stutter out.

“Hey,” he says quietly, still wiping his hands with the rag, his movements slower now. He doesn’t step closer, doesn’t say anything else, just watches you, waiting. It’s like he knows you need to make the first move.

You shift under his gaze, heart pounding, suddenly aware of every inch of sheer fabric clinging to your skin. The confidence you had in front of the mirror starts to crumble.

His silence only makes you second-guess yourself further, twisting your confidence into something fragile and uncertain. The quiet between you feels heavier than words, and suddenly you wonder if what seemed daring in the mirror now looks… wrong to him.

“This was a dumb idea,” you mumble, crossing your arms instinctively over your chest as heat floods your cheeks. “I feel absolutely ridiculous… in this.”

The baby-blue babydoll that had seemed flirty and playful before now feels far too revealing, thin straps slipping off your shoulders, the hem brushing high against your thighs, and the sheer fabric doing little to hide the rapid rise and fall of your breathing.

Jack’s brow furrows, just slightly. He drops the rag on the workbench and takes a slow step toward you, careful, like he’s afraid to spook you.

This was new territory for both of you. You and Jack had been intimate before, closely, physically, but lingerie had never been part of your dynamic. Never something you’d worn just for him, just the two of you. The thought of exposing this side of yourself, letting him see you like this, made your pulse spike, and yet there was a strange thrill in the vulnerability, the trust in uncharted territory.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer but not too close, like he knows you might bolt if he does. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” you mutter, still avoiding his eyes, arms hugging yourself tighter.

He gestures vaguely toward you, to the way you’re folding in on yourself. “That. Acting like you’ve got something to be embarrassed about.”

He chuckles softly, a low, warm sound. “Why are you hiding? It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“I… I don’t know,” you whisper, voice shaky. “It’s… different. Wearing this for you.”

He exhales softly and takes another small step, slow enough for you to stop him if you want. “Let me see you.”

Your fingers hesitate at your elbows, unsure, trembling just a little. But the way he’s looking at you steady, patient, almost aching, pulls something loose inside your chest.

You uncross your arms slowly.

His breath leaves him in a quiet, stunned rush. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t even try, but his hands flex at his sides like he’s fighting the instinct to reach for you.

“Jesus…” he murmurs, the word barely audible, almost reverent. His gaze sweeps over you again, slower this time, lingering on the curve of the lace, the dip of the straps, the exposed skin underneath, the parts of you you’re trying, and failing, not to shy away from.

His voice gentles even more, the teasing stripped away. “You look… incredible.”

He tilts his head, studying you like he’s memorizing every line and curve.

“When did you get this?” 

“Black Friday shopping…”

He lets out a low sound half laugh, half ache. “So this is why you told me to stay put?” His eyes flick to you, then back again, wide with disbelief and something brighter. “This is what was in that black bag?”

You nod. 

He shakes his head slowly, a breathless, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re kidding…” His eyes lift to yours and then drift back down again “You’ve had this the whole time, and now you decide to—” He breaks off, swallowing hard, his voice rough with a mix of awe and want. “—wear it?”

You nod, cheeks warm. “I just thought it might be nice. Something different. For me… and for you.”

You nod, still not looking up, heat creeping into your cheeks. “ I bought it,” you admit softly, fingers fidgeting with the fabric. “Because I wanted to feel good in my own skin.” You hesitate, then add, quieter, “But… also for you. I thought maybe it would be something you’d like.”

You shake your head, embarrassed, wishing you could disappear for a second. “It’s silly, I know.”

He swallows, his gaze never leaving yours. “It’s not silly,” he says softly, voice low but steady, like he’s trying to anchor you. “Not even a little.”

“I wasn’t expecting—” He stops himself, clears his throat. “I mean, damn, you knocked the wind out of me.”

He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him. His hand hovers near your arm, not quite touching, giving you just enough space to breathe while still making you acutely aware of him. “Thank you,” he murmurs, almost reverently. “For thinking of me. I appreciate it…”

Your heart hammers in your chest. “Do… Do you like it?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He blinks, genuinely caught off guard that you’d even ask. “Do I—” He cuts himself off, a soft huff of a laugh leaving him. A faint smile curves at the corner of his mouth as his eyes drift over you again, gentler now. “Yeah. Yeah, I do…more than you can imagine.”

His voice drops, warmer, almost reverent. “And blue,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “my favorite color. You could’ve worn anything—hell, you could’ve worn one of my old shirts and I’d still be standing here thinking the same thing.”

You feel your chest tighten at that, warmth flooding through you. “What’s that?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.

“That I’m completely gone for you,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

He steps a fraction closer, and the air between you seems to pulse. “That you… look incredible. Just… you. Every part of you,” he says, voice low, reverent, a quiet intensity behind every word.

Jack’s voice drops low, almost tentative. “Can I… touch you?” he asks, like he’s afraid the question itself might scare you off.

Your breath catches. You look up at him, his hand hovering midair, his expression careful, waiting. He isn’t assuming, isn’t pushing, just asking.

You nod once, slow. “Y-yes,” you whisper.

He starts to move, then hesitates, glancing down at his hands, still faintly streaked with grease despite the rag. A quiet, sheepish smile tugs at his mouth. “I should probably wash up first,” he murmurs.

You shake your head before he can step back. “N-no. It’s okay,” you say softly, your voice steady now, sure. “I don’t care.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, eyes searching, like he’s trying to decide if you really mean it. The tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction. His fingertips brush against your arm first, feather-light like he’s giving you a chance to change your mind. Then a little firmer, tracing down until his hand settles against your skin, grounding you both.

His thumb grazes the edge of your strap, which has slipped off your shoulder, and he fixes it gently, an excuse, maybe, or just something to do with his hands while the air hums quietly between you.

You exhale, a soft sound that feels more like release than words.

His hands find your hips, warm and steady, grounding you when everything inside feels unsteady. He pulls you a little closer, not demanding, just waiting, giving you the space to pull away if you need to.

“Okay?” he asks quietly, his breath brushing against your temple.

You nod, the word catching in your throat before it can form. “Yes,” you whisper, though your heart is beating so fast you’re sure he can feel it.

Jack studies you for a long moment, his eyes searching your face, making sure. When he finally speaks again, his voice is even softer. “You’re sure?”

You nod again, this time a little firmer. “I’m sure.”

Something in his shoulders eases at that, the faint tension melting away. He lets out a quiet breath, thumb brushing along your hip bone like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

Then, without a word, he leans in closer. His lips press softly to the side of your neck, a gentle, lingering kiss that sends a shiver through you. You sigh, breathless, tilting your head slightly, caught between surprise and desire, heart hammering as the warmth of him presses closer, slow and deliberate.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice low and reverent. “God… you’ve got no idea what this does to me,” he murmurs, voice thick, almost a whisper. “You, here, like this…”

The words make your pulse skip, the nerves still there but dulled by the warmth in his voice, the care. You tilt your chin up slightly, meeting his gaze at last.

“Show me,” you whisper.

He exhales, a low, almost frustrated sound. “I… need to wash up first,” he says, voice rough, as if reluctant to break the moment.

“Jack,” you whine softly, tugging at his shirt, the heat and frustration coiling in your chest. “Don’t. Please… don’t.”

He groans, running a hand through his curls, shaking his head with a wry smile. “Beautiful… I’m not gonna be with you if I’m all greasy and sweaty from working on the truck” he says, voice low but teasing, the tension between you still humming in the air. His eyes softening just a fraction. “Come on… you deserve better than that.”

You pout, tugging at his shirt again, frustration and mischief in your eyes. “Jack… come on, not yet… Just for a minute? Please?”

He exhales, giving in with a slow, reluctant smirk. “Okay, fine. A minute—then we’re going inside. I’m gonna shower first… and then we’ll continue.”

Before you can react, he scoops you up effortlessly, and you squeal, the sudden movement sending a jolt straight through you. He carries you across the garage, swiping tools off the workbench in a careless clatter before setting you down gently on it, like you’re something precious despite the rough urgency in his movements.

He steps between your legs, close enough that you feel the heat of him, the air between you crackling. His hands settle at your waist, thumbs pressing in. Then his mouth is on yours fierce, hungry, unrelenting. The kiss steals your breath, leaves you dizzy, the world narrowing to nothing but him.

“Jack—” you gasp, pulling back just enough to breathe. “The garage door is open. Someone could see us—”

He pulls away just enough to grin, eyes dark and amused. “Relax. You really think anyone’s paying attention? Because I’m pretty sure the only one losing focus here is you.”

“You realize you’re sabotaging your minute of fun? You’re wasting time,” he teases, glancing exaggeratedly at his watch, clicking his tongue. “Your minute’s almost—”

You cut him off, grabbing the front of his shirt and kissing him again, messy and unapologetic. He laughs against your mouth, quickly turning into a low groan as his hands tighten at your waist. Your hands grip his shoulders, pulling him closer, the kiss deepening, urgent.

He breaks the kiss just for a moment, forehead resting against yours, breath mingling with yours. His eyes roam over your face, memorizing every expression. “God… you have no idea how much I want you right now,” he murmurs, voice low and rough.

A shiver runs through you. “Then don’t… don’t stop,” you whisper.

The straps of your lingerie slip again. You reach instinctively to take it off but his hands catch your wrists gently. “No,” he breathes, a little laugh tangled with a quiet groan. “Hey… don’t. I expect this to stay on. I want continue to admire you in it more later.”

You hesitate, breath catching, then nod. “Okay,” you whisper.

“yeah,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over you, unhurried and appreciative. “You got all dressed up for me. Leave it on.”

He grins against your lips before capturing your mouth again, hands roaming gently but insistently along your sides, each touch sending sparks through you.

His hand tightens slightly at your waist. “Okay… time’s up,” he murmurs, low and teasing. “I said a minute—now we go inside. Shower first, then we’ll finish this properly.”

“Jack…” you whisper, voice trembling.

“I’ll be quick, I promise,” he murmurs, pressing one last lingering kiss to your mouth. You sigh against him, breathless, heart hammering, fingers brushing lightly along his arms.

“Inside,” you say softly, eyes daring him. “And if you take your sweet time in that shower, I’m holding it against you.”

He laughs, smirking. “Don’t worry. I know better than to keep you waiting.”

Before you can react, he grabs your hand as you hop down from the workbench. Together, you rush inside, hearts racing, hands intertwined. The tension lingers, electric and promising, as the garage door closes behind you.

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NOW: THE END, 2017

Your eyes flutter open, adjusting to the soft morning light spilling through the curtains. Andrew is already awake, propped slightly on one elbow, watching you.

A sleepy smile tugs at your lips. “Hi,” you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep.

A small smile appears on his face. “Hey.”

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You stay tangled together beneath the blankets, enjoying the quiet. The world outside can wait.

“How’d you sleep?” Andrew asks softly.

After everything that happened yesterday, you’d expected a restless night. You’d thought the bruises, the cuts, and the memories would keep you awake for hours.

Instead, the second your head hit the pillow, exhaustion won and with Andrew beside you, you’d felt something you hadn’t felt in a long time. Safe.

You let out a quiet laugh. “Better than I thought I would.”

“Yeah?”

You nod against the pillow.

“How’re you feeling?”

You shift slightly and immediately regret it as soreness pulls through your muscles. Bruises ache beneath your skin, and the cuts still sting when you move.

“My body’s sore,” you admit with a wince. “Everywhere.”

“Yeah,” Andrew says quietly. “I figured.”

His hand slides slowly up your back, warm and steady against you. He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before resting his brow against yours, his eyes closing for a moment.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "For everything... for last night. I never wanted any of this to happen to you."

He swallows, the words catching before he forces them out.

"I know you told me you loved me last night, but..." He hesitates, the words clearly costing him. "If you want out—if you don't want this anymore... if you don't want me... this life..." He swallows hard. "If you changed your mind....I'd understand. I..."

You don't let him finish. You cup his face and kiss him. When you pull back, your forehead finds him again.

"I didn't change my mind," you whisper. "I'm still here aren’t I?”

His eyes search yours, like he's trying to make sure you mean it that you're not saying it because you're hurting, or because you think it's what he needs to hear.

“Angel…”

“Andrew…I’m not going to pretend I like it,” you say honestly. “What you’re around… what comes with it. I don’t. But I’m here anyway.”

Your voice steadies as you go on.

“And I’m not asking you to change everything or pretend it’s not your life. We were already figuring out how to keep me out of it before. We were doing okay.”

You swallow, fingers still lightly curled against him.

“I know you wouldn’t pull me into something on purpose,” you add. “And I know I’m going to end up knowing more than I want to sometimes. But I also know you’ll do your best to keep it away from me.” you finish quietly. “And that matters to me.”

“I’m not asking you to be okay with it,” he adds. “I’m asking if you’re sure you want this… with me. Knowing all of that…”

“I’m with you,” you say softly.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly. His thumb traces once over your knuckles again, slower this time. “You’re really sure?”

“I’m sure,” you say “I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t.”

“I love you” he whispers. 

His smile only grows. The room falls quiet again. Neither of you makes any move to get up .For now, wrapped in warmth and the quiet comfort of each other's company, the rest of the world feels far away.

You study Andrew for a moment, almost afraid that if you blink, the moment will disappear. He leans in and kisses you. You smile against his lips as the kiss deepens

"Uncle Pope!" Lena's voice rings through the room as she barrels through the doorway.

You and Andrew spring apart so fast it's almost comical, both of you scrambling upright.

"Lena!" Andrew says a little too quickly, trying to sound completely casual.

He looks toward the doorway and finds not only Lena but Craig, Deran, and J standing there, all wearing expressions that range from amused to outright entertained.

Heat floods your face. If the mattress would have swallowed you whole, you would've gladly let it. "...Morning," you mumble. 

“Sorry to uh, barge in on you two,” J says, shifting slightly in the doorway. “But someone—” he nods toward Lena, “decided she needed Uncle Pope immediately.”

Lena looks between the two of you, completely oblivious to the awkward silence hanging in the room.

“Uncle Pope, I missed you,” she says brightly, already climbing onto the bed. She settles herself in his lap and wraps her arms around him in a tight hug.

Andrew softens instantly, one hand coming up to steady her as he hugs her back. Then Lena pulls away just enough to look at you and her expression changes. Her eyes land on the bruises scattered across your arms and the scrapes on your face.

"What happened?" she asks, her expression instantly turning worried.

Andrew's smile fades. "Angel was in an accident," he explains gently. "That's why I had to drop you off at the babysitter's yesterday."

Lena's attention snaps back to you. "Are you okay?"

You offer her a reassuring smile. "I will be"

She studies you for another second, seemingly satisfied, before her curiosity shifts gears. "Were you guys sleeping?"

Andrew nods. "Yeah, we were just resting” 

Lena tilts her head. "Are you guys dating?"

Craig, Deran, and J snicker at the question, each of them quickly trying to hide their amusement.

Andrew glances at you for the briefest moment before looking back at his niece. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. 

"Yeah," he says simply. "We are."

Lena's eyes go wide. "Really?"

"Really."

A huge grin spreads across her face. "Does that mean she's my aunt now?"

Craig loses his battle with composure, laughing outright. "The kid doesn’t waste any time."

Deran shakes his head "Jesus, Lena."

J snickers. 

Andrew lets out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not exactly," he says. "It's... a little more complicated than that…”

Lena frowns as she tries to make sense of it. "Oh."

The disappointment lasts all of two seconds. "Can she still come over?"

Andrew’s expression softens right away. “Yeah,” he says. “She can still come over. If she wants to.”

Lena’s attention snaps back to you in an instant, eyes lighting up again. “Will you come over?”

You don’t hesitate. “Yes. Of course I’ll come over,” you tell her gently.

“Hey—are you hungry?” Andrew asks.

“Mhm,” Lena nods without hesitation.

“How about we make breakfast?” he suggests.

That’s all it takes.

She’s up in an instant, scrambling out of bed and darting past everyone like she’s been waiting for permission to launch herself into the day. “Breakfast!” she calls over her shoulder as she runs out of the room.

Craig lets out a laugh, already moving after her. J follows close behind, shaking his head like he’s trying not to smile too much.

Andrew chuckles under his breath, watching them go.

Before he gets up, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your lips quickly, then pulls away with a faint smile and heads after them.

Deran doesn’t follow. Instead, he stays. He crosses the room and drops down onto the bed beside you, stretching out like he’s making himself at home without asking permission.

The mattress dips under his weight.

Deran settles in like he’s got nowhere else he needs to be, one arm hooked behind his head as he stares toward the ceiling. The noise from the kitchen starts to build already, opening, Craig’s voice carrying, Lena bouncing between questions like she can’t decide which one matters most first.

“How are you doing?”

“Feeling a lot of things,” you admit honestly.

He nods slowly, like he understands there isn’t just one answer to that.

“I’m not gonna give you a whole speech..I’d like to tell you things will get better,” he says after a beat, voice steady but careful. “It’ll get easier to manage eventually. Things don’t exactly go away, though. I think you know that…” He pauses, then adds, softer, “But either way… you don’t have to deal with it alone. You’ve got us.”

A small silence settles between you.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I know I do.”

“We’re here. We get it… as sad as that sounds. I mean…I'd prefer we didn’t all have shared expertise in this kind of thing. But,” he continues, more grounded again, “it does make it easier to show up for each other. When it counts.”

You reach for his hand and squeeze it.

“I love you guys,” you say quietly.

His expression shifts at tha —something softer, a little caught off guard, but not in a bad way.

“I don’t know how you could,” he admits after a beat, honest in a way that isn’t self-pity so much as disbelief.

You shake your head slightly, eyes still on him.

“So,” he says, a little too casually, “you and Andrew.”

You let out an immediate laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, stop.”

“Ew—yeah, gross,” he says at once, like the idea alone is offensive enough to erase from his brain. He even scrunches his face, shaking his head. “I don’t need that image in my life. Ever.”

That pulls a laugh out of you real this time, unguarded. 

From down the hall, the house is anything but calm.

Lena’s laughter cuts through the first high, breathless, followed by Craig shouting something that sounds like an accusation and a defense at the same time. Andrew’s voice rises over both of them, sharp with frustration, and J’s in there too, arguing back. 

“Come on,” you say, sitting up. “Let’s go help in there before they burn something down.”

A loud beep cuts you off before he can answer.The smoke alarm fully loses patience with everyone, its shriek filling the house in seconds.

“Already did,” he mutters, 

From the kitchen, Craig’s voice carries over the noise. “It’s fine—turn it off, it’s fine!”

“It is absolutely not fine!” Andrew snaps back.

J says something you can’t quite make out over the alarm, sounding offended and defensive all at once, and Lena just keeps laughing—fully entertained by the chaos. 

Deran pushes himself off the bed, shaking his head as he walks toward the doorway with you.

When he reaches the hall, he stops for half a second at the sight—smoke drifting up near the ceiling, everyone talking over each other, the kitchen in total disarray.

He lets out a slow breath.

“That…” he says simply, gesturing loosely toward all of it. Then he looks at you.

“You’re stuck with it. Us. All of it.”

A small smile tugs at your mouth.

“I know,” you say.

And this time, it doesn’t feel heavy at all.

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“I haven’t seen it this empty since the first few weeks I moved in,” you say to Jack as the two of you stand in your now bare apartment. His arms are wrapped around you from behind, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder.

A few weeks ago, Jack asked if you’d consider moving to Pittsburgh to live with him. You didn’t answer right away. You sat with it…turned it over in your mind in the quiet hours, in the in between spaces where decisions actually reveal themselves.

And then you said yes.

You were nervous, definitely. The kind that’s reminding you that everything familiar is about to change, but underneath it all, there was excitement too. A steady, growing feeling that this new chapter with him was exactly where you were supposed to go.

You’d come to New York to feel closer to your brother, Wes, after he passed.Now, as you prepare to leave the city, you realize you’re not really leaving anything behind.

 You’re taking the best parts with you, the memories, the love, the piece of Wes that still lives in both of you. With Jack by your side, it doesn’t feel like losing your brother all over again. It feels like carrying him forward. 

“I’m gonna miss it, but…” You turn around and face Jack, your arms resting around his shoulders as his hands settle at your hips. “I can't wait to move to Pittsburgh and be with you”

A small smile tugs at his mouth, soft and unguarded, like he’s been holding that feeling too carefully to say it out loud. His thumbs brush lightly against your sides. 

“I’m excited too,” he says, leaning in to kiss you.

When he pulls back just slightly, his forehead stays close to yours, his breath warm against your skin. He peppers quick kisses across your cheek.

“Are you ready?” He asks softly. 

“Mhm” you nod at him. 

Jack takes your hand and you lock your apartment for one last time. 

—

Five hours, fifty-eight minutes. Three hundred and sixty-nine miles to Pittsburgh.

You rented a U-Haul, everything you own packed into the back in labeled boxes and uneven stacks that somehow still feel like your life, condensed down and sealed in cardboard.

Before hitting the road, you and Jack stop at a gas station. He fills up the tank while you go inside and you grab snacks. 

You make your way toward him, oversized slushies clutched in your hands, your arms overloaded with chips, candy, and beef jerky. Two bags teeter precariously on top of the pile, threatening to tumble with every step.

The moment he sees you, he lets out a laugh. “Honey,” he says in disbelief, pushing himself off the truck.

“What?” you ask defensively, trying not to drop anything.

Jack looks over the mountain of snacks in your arms and shakes his head. “We're driving for six hours, not surviving the apocalypse.”

You glance down at the pile in your arms.

“Okay, first of all,” you say, carefully adjusting a bag of chips before it slips free, “you don't know what kind of emotional support snacks a person needs during a major life transition.”

Jack laughs and reaches over to rescue one of the slushies before it topples from your grasp. “Emotional support snacks?”

“Yes.”

He eyes the overflowing collection in your arms before plucking the bag of chips from the top of the pile. “The chips?”

“Essential.”

He tucks the chips under his arm and grabs the candy next. “The candy?”

“Medicinal.”

“Of course it is.” he rolls his eyes playfully. “And the beef jerky?”

“Protein.”

“Right.” The corner of his mouth twitches as he looks at you. “You know, I was worried moving all your stuff would be the hard part.”

“Oh?” you ask, following behind him. “And what's the hard part now?”

Jack opens the passenger door and looks back at you. “Finding somewhere to put all these.”

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling as you climb into the truck.

A few minutes later, the snacks are scattered across the center console, the slushies are secured in their cup holders. 

Jack starts the engine and glances over at you. “Ready?”

You look out the windshield, then at him.

The apartment, the city, the chapter of your life that had lived here for so long it was all behind you now. And somehow, instead of feeling sad, you felt light.

“Yeah,” you say, reaching over and taking his hand for a moment. “Let's go home.” The smile that spreads across Jack's face is immediate. He squeezes your hand once before shifting into drive. And together, the two of you pull onto the road, heading toward Pittsburgh.

—

You and Jack were laughing, the miles slipping by easily between jokes and road-trip snacks.

You dangled a piece of beef jerky in front of him, only to pull it away every time he leaned in to take a bite.

“Hey!” Jack protested, making another failed attempt to grab it with his teeth.

You snickered and held it just out of reach.

“Stop teasing me and feed me the jerky, you jerk!” he protests.  

You let out a dramatic gasp. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me!” he lets out a breathy laugh. 

“For that,” you declared, pulling the jerky back toward yourself, “I don't think you should get any jerky.”

Jack glanced over at you before returning his eyes to the road.

“Oh, so I don't deserve jerky because I called you a jerk? Yet you're the one teasing me.”

You pressed a hand dramatically to your chest. “I am not teasing you.”

Jack gave you a look. “You've pulled that piece of jerky away from me five times.”

“Maybe six”

“I'm the one driving,” he pointed out.

You narrowed your eyes at home “Are you threatening me?”

“I'm just saying,” he replied with a grin, holding out one hand expectantly, “the driver should probably be kept happy.”

“The driver sounds entitled.” you huff. 

“The driver is responsible for getting you and all of your possessions safely to Pittsburgh.”

You tried not to laugh. “That's a fair point.”

“Thank you.” he gleams 

“But I'm still not giving you the jerky.”

Jack groaned. “You're the worst.”

“And yet you're moving me across state lines.”

“Yeah,” he said, stealing the jerky from your hand the second your guard dropped. “Because apparently I love you.”

“Jack!”

“Hey,” Jack says suddenly, a soft smile tugging at his mouth as something comes on the radio. He reaches to turn it up. “It’s our song.”

“Our song?” You furrow your brows, glancing at him. Since when did you two have a song?

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Before I left to go back home to Pittsburgh… the night I missed the train. We danced in the street to that street performer.”

Jack immediately starts singing badly, and very much on purpose.

You laugh and reach over, covering his mouth with your hand.

“Mmmph,” he protests, the sound muffled against your palm. “Jogging your memory?” The vibrations of his words tickle your hand, making you laugh harder.

“Yes,” you say, nodding your head. “I remember. Thank you.”

He catches your hand and gently pulls it away from his mouth instead of letting go, his thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles.

Then his voice softens, and he sings it properly this time.

“Touch me once and you'll know it's true… I never wanted anyone like this… it’s all brand new… you’ll feel it in my kiss… I’m crazy for you.”

As the last line lands, he lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a quiet kiss to your knuckles. You smile, warmth settling in your chest, and lean across the center console to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

A beat passes. The song drifts on. The road hums beneath you. Jack nudges your hand with his. “Again.”

“Again what?”

“The kiss.”

You glance at him, then slowly lean in but instead of kissing his cheek, you hover just close enough for him to think you will.

His eyes flick to you. Waiting. You pull back at the last second.

Jack huffs. “Oh, so now you’re doing that too.”

“Doing what?”

“This,” he gestures vaguely, still smiling. “The teasing thing.”

You tilt your head. “I’m not teasing.”

“Uh-huh.”

He reaches over, tapping your knee lightly. “Give me the kiss.”

You consider him for a moment, then lean in again. closer this time.

He leans in slightly too, like he’s not even trying to hide it and again, you stop just short, brushing your breath against his cheek instead of your lips. You finally break, laughing, and before he can complain again you press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.

“There it is,” he says quietly. Jack shakes his head, but he’s still smiling as he looks back at the road. “You’re dangerous with snacks and kisses,” he mutters.

“You love it.”

“…Yeah,” he admits, reaching for your hand again. “Unfortunately, I do.”

—

As the road trip to Pittsburgh went on, you and Jack stopped several times along the way, trading off when he needed a break so you could drive for a while.

Eventually, the long stretch of highway gave way to familiar streets.

You must’ve dozed off sometime after the last stop, because the next thing you feel is a gentle rub against your arm.

“Beautiful,” someone murmurs.

Your eyes flutter open with a groan. Jack is standing by the passenger door, which is already open, the evening light spilling in behind him.

“We’re here,” he says softly.

You blink, still half-asleep, and look through the windshield. His house sits there in front of you quiet, steady. Home.

Jack leans in a little closer, voice softer now. “Come on, baby.”

He unbuckles his seat belt and takes you in his arms. 

“Jack,” you mumble, still foggy with sleep. “I can walk.”

“I’ve gotta carry you over the threshold.”

“That’s a marriage tradition,” you say, eyes barely open, “and we’re not married.”

He pauses like he’s actually taking that in, then shrugs. “So? Practice.”

You let out a soft chuckle, but before you can argue any further, he’s already lifting you up. He shuts your car door with his body and carries you up toward the porch.

You let out a sleepy sigh against his shoulder. “You’re making things up.”

“Maybe,” he says, adjusting his hold on you, “but I’m still doing it.”

You huff a small laugh, already giving in. “This is insane.”

“You’re comfortable though.”

“…Unfortunately.”

“That’s what I thought.” He stops at the front door, shifting you slightly in his arms. “Could you uh… get the door?”

“Oh geez,” you laugh softly. “Where are your keys?”

“My pockets.”

You glance up at him, then carefully reach into his pocket while he still holds you. “This is ridiculous.”

“This is romantic,” he says simply.

You shake your head, pulling the keys free and fumbling a little as you reach for the lock. “If I drop these, it’s your fault.”

“Noted.”

With one final click, the door unlocks, and Jack nudges it open with his shoulder, carrying you inside. 

“Ta da,” he says, carefully setting you down once they’re both inside.

You steady yourself, still half-asleep, and glance around the quiet space. Jack steps in behind you, shutting the door with his foot.

“Welcome home,” he adds softly. The words hang in the air for a moment simple, but full of something that settles deep in your chest.

You look at him, blinking slowly. “Home, huh?”

He just smiles, like there isn’t anywhere else it could possibly be. “

“Welcome home,” he adds softly. The words linger in the air…simple, but carrying something that settles in your chest.

You look at him “Home, huh?”

He just smiles, like there isn’t anywhere else it could possibly be. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Home.”

Then, without warning, his expression shifts like a switch flips and he’s already backing away.

“And since we’re finally home…” he announces suddenly, way too brightly for the hour. “Last one to bed is a rotten egg!” And before you can even process it, he takes off down the hall.

“Jack!” you laugh, scrambling after him as sleepiness gets replaced with disbelief. “Are you serious right now?” you call after him, already moving. His laughter echoes back through the house as you take off after him.

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There’s a knock at the back door sharp, impatient.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” you call out through a yawn, already dragging yourself toward it.

You pull it open and find Craig standing there.

“I need to talk to you,” he says, and before you can even respond, he’s already stepping past you like he belongs inside.

You let out a slow, tired breath, closing the door behind him. “Craig, I’m not in the mood for whatever this is…” 

“I’m not here to tease you,” he says quickly.

Without missing a beat, he makes himself right at home like he always does. He breezes past you, already opening your fridge, scanning it. He starts rummaging through it, pulling things aside with casual confidence, like this conversation is just background noise.

“Or get patched up,” he adds, half-distracted as he rifles through your fridge like he lives there, shifting things around with no real intention of taking anything. “And it’s not about some stupid fight or drama I’ve gotten myself tangled in.”

He shuts it when he comes up empty, like he’s personally offended by your lack of snacks.

You lean your weight against the doorframe, rubbing a hand over your face. Your hair’s still messy, your eyes heavy with exhaustion.

“I’m tired,” you say flatly. “I worked a night shift last night, and all I want is to go back to sleep.”

Craig’s expression shifts to less amused now, more serious. “It’s about Pope.”

The shift is immediate. The air changes.

Craig exhales, “We were on a job–”

“You shouldn’t be telling me this” you didn’t say anything. The less you knew about their jobs the better. 

“I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important… things went sideways.”

The words made your heart clench. A rush of panic flooded your veins.

“Sideways?” you repeated, your voice tightening. “What do you mean? Is he okay?”

“Physically, he’s fine. But mentally…” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “We were on dirt bikes, getting chased by cops.”

Your stomach dropped.

“We cut through an orange grove, trying to lose them.” His jaw tightened, eyes falling to the floor for a moment, like he was seeing it all over again. “Then he just... stopped.”

“Stopped?”

He nodded once. “Turned his bike around and headed straight back toward them.”

A chill ran down your spine.

“He pulled his gun,” Craig said quietly. “Just rode right at them with it drawn.”

You blink, the words not fully landing at first. “He…what?”

Craig lets out a slow breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “I had to drag him out of it. We almost didn’t make it back.” His voice drops. “Patch… he was trying to get himself killed. One second we were riding, trying to get away, the next he looked like he didn't care what happened to him.”

A pit forms in your stomach,“Craig…”

He runs a hand over his mouth, like he’s trying to steady himself. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I’m just worried about him, you know? I just came from talking to Deran about it. I told him he should let Pope work at the Drop…give him something to do, keep him busy, keep him moving but he shut it down. He just thinks the Pope needs to stay away from Smuf” he rolls his eyes, annoyed with Deran.

“When did this job happen?”

“Three days ago” 

“I don’t know what to do,” he says quietly. “I know he gets like this sometimes, but I haven’t seen him this low in a while.”

And you understand what he means without him having to explain it further.

When Andrew got like this, it wasn’t something you could talk him out of. It didn’t sit on the surface where you could reach it. It pulled him under…fast, deep until it felt like nothing could get through.

Craig looked at you for a moment before asking quietly, “Could you talk to him? He opens up to you more than anyone.”

The request made your chest tighten.

“Okay... yeah.” You nodded. “Of course. I'll talk to him when I get the chance.”

“Thank you,” he says, pulling you into a brief hug. 

“I’ll catch you later,” he says as he pulls away.

“Yeah,” you reply softly. 

He gives you one last look before turning to leave.

Once he was gone, you headed back to your room. You picked up your phone from your nightstand and called Andrew. It rang a few times before going to voicemail.

“Hey,” you said after the beep. “Call me when you get a chance.”

You hung up and set the phone back down, trying not to read too much into the silence.

With a sigh, you climbed into bed, hoping to get a little sleep before your night shift. You had an  uneasy feeling that something wasn’t right. Eventually, exhaustion won out, and you let your eyes close, hoping you'd wake up to a missed call or a text from him.

—

You still thought about Andrew throughout your shift, replaying everything Craig had relayed to you. The words wouldn’t leave your mind.

You knew he’d been cage fighting just to blow off steam, his outlet in the chaos that was his life but things were clearly getting worse. Bad enough that he might even end up standing off with cops on a job. That kind of escalation didn’t happen out of nowhere.

It had been building for a while now, simmering under the surface until it finally reached its boiling point and now, it felt like it was only a matter of time before everything came crashing down. You needed to see him before it got worse.

It was later in the night, well into your shift, when J called.

“Hey, I’ve gotta take this. I’ll meet you inside,” you told your partner, Tony, glancing down at your phone.

Tony nodded and headed into the diner while you lingered in the parking lot beside the ambulance. The two of you had some downtime and had stopped for food.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Patch.”

Your stomach tightens slightly at the sound of J’s voice.

“Are you okay?” you ask, furrowing your brows. There’s something in his tone, something heavy. “Whats wrong?”

“Could we talk?” His voice is low, cautious.

“Yeah, of course. What’s—”

“In person?”

“I’m working, but I have some down time now. My partner and I are grabbing a bite to eat before we head back out on the road,” you cut in quickly. “We’re at Bob’s BBQ on Main Street. There’s a booth in the back by the window. Come by if you want—I’ll save you a seat.”

“Alright. I’ll be there in a bit.”

“Okay,” you say, keeping your voice gentle. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah.”

The line goes dead, and you stare at your phone for a moment longer than necessary, unease settling in your chest. 

—

J showed up about 20 minutes later. 

Sensing the conversation was probably better had in private, your partner Tony gave you some space, taking his food and settling at a table across the room.

J stood there for a moment before finally sitting down across from you. He looked uneasy, like he wasn't entirely sure how to start.

You pushed your basket of fires towards him. He grabbed a fry, more out of habit than hunger.

“Do you know Angela Kane?” he asked carefully. “She was my mom’s best friend.”

You hadn’t heard her name in years. “Yeah, I remember her.” You’d been around her plenty of times when you were younger. She wasn’t exactly a friend, but she wasn’t a stranger either.

“Why?” you ask. 

“She got out of prison. She's staying at the house.” He doesn’t say more, but the sharp edge in his voice tells you everything you can tell he doesn’t want her around, especially at the compound.

“Smurf’s letting her stay?” you ask, eyebrows lifting in disbelief. You remember exactly how much Smurf never liked her though, to be fair, Smurf doesn’t like most people.

“No, Pope is,” he said.

That made you pause.

“Really?” you asked, eyebrows lifting slightly, disbelief threading through your voice.

That didn’t sound like Pope at all. First wanting to stand off with cops, and now letting an old friend of Julia’s stay at the house?

He hated having people over…tolerated it at best. If you were a stranger, you were expected to leave the moment your welcome even hinted at wearing thin. And even if he did know you, it depended entirely on trust and history, and whether or not he liked you. 

He knew Angela through Julia, and Andrew was probably only letting her stay because of that connection—but still, it felt off.

“I don’t like her. I never did growing up,” J said.

“Well, that makes two of us,” you admitted.

Growing up, she’d always rubbed you the wrong way…little comments, teasing here and there, nothing outright cruel but enough to linger. She was one of the people who never quite understood how the Codys, especially Andrew, could be friends with you.

You knew you were different from them. The Codys knew it too. Your upbringing wasn’t the same as theirs but you were still close enough to be adjacent, always orbiting their world without fully belonging to it. And yet there were ways you connected. Especially when it came to your father being the under-the-table doctor in Oceanside.

“I don’t trust her. Pope’s making a mistake letting her stay at the house. I don’t understand why he’s helping her when he didn't even help my mom and I” 

You knew Andrew thought about Julia all the time, even if the family had long since cast her out. There had been rare moments, years back, when the Codys crossed paths with her but they always kept their distance. Andrew would admit, every now and then, that he wanted to see her. You always encouraged it, even offered to go with him whenever you visited. But he never did. 

Back then, he was still tightly wound around Smurf’s leash. That was part of it, but not all of it. You knew the rest was guilt. He couldn’t bring himself to face his twin. The only person besides you who truly understood him and he’d betrayed her, left her behind.

They came into this world together, only to end up facing it alone.

You feel for J. And you know Andrew should’ve done more. Deep down, you’re pretty sure he knows it too.

“I’ll talk to him.”

“It’s not going to change anything. You know him. Once he’s set on something, there’s no getting him to change his mind.”

“That’s not always necessarily true,” you said. “I’ll talk to him. I’ve been planning to see him ever since Craig came to me this morning. He told me what happened on the last job.”

“He claimed that he was ‘wiped out’.. That’s probably what he’s going to tell you” J says. 

“I know,” you replied, steady. “And I know that’s not the truth. Craig’s worried. I know it’s bad when Deran and Craig… even Baz, when he was around, had to come to me just to talk sense into him.”

“I just haven’t been able to get a hold of him,” you admitted. “He’s not answering my calls.”

A shadow crosses J’s face. “He’s been spending time with Angela.”

You nod slowly, unsure what to make of it. Your silence stretches a beat too long.

J watches you carefully, “I figured you should know,” he adds, quieter now. “That’s all.”

You swallow, forcing your expression to stay even. “Yeah. Thanks.”

— 

You try Andrew again the next day, but there’s still no reply, no call back, nothing. Growing more worried, you decide to head to the compound to see him for yourself.

It was late. You weren’t even sure if he was home. You pulled into the driveway, cut the engine, and stepped out. You moved through the breezeway toward the backyard. The sliding glass door to the kitchen was open, and inside you found Smurf.

She was in a robe, casually making herself a cocktail. 

“Where’s Andrew?” you ask, your voice tighter than you meant it to be.

“He’s in Craig’s old room,” Smurf replies, tone light—almost too light.

You miss the faint smirk at the corner of her mouth, but she knows exactly what’s waiting on the other side of that door… and exactly what it’s going to do when you open it.

Your heart pounds as you make your way down the hall to Craig’s old room. You push the door open.

“Andrew—oh my god!”

There they are. Andrew and Angela. Caught in the mess of sheets, limbs tangled, skin flushed, reality unmistakable. 

Andrew wasn’t spiraling. Not alone and unraveling the way you’d worried. He was fine. More than fine.

All the worry that's been eating at you for the past couple of days dissolved the second you saw him in the bed. A different feeling slipped into place. An ache. A stupid, painful ache that settled in you. Because he was with her.

What happened in just a couple of days? What shifted so fast, so easily, that it ended with her in bed with him like she belonged there?

Your gaze flicked between them, your pulse still racing from the worry that had sent you tearing across town a worry that now felt ridiculous. Embarrassing.

Has this all been some kind of joke? Did Craig and J lie to you when you’d talk to them? Had they planted the idea that Andrew was struggling just to get you here? Just so you’d walk in and see this? See them together. Were they going to hold this over your head, tease you about it? 

“Patch?” Andrew jerks upright. He’s sitting up now, fumbling with the sheet to cover himself, eyes wide in shock.

You barely manage to murmur, “I’m… I’m sorry—” before you pull the door shut a little too hard. You press your back against the wood for balance.

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself steady. He’s fine. That’s what matters, but the sight of them, of him playing on a loop behind your eyelids.

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes. You drag in a shaky breath and force them back. You will not fall apart in his hallway. Not outside the bedroom door. Not where anyone could open it and see exactly what this did to you.

Not here. Not now.

You rush down the hall. 

“Going so soon?” Smurf calls after you as you pass through the kitchen.

You can hear the smirk in her voice, even without looking back.

You don’t respond. You just keep moving, weaving through the house, desperate to get out.

Behind you, Andrew’s footsteps hit the floor hard—fast, uneven, closing the distance. He’s half-dressed, only in boxers, hair tousled like he’s just thrown himself out of bed, chasing after you.

“Patch—” he calls out, voice strained, but you don’t stop. Your legs move on their own, carrying you toward the front door as your mind swirls with disbelief and hurt. Every step feels heavier, like the walls are closing in with your racing thoughts.

“Whoa—hey! Stop, stop!” His hand clamps around your wrist, yanking you around. You spin to face him, your chest heaving, heart pounding. His eyes are wide, desperate.

His hands move to your shoulders, grounding you, before sliding down your arms in an attempt to steady you. “What—are you okay? What are you doing here?” His voice trembles with worry, his gaze searching yours as if trying to read the storm inside you.

“I—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—” you say quickly, stumbling over your words. He notices the tears gathering in your eyes.

“Hey, slow down. Take a breath.” His tone softens, careful and coaxing. “Look at me.”

His hands rise to cup your face, trying to guide your attention back to him, but you pull away before he can fully reach you, putting space between you.

His hands fall back to his sides.

Andrew frowns, watching you step out of reach, the rejection landing harder than he expects.

You wrapped your arms around yourself instead, holding on tight as if you were the only thing keeping yourself together. His brow furrowed, concern deepening as he watched you retreat further into yourself.

“I thought—” Your voice caught. You swallowed hard and tried again. “Craig said you weren't doing good.”

Andrew's expression immediately changed.

“Craig?”

You left out the details of what Craig had told you, knowing Andrew was smart enough to fill in the blanks on his own. And you definitely weren't about to mention J meeting up to talk, upset about Andrew letting Angela stay at the compound.

Your gaze dropped to the floor.

“That’s why I’m here. I've just... been worried,” you admitted quietly. “I've tried calling you—”

“I’ve been busy. Been helping around at The Drop.” He huffed a dry laugh. “The place is a goddamn dump…definitely not up to health code. I don’t know how Deran gets people through the door, or how they keep coming back.”

Despite everything you were feeling, a small smile threatened to pull at your lips. It sounded like Deran had finally listened to Craig about giving Andrew something to do.

You knew how meticulous Andrew could be. How he couldn’t stand things being out of place. You could already picture him stalking around the bar with a rag in one hand and a scowl on his face, scrubbing things that didn’t need scrubbing, reorganizing shelves that weren’t his to reorganize, and driving Deran absolutely insane in the process.

Under different circumstances, the image might have made you laugh. Instead, the amusement faded almost as quickly as it came.

“I’ve been meaning to call you back, it’s just…” He rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a tired sigh. 

He’d been meaning to call you back, but he never really got around to it.

Angela had only been crashing at the house for a couple days, but she was there when he got home, there in the quiet moments, and somehow he just fell into that rhythm without thinking about it. She’d quickly become someone he leaned on without really planning to. Especially tonight. 

And the call… kept slipping further out of reach.

“Things have just been complicated lately.”

“Right…” It comes out more irritated than you intend, edged with something you’re trying not to name. Jealousy you don’t want to admit, even to yourself. You know you shouldn’t feel like this, you tell yourself there’s no reason to, but that doesn’t make the feeling go away.

Andrew’s expression shifts immediately. He catches the tone. 

“Patch…” he starts carefully, choosing his words. He thinks it’s about him not calling…the silence, the distance he left between you. He has no idea it’s anything deeper, or that seeing him with Angela is what really got to you.

“Angela, Andrew—what is she even doing here?” The words come out sharper than you meant them to.

His brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face. “She needs a place to crash.”

You stare at him for a moment. “And you just let her crash here after not seeing her for years?”

Andrew shrugs, like the answer should be obvious. “She’s got nowhere else to go.”

You stare at him for a second. “Are you sure that's all she needs?”

His eyes narrow immediately. “What's that supposed to mean? Did Smurf put you up to this?” he cuts in sharply. “Convince me to get rid of her?” 

“What?” You let out a disbelieving laugh. “No.”

“Because this sounds a lot like Smurf.” he states

“Well, it isn't…”

A tense silence settles between you.

“Andrew, you don’t even know her—”

His jaw clenches. “She’s not some stranger.”

“She might as well be,” you argue. “You haven’t seen her in years.”

His gaze stays fixed on you. “You’re acting like she showed up here with some kind of agenda.”

“And what if she did?”

“Jesus Christ,”

“I’m serious!” You take a step closer. “You trust her that much?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that?” You look at him like he’s lost his mind.

“She needed help,” he says, exasperated, running a hand through his hair. His voice goes flat with disbelief, like he can’t make sense of your reaction. “I thought you’d understand where she’s coming from.”

You shake your head slightly, cutting in. “She just shows up out of the blue and says she needs help, and that’s enough for you?”

His expression hardens immediately, the patience draining out of him. “Yeah. It is.”

“What is this?” he asks, frustration in his voice. “Where is this coming from?”

Angela appears behind him, quietly stepping into view in his shirt and a pair of shorts.

Andrew glances back at her. He sighs before gesturing slightly between you, trying to smooth the moment over. “Angela, you remember Patch right?”

Your voice steadies, even if it takes effort. “Hi, Angela.”

Angela gives a small nod, a polite half-smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Hey… it’s been a while. Still hanging around the Codys, I see. You haven’t changed much.”

“Yep” was all you managed to say to her. 

“Sorry about earlier— I didn't mean to barge in on you guys like that” you add quickly to both Andrew and Angela. It’s performative, but at this moment it still feels like the right thing to say.

“Was worried, is all… but you’re clearly fine.” You clap your hands together once, forcing a brightness that doesn’t match your expression as you address Andrew. “So I’m just going to go now.”

Your voice wavers on the last word. You can feel it building. You already know if you stay a second longer, you’ll lose it.

“Hey—” Andrew’s voice cuts in, firm now. “We’re not done talking.”

Behind him, Angela shifts awkwardly, suddenly very aware she’s standing in the middle of something she doesn’t fully understand. But Andrew doesn’t look away from you.

You swallow hard, hold his gaze for a beat too long, then break it and with that, you turn and walk out the front door. Outside, the air feels colder than you expect. You step off the porch and out into the driveway toward your car. The tears escape, falling from your eyes. 

Smurf comes out of the garage and steps into the driveway just as you’re reaching for your keys.

You move on instinct, slipping them from your pocket, already trying to make your escape before she can say anything.

A part of you wishes she would’ve warned you. But then again Smurf isn’t the kind of woman who deals in warnings.

She crosses the space between you in a few unhurried steps and stops right in front of your car door. Leaning into it, she plants herself there.

Her gaze drifts toward the house, lingering a beat too long, like she can see straight through the walls and into whatever mess just unfolded inside. 

“Angela’s a snake,” she says quieter this time, but no less certain. “Slithering where she doesn’t belong.” 

“She’s got more at stake in him than you think,” Smurf adds. “That’s why she’s not going anywhere on her own. You better make yours count.”

You look at her, confused, like she’s missing a piece of the story you don’t have.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” she says immediately, tilting her head. Her eyes narrow, unimpressed. “You’ve been pining over Andrew for years. Don’t act like I didn’t notice.”

She rolls her eyes like the thought itself is obvious. Before you can even respond, she cuts you off.

“I tolerate you… more than I tolerate her,” Smurf says flatly. “And that should tell you everything you need to know.”

Her gaze flicks back toward the house again, “Angela doesn’t belong in that house. Doesn’t belong with him. She’s temporary…a distraction, nothing more.”

Her lip curls slightly. “And I don’t keep things around that don’t belong.”

Then her attention snaps back to you. “But you?” she continues, voice sharpening. “Don’t stand there acting like you don’t know what you want.”

Her mouth tightens, eyes unblinking now. “I thought you were stronger than this. Girls who give up before the fight even starts—they’re pathetic. Weak. They don’t get what they want.”

A beat.

“And right now,” she says, softer but cutting, “that’s exactly what you’re acting like.”

“You want my advice?” she asks, though it doesn’t really sound like a question. “if you actually want him, you don’t sit back and hope it passes, you step in and make sure it does.”

Without waiting for a response, she turns and heads back inside the house.

You hurry into your car and start the engine, but you don’t pull out right away. You just sit there, hands tight on the wheel, eyes fixed ahead. After a moment, you let your head fall forward against it, trying to steady your breathing before you move.

After a moment, you lift your head, straighten your grip on the wheel, and pull out of the driveway.

You don’t look back as you leave.

💜 @hobisystem @timefightrs @festinalente00 @karlawithacapitalk @madprincessinabox @mina2000alex @pascal-rascal424 @cari87 @the-reblog-desk @idfkwhyimhere4357 @blueblizzardreview @scribbles-by-cv @dulcebloodhnd @showgirlshawn @thelightnessofthebeing @huntycola @coldmuffinbanditshoe @artsymaddie @lv7867 @thedamnqueenofhell @tedmustache @zazima

You’d started seeing someone to help you process everything that happened—the murder you witnessed and what came after. It hadn’t been easy. Some days still felt heavier than others, like the memory was right beneath the surface waiting to pull you back under.

But slowly, in small steps, things were beginning to shift. You were learning how to sit with what happened without letting it consume you. Learning how to breathe through the fear instead of getting swallowed by it. Learning, bit by bit, how to keep moving forward.

Sammy and Nate checked in when they could, keeping you updated with whatever information they were able to find about the case. 

Tonight, you were halfway through making dinner, absentmindedly stirring something on the stove while the TV murmured softly in the background. There was a knock at your door.

You freeze.

You lower the spoon onto the counter and cross the room, wiping your hands nervously against your sweatpants before unlocking the door.

“Who is it?”

Then a familiar voice calls from the other side. “It’s Sammy.”

You unlock the door. Sammy and Nate stand on the other side, both looking more serious than usual. Sammy’s hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket while Nate stands stiffly beside him, his expression unreadable.

“Hey,” Sammy says quietly.

“Hi,” you answer, your gaze flicking between them. “What’s going on?”

Sammy exchanges a quick look with Nate before speaking again. “We have an update on the case. Do you mind if we come in?”

Your chest tightens at the word case.

“Sure,” you murmur, stepping aside to let them through.

You step aside to let them in.

Neither of them says much as they walk into the house. You close the door behind them, the click of the lock suddenly sounding too loud in the quiet apartment.

The smell of dinner still lingers in the air as you trail after them into the living room. Sammy and Nate sit on the couch while you lower yourself into the chair across from them, your hands curling tightly together in your lap.

You reach for the remote and mute the TV, the soft glow from the screen flickering across the room as silence settles over all three of you.

For a moment, nobody speaks.

Then Sammy finally breaks the silence.

“We got him.”

Your breath catches. “W-what?” Your eyebrows lift in shock as you stare at them. “You found him?”

Nate nods once. “We have a suspect in custody,” he says carefully. “But we need to do a lineup.”

“A lineup?” Your voice comes out quieter than you intended.

“We need you to identify him,” Nate says. “Officially.”

The room suddenly feels colder. Your stomach twists hard enough to make you feel sick.

Sammy leans forward slightly, his voice gentler now. “You don’t have to answer right this second. We know this is a lot–”

“N-no,” you cut in quickly, shaking your head. “I want to.”

The words come out shaky, but certain.

Silence settles over the room for a brief moment. Sammy studies your face carefully, like he’s trying to make sure you really mean it.

“You’re sure?” He asks softly.

You wanted justice for the man he murdered, but also for yourself. For what he did to you. For the fear he left behind and trying to work through. 

“If you identify him,” Nate says carefully, “it gives the DA enough to move forward with charges. Your statement and the lineup become part of the case.”

He pauses, meeting your eyes directly.

“And because you’re an eyewitness to the murder itself, there’s a strong chance you’d be called to testify later on. That could be at a preliminary hearing or at trial…if it goes that far.”

Sammy’s voice softens slightly. “It doesn’t always end up in a full courtroom trial. Sometimes there’s a plea deal before that happens.”

Nate nods once. “But if it does, we don’t just put you on the stand and leave you there. We prep you for everything…what you’ll be asked, what the courtroom looks like, who will be there. You’d be guided through it step by step.”

A brief pause settles in the room again, heavier this time, but honest.

Sammy adds, “Right now, though, the lineup is the next step. That’s all you have to focus on.”

You let their words sink in. You let out a slow breath, trying to steady yourself.

“We can schedule it whenever you’re ready,” he says softly. “Tomorrow, next week… whenever.”

“No,” you say quietly, shaking your head. “I don’t want to keep waiting… could we do it tomorrow?”

Sammy nods immediately. “Okay,” she says gently. “If that’s what you want, we’ll make it happen.”

The smell hits first—sharp. .

“Oh shit.”

You rush back toward the kitchen and cut the heat on the stove. You already know it’s too late.

Sammy’s already moving, fanning the smoke. Nate steps in and reaches up, switching off the smoke detector before it can fully go off.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sammy says, still waving a hand through the air.

Nate glances at the pan, then at you. “It happens.”

You turn on the sink, letting water run over the pot as you stare at it like it personally betrayed you. The hiss of steam rises up immediately. Fading smoke and the quiet mess of what was supposed to be dinner.

“Well,” you mutter, shoulders dropping slightly, “there goes my dinner.”

Sammy tilts his head toward you. “We were actually just about to go get something to eat. You should come with us.”

Nate glances sideways at him quick, subtle. Not unkind. Just a look that says remember what we talked about. Boundaries. Lines. Don’t get too emotionally folded into it too fast.

Sammy catches it, but doesn’t backtrack. 

You blink, caught off guard more than anything, then glance back at the ruined pot once.

“…Yeah,” you say quietly. “I’d like that.I’ll just go change real quick.” You disappear down the hall, leaving the apartment quieter behind you.

Nate’s voice drops low enough that it doesn’t carry past the room. “You gotta be careful.”

Sammy glances at him. “About what?”

Nate tilts his head slightly toward the hallway. “You know what I mean. We’ve talked about this, Sammy.”

“I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Nate replies evenly. 

Sammy opens his mouth to argue, but Nate cuts him off with a small shake of his head.

“You always get a little too emotionally attached to some of the people we help,” Nate says. “I’ve seen it before.”

Sammy looks down, jaw tightening slightly.

Nate studies him for a moment. “And that’s exactly why I’m saying something.”

“She’s alone, Nate. She doesn’t have anyone there for her…”

“So were a lot of people we’ve helped.”

Sammy falls quiet.

Nate sighs “You care. That’s one of the things that makes you good at this. But you can’t be the person who saves everyone, Sammy”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Sammy doesn’t answer right away.

Finally, he rubs a hand over the back of his neck and looks toward the hallway. The conversation drops away as you step back into the room, ready to leave.

“I’m ready,” you announce with a small smile.

Sammy looks over at you, whatever had been on his mind disappearing behind an easy expression.

“Good,” he says, “Let’s go.”

—

You were laughing, your head tipped back as Sammy told another story about him and Nate had on the job. The hum of conversation and the clatter of dishes filled the diner around you, but Sammy had your full attention. He talked with his hands, getting more animated with every detail, and every time he made you laugh harder, a grin spread across his face.

Across the booth, Nate rolled his eyes and let out a quiet chuckle. For once, he stayed silent, letting Sammy have the floor. Every now and then he'd shake his head when the story became a little too exaggerated, the look on his face saying he'd heard it a hundred times before. Still, there was a fondness there as he listened.

You hadn't laughed or even smiled like this in a long time. Sitting in the worn diner booth, surrounded by the smell of coffee and greasy food, the weight you've been carrying felt a little lighter. For a little while, you were able to forget everything else and simply enjoy being here.

Suddenly, Sammy's phone started ringing.

He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen.

"It's Tammi. I gotta take this." The comment seemed directed more at Nate than anyone else.

Sammy shoved his phone to his ear as he slid out of the booth. "I'll be back."

You watched him head toward the front of the diner, but he hadn't gotten very far before his voice carried back to the table.

"No, Tammi, that's not what happened!"

A beat passed.

"Because that's not what I said!"

He pushed through the front door, but even through the glass you could still see him gesturing with his free hand, clearly growing frustrated. Sammy threw his head back in exasperation. 

Your eyebrows furrowed as you watched him, concerned flickering across your face. Nate, meanwhile, didn't seem bothered in the slightest.

Tammi’s his wife, right?” you ask Nate, your thoughts drifting back to the conversation you’d had about her with Sammy in his car that night when he’d driven you around aimlessly because you couldn’t sleep.

“Yeah,” Nate sighs.

“Is it always like that?” you ask, your meaning clear, Sammy and Tammi, arguing over the phone.

"Pretty much." He leaned back in the booth, exhaling. "It burns hot for a while, then it’s like nothing ever happened. Until the next time."

Another muffled burst of Sammy's voice drifted in from outside.

"That doesn't seem healthy..." you said cautiously.

He glanced toward the window, where Sammy was still pacing with his phone pressed to his ear.

“It’s not, but Sammy loves Tammi,” Nate said quietly, watching him for a moment longer. “He puts up with a lot of shit when it comes to her.”

He hesitated, jaw tightening as he kept his eyes on Sammy.

“Sammy’s a good guy,” he continued, voice lower now. “But she just walks all over him…takes advantage. She comes up with these crazy ideas and expects him to be okay with it. Never runs anything by him, and Sammy’s always the one left cleaning up the mess.”

His expression hardened slightly, frustration slipping through.

“I just don’t get it,” Nate admitted. “He bends over backwards for her, and she—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply. “It’s like she doesn’t even notice what it costs him.”

“I don’t particularly like her…” Nate cut himself off, as if only then realizing how much he’d said. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be airing this out. It’s not my place and this is very unprofessional.”

You met his eyes, steady and reassuring.

“Well, I don’t think any less of you or him. It’s off the record, but I get it. You’re his partner… his friend. You care about him”

“Yeah…he’s my brother. Love him to death”

A small smile tugged at your lips at that.

Nate noticed it and huffed softly, like he didn’t quite know what to do with the moment.

“It’s just…” he started again, then paused, eyes flicking back toward Sammy before returning to you. “I don’t think she treats him the way he deserves.”

“I’d be lucky to have someone like Sammy,” you said quietly.

That made Nate pause. He looked at you a little more directly this time, like he was trying to figure out whether you meant it the way it sounded. His eyebrow lifted slightly.

“Oh god…I didn’t—I–” you started quickly, words tripping over each other as you tried to backpedal, to save yourself from what you’d just said.

It came out too fast, too honest. A silly little crush on Sammy you knew wasn’t going anywhere. He was the detective on an active case you were involved in, and he was married, completely off-limits. No matter how harmless, the feeling stayed tucked away. Still, you thought he was cute, kind, funny, and easy to talk to and you liked how safe you felt around him.

Before you could dig the hole any deeper, Nate let out a quiet chuckle.

“Off the record,” he said, easing the tension with just those two words.

You manage an embarrassed smile, heat rising in your cheeks. A voice cuts in before you can respond.

“Sorry about that,” Sammy said as he slipped back into the booth, settling into his seat with an easy familiarity, completely unaware of the conversation he'd just interrupted.

“You okay?” Nate asked, giving him a quick once over.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Sammy said, waving it off. Then he looked between the two of you. “Now, where was I?”

“We were dealing with Elmo on Hollywood Boulevard,” Nate supplied, jogging his memory.

“Oh, right!” He pointed at Nate. Anyway...” He turned back to you. “So this guy dressed as Elmo...”

—

“You’re still willing to come in tomorrow and identify the suspect in the lineup?” Nate asked. The three of you stood on your front porch, the evening air settling around you as the conversation wound down.

“Yes,” you said with a nod.

“Okay.” Nate returned the nod. “We’ll have the lineup set for around noon. If anything changes, we’ll let you know.”

“Sounds good.”

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Nate said.

“Tomorrow,” you echoed.

“Hey, I’ll catch up in a minute,” Sammy called after him.

Nate glanced back, then gave a small nod before heading toward the car, leaving the two of you alone on the porch.

A brief silence settled between you.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said.

“Yeah, of course.” Sammy shoved his hands into his pockets. “Do you need a ride tomorrow? We can come pick you up if you need.”

You shook your head. “I’ll manage. Thanks for the offer”

The quiet lingered for a moment before his expression softened.

“How’ve you been holding up?” He asks. 

You looked down briefly, gathering your thoughts. “Okay,” you said honestly. “Those resources you gave me... I've been talking to someone. Going to the support groups, too. It's been helpful.”

Your eyes lifted back to him.“So... Thank you. For taking the time to put all that together for me.”

“Yeah, of course,” he said. “I’m really glad they’ve been helpful.”

He paused, then added more quietly, “I know none of that stuff makes things magically better overnight, but you shouldn't have to carry all of it by yourself.”

Something warm settled in your chest at that. “Well,” you said with a small smile, “it helped more than you probably realize.”

A faint smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“Good,” he said simply. “That's all I was hoping for…I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Sammy.”

“Goodnight.”

With one last nod, he turned and headed down the walkway toward Nate and the waiting car, leaving you standing on the porch.

—

You step into the police station at noon, the glass doors shutting behind you with a soft thud. The familiar buzz of phones ringing, keyboards clacking, and low conversations fills the lobby.

Behind a thick pane of security glass, the receptionist looks up from her computer. “Can I help you?”

“Hi.” Your voice comes out quieter than you intended. “I’m here to see Detective Bryant and Detective Moretta.”

“Name?”

You give it to her, watching as she types something into the computer. After a moment, she nods.

There’s a loud click before the secured door beside the desk unlocks with a buzz.

“You can head through there.” She pauses, stopping an officer on his way out. “Hey, Coop—could you bring her down to Gang and Narcotics?”

The officer slows, glancing between the two of you before giving a short nod. “Yeah, I got her.”

“She’ll be waiting for Detectives Nate and Sammy,” the woman adds. 

Cooper pushes the door open wider for you. “C’mon,” he says, motioning for you to follow.

You recognize him. Officer John Cooper.

He’d been one of the officers on patrol outside your house the night of the murder. Recognition crosses his face too. 

“Hi,” you greeted him with a small smile. 

“Hey” he replied with a nod, acknowledging you as he held the door and led the way down the hall.

Cooper glances over at you as he walks. “How’ve you been holding up?”

“I’m doing okay…”

He nods once like he expected that answer. “Been a rough few weeks.”

“Yeah.”

He guides you into the middle of the bullpen. A rowdy open room filled with desks pushed together in clusters. Phones ring constantly here, someone arguing lightly across the room about paperwork while another detective laughs at something under his breath. It feels chaotic, alive.

Near the middle, two desks sit across from each other, both buried in files, coffee cups, and scattered notes.

Sammy looks up first from his chair when Cooper approaches. Nate leaning against Sammy’s desk with a folder in his hands, turns a second later.

Both of their expressions soften immediately when they see you.

“Hey,” Sammy says, standing.

“Thank you” you turn and give Officer Cooper a smile. He nods before walking away. 

“You ready?” Sammy asks.

Your throat feels tight, but you manage a nod anyway.

“Alright,” Nate says softly, “We’ll walk you through it.”

They lead you down the hallway. The farther you get from the bullpen, the quieter everything becomes. Nate walks slightly ahead, while Sammy hangs back just enough to stay beside you. 

When your fingers start twisting nervously in your sleeves, Sammy notices immediately.

“You’re okay,” he says quietly. “There’s no rush.”

You nod again, though your stomach is twisting harder with every step.

Nate opens the door to a dim observation room. A large pane of glass stretches across the wall in front of you. Beyond it is another room. Empty except for black height lines marked against the wall and numbers taped along the floor.

Your chest tightens at the sight.

Nate steps beside the glass. “Okay. In a minute, six men are going to come in and stand on the numbers. They may have them turn, step forward, or say a few words. Standard procedure.”

“You don’t have to answer immediately,” Sammy adds. “Take your time. If you recognize someone, you tell us the number they’re standing on.”

“And if you’re not sure,” Nate says gently, “you say you’re not sure. Don’t pressure yourself into choosing somebody.”

Your eyes stay fixed on the empty lineup room. “Will they be able to see me?”

“No,” Sammy says firmly.

Nate gives a small shake of his head. “This is a one-way glass. You can see them, but they can’t see you. He won’t know where you are.”

“He won’t hear you either,” Sammy adds. “Only us.”

You exhale shakily, but the tightness in your chest eases just slightly.

Sammy gestures toward the chair closest to the window. “Sit if you want. And if this gets overwhelming at any point, we stop. Doesn’t matter if they’re halfway through the lineup. You’re in control here,”

Before you sit, he pauses, studying your expression for a second longer. “You still okay to do this?”

The question was gentle, genuine like he was giving you every opportunity to change your mind without a hint of judgment.

Your fingers tightened together nervously. After a moment, you nodded.

“Yeah.”

Sammy studied you for a second. Not fully convinced you were calm, but accepting the answer anyway.

“Okay.”

You lowered yourself into the chair, clasping your hands tightly in your lap to keep them from shaking.

Nate remained by the observation glass while Sammy stayed close by. Sammy glanced over at you one last time. When you gave him a small nod, he looked at Nate and gave a subtle okay.

Nate returned the nod, then leaned toward the intercom.

“Alright,” he said, pressing the button. “Bring them in.”

The lineup room beyond the glass still sits empty for another moment, painfully quiet. Then men file in one by one, forming a straight line before stopping and turning toward the glass.

Your breath catches. Your stomach drops. That same stare. The same shape of his face. The crooked nose you remember too clearly and then your eyes catch on the tattoo curling just above his collar.

Your eyes stay locked on the man in the lineup like you can’t force yourself to look away. Everything inside you locks up. It feels like he’s staring right at you.

“It’s- It’s three, he’s the man in the alley…” you swallow, forcing the words through. “It’s number three.”

“You’re sure it’s number three?” Nate asks, not doubting you, just making sure the detail is solid, anchored.

You nod quickly “I’m sure,” you say. “His eyes…that tattoo. It’s him–” 

Your hand lifts to your throat before you even realize it, fingers brushing against your skin like you can still feel his grip there. The memory crashes back in. 

You didn’t expect this…didn’t think seeing him on the other side of the glass would hit you like this.

“I—I can’t breathe—” you manage, voice breaking as tears spill over before you can stop them.

“Cut it, Nate,” Sammy says sharply.

Nate immediately goes to the intercom, voice low as he tells them they’ve got what they need.

“Hey—hey. Look at me. Don’t look at him. Look at me.”

Sammy steps into your line of sight, blocking the glass completely. His hands settle on your shoulders. 

You grab onto him, arms wrapping tightly around his middle. You bury your face deeper into the crook of his neck. His arms come around you just as quickly, holding you steady against him.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “You’re okay.”

His hand settles between your shoulder blades as your breath comes in short, uneven pulls.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs again, quieter this time. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” 

The words give you something to focus on besides your panic. His hand never left your back, rubbing slowly. 

Behind him, Nate watches silently. Sammy can already feel Nate staring at the back of his head, probably knowing he’s going to say something about this later. Right now, Sammy doesn’t care.

“Shhh, you’re okay,” he says softly.

Your breathing starts to steady. After a moment, Sammy pulls back just enough to look down at you. 

“I’m sorry…seeing him just…Sorry…” you say, as you quickly wipe the tears from your eyes.

“Hey,” he cuts in gently. “You have nothing to apologize for. You did good.” His voice stays calm as he rubs your arms. 

“How about we get you something to drink? Fresh air, too,” Nate suggests gently.

You nod. 

“I got her,” Nate says, glancing at Sammy as he passes Sammy a file. 

Sammy hesitates for a beat, then nods once. “Yeah… okay.”

“Come on,” Nate says, a hand settling lightly on your back as he guides you toward the door and out of the room.

—

You sit on a bench in a small courtyard outside the police station, a water bottle in hand as you take slow sips.

Nate sits beside you in silence. 

“What's gonna happen now?” you ask him

“We got what we needed,” he said gently. “Your statement, the identification... that gives us what we need to move forward with the investigation.”

He glanced at you briefly, checking your reaction before continuing.

“Like we said yesterday…we’ll present the case to the DA. They’ll decide what charges to pursue, and if the case moves forward, it could eventually go to trial.”

You nodded quietly, absorbing the weight of what that meant.

“So... more waiting,” you said.

A faint, sympathetic smile crossed Nate's face.

“Unfortunately,” he replied. “A lot of it is waiting.”

You let out a quiet sigh and looked down at your hands.

“I’m going to hate that…”

Nate nodded, like he'd heard that sentiment a hundred times before. “Most people do.”

“Because when you're waiting, your brain fills in the blanks,” he continued. “You start wondering what's happening behind the scenes, whether anything's moving forward, whether it's actually going anywhere.”

You gave a small nod. “Exactly.”

“But that doesn't mean nothing's happening,” Nate said. “It just means a lot of the work is happening where you can't see it.”

“In the meantime,” he said, “keep doing what you've been doing. Sammy, mentioned you’ve been going to therapy and support groups…” 

“Just don't put your life on hold waiting for the next update,” he added gently. “We'll call when we have something. Until then, focus on you.”

“That’s easier said than done,” you said, letting out a humorless laugh.

Nate nodded, unsurprised.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “It usually is.”

Sammy approaches and stops in front of the two of you. 

“Everything okay?” he asked, tone easy but observant.

Nate gave a small nod. “Just wrapping up.”

Sammy’s eyes flicked to you a second longer, softer now. “You good?” he asked, more gently this time.

You nod and sigh “Ready to head home”

“We’ll take you home,” he said simply.

You and Nate stood, and the three of you walked out of the courtyard together, then made your way toward the car.

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