The dull morning sun seeps through the windshield, and you stretch out, back stiff from being curled up on the seat all night.

“Mornin’ sweetheart,”

Phillip said in his typical cheery tone. The endearing nickname causes a small smile to form on your face.

You sit up with a yawn.

“You should get out and stretch your legs a bit, we’ll be doing a lot more driving today.”

You glanced at Phillip's lap. In it was the crumpled map the man had given you yesterday.

You couldn’t seem to get the images out of your head, the gushing of blood from his wife’s body as the infected broke her skin with their jagged teeth. The man’s glassy eyes looked up to the heavens as he held the gun to his temple.

You squeezed your eyes closed and pinched the bridge of your nose to expel the memories. Was that just the fate of everyone who manages to survive this world? Watching everyone you love torn, unforgivingly, to pieces until there is nothing left for you to do but take your own life?

“Do you really think there's a sanctuary?”

You ask. Although you didn't feel like talking, you hoped that starting up a conversation would redirect your thoughts. You were in much need of a distraction after the events of yesterday. Phillip scans the map.

“I think... It’s possible. Besides, we don’t have anywhere else to go. Right?”

The question seemed genuine as if Phillip wanted to know if you had anywhere in mind. You considered it for a moment. Was there anywhere you'd want to go? With the state of the world traveling for pleasure just seemed pointless. At least heading to the sanctuary, bullshit or not, is better than an aimless trip to nowhere.

“No. I guess you're right.”

You respond softly. He sighs looking ahead for a moment almost as if contemplating his own suggestion. You wondered if Phillip had the same nagging sense of hope about this place as you did. As much as you wanted to dismiss the thought of some actual good coming from such tragedy, it was in your nature as people to cling to the curiosity.

“Well… let’s get some food in us, stretch our legs, and then we’ll be on our way.”

The way he spoke it seemed so obvious. Like you were just a couple friends on a casual road trip. You couldn’t quite decide if you liked that about Phillip. His attempts at making the day-to-day feel like it had been, were appreciated. It wasn’t wrong to enjoy these slower moments, it was just the reality setting in that made it feel unacceptable. The truth was, things would never return to how they were, and it was hard to feel like you were allowed to still enjoy life despite that fact.

You sat on the open tailgate drinking a can of chunky soup. It wasn't the worst thing in the world, but you certainly missed your microwave.

Phillip ate in silence, his focus fixed on the map as he planned the route ahead.

The next hours were quiet again. The engine lightly vibrated through the truck as you watched out the window. You'd almost wished you could stop at a library and stock up on books. Really anything to stimulate your mind. Without it, there was nothing to shoo away the thoughts that crept in reminding you of the ruin and suffering. You guessed that had never really changed from the world before.

But, even with books, there was nothing that could distract you enough from the heavy feeling in your stomach. Like the weight of the world was anchoring you to this tired state. You were torn from your thoughts when Phillip spoke.

"What the hell."

Phillip muttered to himself. You lifted your head, straightening up to look at whatever it was Phillip had seen. Your chest tightened in both anxiety and excitement at the sight of people. Survivors, three of them.

Of all the weeks you'd spent walking through empty streets focused on nothing but survival, this one had proved that there were more survivors than you'd thought.

Phillip slowed, and you began to get nervous. In a world where every encounter could mean life or death, trusting strangers was a gamble, and one you weren't so lucky with. Yet, Phillip didn't seem worried.

So far, most encounters you'd had with others since the outbreak were unpleasant but, Phillip gave you hope. His actions and personality were a stark contrast from those, and if against all odds, you'd found one good person, then there had to be more. Maybe these three men on the side of the road were some of them.  

"Well, look who we have here,"

Phillip says, rolling the window down with a cocky smile. His shoulders relaxed as he leaned through it. The three take a defensive stance. As would anyone in their situation. It takes them a moment, they're all clearly on high alert as they eye the truck. Finally, a sense of recognition sets in, and one of them scowls.

"Graves? What the fuck!"

He exclaimed in an accent that sounded like it could be Scottish. Graves? Right. That's Phillip... But how do they know him? Who are these people?

"What's going on?"

You asked as he parked the truck. Phillip didn't even bother to answer you as he got out, a wide smile plastered on his face. The men, however, didn't seem to be as glad as he was to see him.

Hesitantly, you unbuckled your seatbelt and got out too, torn between following him or staying back.

There was an air of hostility and anger from the men. They all seemed to be strong and fit. Not that Phillip wasn't as well, but if it came down to it, you were outnumbered, and your few hours of target practice weren't going to mean anything if these men pulled weapons.

As your feet reached the pavement you took a deep breath. This probably wasn't a good idea but, if he seemed comfortable enough with them you shouldn't worry too much, should you?

"I can't believe it."

He laughs. His hands going to rest on his hips.

"1-4-1. As I live and breathe. How're ya holding up Captain?"

Phillip reaches out a hand enthusiastically in an attempt to shake hands with one of the men. You observe the interaction from the other side of the truck. Not yet sure if you wanted to find your way to Phillips's side.

The man he'd referred to as 'Captain' keeps his stance. Head tilted, chest puffed out, fingers intertwined and resting in front of him. Judging by his angry expression, he didn't seem like one for pleasantries.

"What do you want?"

The angry Scottish one says stepping forward with an aggressive snarl. Was he looking for a fight?

You glanced to the truck where your bag was debating whether or not you should arm yourself. On one hand, you wanted to be prepared if things went south. Though, no one had them out they still had quicker access to their weapons than you or Phillip.

Ultimately, you decided against it trusting Phillip to de-escalate to situation with his charismatic nature. Besides, if you were to reach for a gun now it would only give them more reason to take the defensive.

"Stand down Soap."

The captain says. His sultry British tone contrasted the unapproachable demeanor.

The third man between them just stood tall. His expression is unreadable behind the sunglasses and baseball cap he had on. Based on the tension alone you could assume it wasn't a pleasant one either.

Phillip throws his hands up in defense, his smile never wavering despite the surrounding hostility. He shifted his weight from foot to foot.

"Look fellas, I know we've had our disagreements but, this is a dog-eat-dog world, and you know just as well as I do Captain, that there is strength in numbers... Let's help each other out here."

Although you'd always been aware of Phillips's arrogance, this was the most you'd seen it in action. You weren't even sure what Phillip could possibly need from these men anyway. You had a truck, gas, food, and water. As far as you were concerned you were rich in this fight for survival.

"Right... Disagreements."

The Scotsman scoffed. Soap. You thought, committing the name to memory. It was the best you could do to piece together the relationship between the four.

"Seems you're missin' one. Where's Ghost?"

Phillip asks the men. Everyone stiffened, followed by a tense silence. Soap's angry demeanor mixed with a hint of sorrow.

"Don't know."

The captain responds.

You felt a tightness in your chest. Had you heard them correctly? Ghost... There had only ever been one man you'd known to go by a name like that, it had to be the same one, right? I mean what are the chances of multiple people on the same continent being named something so obscure? Especially with the global population being at an all-time low.

Considering the hostility, you were a little scared to speak up. Though, clearly Ghost was someone of importance to these men and if you could offer them information maybe they would be more welcoming to the pair of you.

"D-did you say Ghost?"

You asked, feeling embarrassed as everyone turned their attention to you.

"Like... Tall, mask, not much of a people person..."

You continued a hint of annoyance coating your words. All eyes remained on you and even Phillip looked at you with a hint of surprise. Your attempt to ease the tension seemingly failed.

"You know him?"

The man in the glasses spoke up.

You nod. Maybe not as much of a failure as you thought?

"He was with me... well, only for a bit. He left."

This piqued Soap's interest the most of the three men. The captain steps forward dropping his arms to his sides.

"How long ago did you last see him?"

You shrugged.

"Maybe about 3 days ago?"

The men all share surprised glances.

"Holy... He's alive."

Soap mutters. Okay, tension eased. You look at Phillip for confirmation. His eyes are on you, a hint of questioning behind them. Had he known who Ghost was this entire time?

You silently cursed yourself for not mentioning him sooner.

"Where is he?"

The captain asked you desperately.

"He... I'm not sure. We were in a suburban area just outside the city. That's where he left me."

Soap's movements were animated as he turned away with a frustrated sigh, one hand resting on his hip while the other dragged across his stubble.

Judging by that reaction the tension was back.

"I'm sorry I can't be of more help."

You say starting to feel guilty for even bringing it up now. The captain raises his palm, almost as a gesture of thanks, acknowledging that the information was appreciated before turning to Soap.

"Alright, alright."

The captain says trying to soothe the obviously irritable Scott.

"We know he's alive. So..."

His words trail off, but you can see the cogwheels in his head turning.

"We'll set up camp for the night. In the morning a couple of us will head back to the city and look for him."

Soap nods.

"Aye, I'll go."

The captain shakes his head.

"You'll stay here with the girl. Gaz and I will drive out with Graves."

"Are ye kidding me?!"

Soap exclaimed clearly not happy about that plan.

"Cap you aren't really trusting Graves on this are you?"

The man in the sunglasses finally speaks. His tone remains skeptical.

"I mean come on Price, after everything you really think Graves is going to be any help to us?"

Price. That must be the captain, the man in charge. What did he mean though 'after everything?' What kind of history does Phillip have with them? Why are they so angry and distrustful? And most importantly, why are you the only one who isn't?

"No Gaz. I don't. That's why he's going with us. So, we can keep an eye on him."

Price says coldly. There was a lot of unspoken anger radiating in the air, and it was all directed at one man. You side-eyed Phillip cautiously. Whatever he'd done to them must have been bad if this was their reaction. Until you figured it out maybe it was best if you stayed more alert around him too.

But wait... No. He'd never been anything but kind to you. He helped you when Ghost left. He did more to help you than Ghost had even considered and in less time.

"I'm right here you know."

Phillip interjects in his usual smart-ass way. His voice broke you from your thoughts and you shoot him a look. One that says, 'Stop poking the bear'. Clearly, these men weren't fond of him, and considering you were his company, they may feel inclined to attach the same disdain to you.

"You shut up!"

Soap growled stepping towards Graves daringly.

Price slaps a hand to his broad chest to hold him back.

"Let's just focus right now on finding Ghost. We get off this road, rest, and make a plan after."

Price's voice remains calm and authoritative as he tries to reel in Soap's whirlwind of emotions. He glanced around, his eyebrow raised as if half-excepting someone to object. When no one does, he nods to Soap, who's still death glaring Phillip.

"Alright then. Let's go."

By sundown, Phillip is backing the truck between a couple trees. Enough to keep it concealed but, leaving space in case we have to leave in a hurry. The engine shuts off abruptly and he gets out sighing as he stands beside you leaning against the trunk of the tree you were sitting under. He crossed his arms over his chest as he watched the three men convene around a small fire pit.

"Philip?"

Your soft voice cut through the tense silence.

He keeps his eyes trained forward and doesn't respond but, somehow you knew you had his attention.

"How do you know them? And why do they... hate you so much?"

Your voice faltered at the end. Hopefully, it wasn't a sore subject but, by the longing gaze he gave the trio, your hope fell short.

He takes a moment to find his words before turning to you.

"I've worked with Captain Prices team before. Let's just say... we had a difference in opinion when it came to directing our teams and following orders."

You stayed quiet expecting him to continue but, it seemed that that was as much explanation as you would get.

Phillip pushes off the tree and reaches out to help you up.

"Come on. Let's eat."

The rest of the evening was awkward, to say the least. You sat off to the side with Graves while Price and Gaz went over a map likely planning out their search for Ghost. Soap shot Graves glares every so often from across the fire.

"Looks like he wants to kill you or something."

You mutter looking down at your feet. The sound of Phillip's knife cutting into a tin soup can sent a shiver through you. You scrunch your nose in disgust, practically tasting the metal with each high-pitched scrape.

"Yeah, well... He' s probably imagining a hundred different ways he could."

Phillip says handing you the open can. Your shoulders slumped in disappointment. More soup? Great...  

As Phillip reached for another can he glanced over at Soap catching his eye. Smiling in amusement. He seemed unbothered by the situation perhaps even enjoying how he was getting under Soaps skin.

"Should I be worried about being here alone with him tomorrow?"

Phillip shakes his head as he opens his own can.

"Soap is one of the good ones... one of the best. Besides, their feelings are mine to shoulder."

You nod glancing over at them. Soap is now turned to Price as he speaks to his team. It was strange to you how Phillip was brushing off the tension between him and the men. Even the way he spoke about Soap despite his malice. He was choosing to see the good in them and it was clear he held Price in high regards. That was the trait of a much more likable man than the three were making him out to be.

But the question still stands, if Phillip respects Price and his team so much, then why do they hold so much hatred towards him? What is it that you aren't seeing?

The next morning everyone was up early packing for their trip back to the city. Soap was still adamant about helping search for Ghost. He didn't seem to be the type who enjoyed sitting back while everyone else got in on the action.

"I know you, Johnny. And right now, your energy is best directed elsewhere. So, you'll stay here and watch the girl while we search for Ghost. That's final."

Soap opens his mouth to object but is halted with one last look from Price. He had had enough arguing. Soap seemed eager for Ghost's return. You wondered how you would feel if they really did find him. How would it be to face the man who abandoned you after promising his help?

You had a lot of things to say to him but, you weren't holding your breath. From what you'd seen Ghost was a difficult man to find and after three days who knows where he could be by now.

You stood a couple feet away your arms crossed over your body in a self-soothing manner. You push away the thought of Ghost and stuff down the rising anger, as you look back at Phillip.

To say you were nervous was an understatement. Phillip would be gone, and he was asking you to trust a stranger, one who proved to be nothing but, angry, argumentative, and borderline murderous.

Phillip swung his bag through the open truck window before walking over to you. He tilted his head sympathetically; you might as well have had your feelings tattooed on your forehead with how easily he read you.

"You'll be alright. We'll only be gone a couple days."

Phillip's hands come to your shoulders in reassurance. You nod looking over at the men. Gaz climbs into the truck finding his place in the middle of the front seat while Price stands on the driver's side giving his last instructions to Soap.

"Hey."

Phillip says attempting to gain your attention again. Your eyes snap back to him.

"We'll be fine. Just hang out here, rest for a bit and before you know it, I'll be back. And when I am we'll search the map for somewhere cool to go, huh?"

You couldn't help but smile at that. Phillip was good at remaining optimistic. He made things easy.

You didn't know him well and may have only just met days prior but, you have come to care for him. Even enough to consider him a friend. Which is important in a world like this.

Despite this, you still couldn't calm the gnawing pit of anxiety in your stomach.

"What about the sanctuary?"

You ask hugging your arms tighter to your chest.

"If there really is a sanctuary, it's not going anywhere. So, we can afford to take a couple detours for adventure, right?"

You only smile in return. Phillip was right. What was the point in rushing towards something that wasn't even guaranteed?

"Come on, sweetheart."

Phillip says pulling you into a hug. His chin rests on the top of your head.

"Don't declare me dead just yet."

He jokes. You returned the hug loosely. The affection was new to you but not unwelcome. After a few moments, the sound of the truck horn beeps shortly, and he pulls away. Price starts up the truck from his place in the driver's seat. His elbow resting through the opened window. Soap steps back and glances at Phillip as well still glaring daggers at him.

"Duty calls."

Phillip mumbles and you chuckle in response. He turns away his hand lingering on your shoulder as long as his arm's length would allow as he heads to the passenger side.

Your anxiety tightened its hold on you. Soap was here so, no matter the outcome, you wouldn't be alone. But what was company if you didn't trust them? If they didn't make you feel safe? Somehow the thought of that scared you even more. The worry settled deep in your chest. If Phillip didn't return, you would just be abandoned once again.

PART 8 >>

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Why am I wasting my time? Not like she’s my responsibility. Besides, she can survive on her own. If she doesn’t… that’s not my problem.

Ghost knew the cost of caring for people, he didn't need attachments. Not anymore. He made that mistake before and wasn't going to shoulder that burden again.

He continued back into town, the mantra repeating in his mind, hoping to squash the guilt that pooled in his gut.

It’s fine. It’s fine… She’s fine.

The sun had set by the time Ghost reached the roof of a shopping center. He’d swept the shops clearing each corner before laying out all his gear to repack, minimizing the load and ensuring he only had necessities.

As he finished organizing his supplies Ghost took a much-needed smoke break.

The stale cigarette burned his lungs as he inhaled the smoke, leaning on his elbows over the ledge of the building.

The night was quiet. Trees rustled softly in the wind. The swirling smoke dispersed quickly as he blew it out into the night. The metallic tang lingered on his tongue.

For a moment he had no thoughts on his mind, successfully ignoring the gnawing guilt he’d been feeling all evening.

Until a distant car alarm caught his attention. It was faint, almost inaudible. Ghost chopped it up to one of the infected bumping a car on the freeway.

But then, a gunshot shattered the silence. Echoing across the empty streets.

“What the…”

He muttered, His scowl deepening as he scanned the dark road below. The night consumed the sky, leaving no light save for the cherry end of the cig burning away between his fingers.

Can’t be her. She only has a pistol—it wouldn’t sound like that.

He took another drag, forcing away the thought.

The second shot came quickly. Then a third.

The gnawing guilt crept back in stronger than before.

What if it is her? What if she’s in trouble?

He paused listening for another shot, but it never came. Finally, as the faint sound of the car alarm ceased, the worry poking at the back of his mind became too much.

“Damnit.”

He grumbles. He flicks the cigarette butt on the ground and snuffs it out with the toe of his boot. He pushed off the ledge Before gathering his things, abandoning his plans to camp there for the night, and headed towards the road again to investigate the shots.

Ghost is on the freeway when he spots you, perched on top of a truck, legs tucked under you, looking bored.

Immediately the tightness in his chest is replaced by relief and His grip on his bag loosens. Though he’d never admit it he was relieved to see you alive.

Your features were illuminated by a faint light as he looked you over. To his surprise, you seemed lighter somehow, not anxious or scared like he’d expected… as you had been before.

At least now he could follow through on his plan. Bring you through the city, get some supplies, find a safe place for you to settle in, and he’d be on his way.

He took a few more steps forward and opened his mouth to call your name but, froze when the figure of a man appeared beside you. Hands on his hips in a casual manner.

Ghost sunk low behind a nearby car taking cover in the darkness. His knees brushed the cracked asphalt.

His relief changed to irritation as he watched your interaction. You slid down off the roof of the truck and the man’s hand found its way to your back in a comforting gesture of familiarity.

The man turned, closed the door, and rounded to the back end of the truck. When he pulled himself to sit on the tailgate, that’s when Ghost got a glimpse of the man’s face.

“Graves.”

He growled. The name fell from his lips like a curse. It had been what felt like ages since he’d seen him. Ghost was in disbelief; he hadn't expected Graves to still be alive let alone have stuck around here.

Ghost couldn’t deny his anger; he’d lost daylight searching for you. He’d come all the way out here, in the dark, following gunshots because he was worried about you.

You were the problem.

He was losing his head because of you. Helping you on that road made you an obligation. You begged and cried, pleading with him to stick together, And for what?

He was torn with what to do now. On one hand, it bothered him, you being with Graves. But, at the same time, you were no longer his to care for. Although he didn’t exactly trust him, Graves was a capable man, and you’d have better odds sticking with him than going it alone.

And Ghost is too prideful to come crawling back with an apology, groveling at your feet to come back with him. Why drag you along with him when obviously you were more comfortable with Graves? As far as he was concerned you had gotten exactly what you wanted.

He watched for a few more moments. The wind carried the sounds of your light-hearted chatter.

What was it about Graves that left you in such a relaxed state? How did you not feel this safe with him? Ghost was always about caution and precision, but here Graves was hardly paying attention to your surroundings, and you seemed fine with it.

As you and Graves settled into the bed of the truck, likely to camp out for the night, Ghost sighed. You didn’t need him anymore, and he no longer needed to feel guilty.

Now, he too had what he wanted… He was alone.

PART 7 >>

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The sound of your racing heartbeat filled your ears as you allowed your eyes to wander upward. The barrel of a rifle was inches from your nose, aimed at the asphalt below. It was relieving to know that the man wasn't actively threatening you. You took that to be a good sign.

The beam of light in your face was too bright to see the person's features.

Getting impatient with your silence, the man lowers the flashlight.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

His tone of voice suggested that he was annoyed with your reaction. 

You slowly pull yourself to your feet. He seemed to be of an average height, taller than you. The man was blonde and had a fair complexion.

"What's your name?"

He raised an eyebrow. His tone remained almost lighthearted as if none of this had phased him.

"Y/n."

Your response is cautious. You kept your voice low. Your eyes searched him for any movement. The feeling in your gut was uncertain. He seemed authoritative yet approachable... possibly unpredictable.

"Well y/n, you're welcome. It seems I saved your ass back there."

The man's demeanor was cocky, and he was a bit full of himself. He swings the strap of his rifle over his shoulder and puts out a hand for you to shake.

Something about his personality seemed intense. You hesitated to offer your hand but when you did, he gripped it firmly, pulling your wrist down briefly in a simple shake.

"Names Phillip Graves. You alone?"

You nodded eyeing the gun on his back. Phillip flashed a charming smile.

"Where are you headed to?"

He seemed to be full of questions, you couldn't quite decipher whether that was good or bad.

Unfortunately, he was the only other person around and didn't seem to immediately want to kill you. Something within you told you to give him a chance, it's not like you had options.

"I was just trying to make my way through the city." You admitted.

Phillip nods posing his hands on his hips.

"That's bold, for someone alone, especially of your... stature."

You couldn't help but glance down at yourself a little offended.

"I just mean, you don't seem to be the survivalist type." He adds.

You brush off the comment and change the subject.

"Are you alone too?"

You question. His bright smile returns, making his blue eyes crinkle at the edges.

"Been solo for quite a bit now. Although, Maybe that has changed."

It came out more as a statement than a question. He was arrogant and as much as his cocky attitude irritated you, you weren't going to turn down the company. Unfortunately, he was right you weren't the survivalist type.

You sat atop a large pickup truck. Your legs crossed beneath you. Phillip had called it 'keeping watch' but you thought he just wanted you out of the way.

You rested your hands on your ankles. Phillip is kneeling on the driver's side of the car trying to get the truck to start.

Breathing out a bored sigh you lean over the edge of the roof to check on his progress.

"Any luck?"

The blonde man leans back resting an arm on his bent knee.

"Afraid not."

He groans stretching as he stands back up Brushing his hands together to knock off any dirt.

"Looks like we'll have to walk."

Glancing up at you, his hands coming up to rest comfortably on his hips.

"Where to?"

A hint of confusion and curiosity in your voice.

Phillip waved his hand in a gesture that said to come down.

You stretched your legs out sliding your backside down until your shoes hit the bed of the truck. His hand pressed gently against your back steadying you as you climbed out.

"Well, I wouldn't mind heading into the city. It's more dangerous, but I know a place we can find some real firepower."

The idea gave you a bad feeling. Even though that had been the original plan, going through the city was the last thing you wanted to do. Now with Phillip around to watch your back, you felt no need to chase after Ghost anymore.

You continue to think for a moment. A trip through the city wasn't the worst idea, considering your lack of supplies. Slowly, you nod in a hesitant agreement.

"Okay, I guess that could work." Unsure of your response.

"Great! We can head out in the morning. It would be too dark right now."

Phillip shuts the door and walks to the back letting down the tailgate. He sits down, letting his legs hang off the side and pulls the rifle around to his lap. You watch him for a moment. He seemed content.

"How long have you been on your own?"

You question. Phillip turns to look at you. Surprisingly, the smile doesn't leave his face, but you could see the disappointment in his eyes.

"Ah, I don't know exactly..."

He sighs and turns to face forward again as if thinking how to continue. You join him on the tailgate, pulling your legs up and tucking them underneath you.

"I had a group, some people I've known for a long time but... they left me behind. Although, they had good reason."

His shoulders fall in a dismissive shrug.

Curiously, you wanted to push the subject further but before you could ask more, he changed the subject.

"Well, you better get some sleep... I'll be lookout."

His eyes meet yours in a way that told you it hadn't been a suggestion. Scooting yourself deeper into the truck bed, you shrug your backpack off your shoulders and use it as a pillow. It took a moment to adjust to a comfortable position. You lay back with a sigh.

In your line of sight was the mess of short blonde hair on the back of Phillips's head.

"Goodnight." You spoke.

The words were soft and laced with nervousness. Worried about trusting a stranger while you slept but even more worried, he'd be gone when you woke up.

Phillip doesn't respond but you can see his slight nod of acknowledgment before closing your eyes.

The orange sun lit up the cool morning. It had only been a few miles of walking to reach the exit ramp that brought you directly into the city. The large buildings towering above you were nearly in ruins, windows broken, areas were burnt, and the streets were littered with shrapnel. You make your descent on the ramp. There is a row of tire spikes you have to step over and cones blocking the lanes.

You'd remembered the news reports back in the small towns warning not to enter the cities. For days the gruesome news reports showed the traffic on the highways, and the bodies of those infected lining the streets but, this had been the first time since the outbreak began three months ago, that you had seen it all firsthand.

The smell of morning dew wafted through the air as Phillip led you under an overpass. You looked on in awe at the grim scene ahead.

"Come on. We're almost there."

Phillip stated, eyes scanning to make sure it was clear for you to cross the street.

The two of you continued deeper into the city. Finally, reaching a chain-link fence.

"What is this place?" You asked.

He had gone closer to the fence and checked its stability.

"It's a military camp."

He answers, turning to you.

"They had troops set up in the cities to try and minimize the spread."

He gestures for you to come over.

"We're going to climb the fence. You first."

As you approach, he pulls your bag down your shoulders. Phillip tosses it over the fence and helps boost you up.

Perched at the top of the fence. You take a moment to look out over the camp, some of the infected were wandering around at the far end. Fear filled you like a hunger in your stomach as you continued down quietly.

Phillip tossed his own bag to the other side of the fence and leaned the rifle over the top for you to grab. You take it in your hands, watching over your shoulder cautiously as you wait for him to climb.

The thud of boots hit the pavement beside you and Phillip pulls the riffle from your palms.

"Let's go."

He leads you quietly to a large green tent. Following closely, your gaze lingered on Phillips's back. Taking in the sight of his cautious stance as he crept forward. Much like Ghost, he had great awareness. 

You shuffle quietly under the tarp it is more humid underneath than you'd expected. Both of you split up within the tent in search of supplies.

The tent was lined with cots. Small metal chests rest at the ends. Some were stripped completely of their blankets, and some even missing mattresses. One cot had a duffle bag on it. It was empty besides a couple pairs of socks and a tee shirt.

You dump the clothes out and take the bag moving to the next bed. Stepping cautiously with your heels to stay silent. 

Phillip finishes searching his half and comes over to see what you had.

"Just this and a pocketknife."

You respond holding up the duffle bag. He nods,

"Found this,"

He holds up a couple of half-empty bottles of water.

You frown.

"There isn't much here, maybe someone beat us to it?"

Phillip shakes his head. The wrinkles in his face stood out with the furrow of his brow.

"That isn't likely... Let's check the other tents they'll have better stuff."

You follow him down to the entrance of the tent. As you pass a cot at the end of the row you feel a tug at your ankle.

The shock sent you to the ground with a gasp. Snarling sounds grow louder as a corpse crawls out from under the cot. You turn yourself around trying to back to your feet but the corpse's grip is stronger than anticipated. 

He pulls you a bit closer sending you flat on your stomach. You grunt as you use all your force to try and kick him away, but the angle of your body puts you at a disadvantage.

Phillip reappears at the entrance concerned when you aren't behind him.

"Shit, Y/n!"

He runs over pulling the rifle off his shoulder and using the blunt end to smash the corpse's head. The cracking sound of the skull makes you cringe. His grip loosens and you're able to scramble backward. Phillip hits him a couple more times making sure it's completely limp before helping you up.

"You okay?"

You rise back to your feet with a huff.

"Yeah, let's just finish searching and get the hell out of here."

Phillip pats your back before leading the both of you back out of the tent. You take in the site of the ravished camp. Tents littered with bullet holes, blood coating the entrances, and a circle of chairs around an ashy fire pit where a couple of bodies lay. The whole sight was gruesome, and the horrific scene was only intensified by the silence.

Phillip marches forward stabbing a blade into the back of a corpse's head. Another comes from the tent to his side, and he turns taking it out too.

You still couldn't fathom how people were just okay Killing so instinctively.

Phillip turns to you gesturing you to keep following.

The tent containing food was by far the worst. It smelled awful. Between rotten produce, decaying bodies, and moldy bread. It was the equivalent of a dumpster in the hot sun. You covered your nose to keep yourself from retching. Phillip however, didn't seem to be affected by the smell. You tiptoe passed an overturned table. Buzzing flies cut through the silence as they swarm a mess of bodies.

The two of you searched the entire tent from top to bottom, coming out of it with a few varying cans, a couple more bottles of water, and a handful of MRE packages.

The rest of the camp was pretty much the same. Infected wandering about, a few water bottles, lots of blood, and not much else. It wasn't until you reached an arsenal that Phillips's eyes lit up.

"Jackpot!"

He drops his bag on the ground stepping further inside to inspect the weaponry.

"I wasn't sure how much would be left here."

The tent had been looted to some capacity but, there was still plenty here to arm ourselves with. As he held a rifle looking down the scope and checking the magazine you turned to look inside a crate. You lifted the wooden top to peek inside startled when Phillips's alarming voice called out.

"CARFUL Y/N! Those are explosives. Don't touch anything!"

Suddenly you weren't feeling very secure, the thought of being surrounded by crates of explosives that could all go off and kill you at any moment... was unsettling, to say the least.

You heed Phillips's warning and stay still in the middle of the tent.

A pair of camo pants fall in front of you. Phillip had tossed them at your feet.

"Put those on." He commanded.

You raise an eyebrow glancing from the cargo pants up to him,

"What? Here?"

"I won't look. Just put them on."

He insisted, turning his back to you completely while he continued to check out the crates. You undo the button of your jeans and pull them off before slipping into the camo pants. They were a bit too large for you.

Phillip turns again without a word. Looking down at a pair of combat boots. 

"These too."

He hands you the boots. You were hesitant to replace your sneakers. However, you knew the worn soles wouldn't last much longer with all the walking you'd been doing.

"Take this," Phillip says. 

As you finish lacing up the boots, he turns to you, handing you a large rifle similar to the one strapped to his back. You shake your head holding it out an arm's length away from your body. Phillip had already turned away to grab another gun.

"Uh... No, I don't think I should have something like this."

Phillip ignores the remark as he picks out a couple more things from the arsenal. He walks back to you chuckling at your awkward resistance to holding the weapon.

He takes it back and props it against a stack of crates.

"Relax. You shouldn't be afraid of a gun in your own hand. Besides, if you're going to survive in this world you're going to need them."

You try to counter but, Phillip raises his hand signaling you to stay quiet, and kneels in front of you.

"Lift your arms."

You put your arms out to your side watching as Phillip wraps a black belt around your hips. The belt had sandy-colored straps attached to it. With a thick plastic holster slot for a handgun.

"Widen your stance a bit."

You step out, jumping a bit when you feel Phillips's hands on your inner thigh. He buckles the holster around your leg before moving his hands down to cuff the ends of the pants above your boots. His touch is light.

His rough hands begin working away at your boots, tying them tightly and wrapping the laces around the top before tucking the remaining strands against your ankles.

You clear your throat nervously as Phillip stands back up.

"Lookin' good!"

He smiles proudly. His hands rested again on his hips.

"How does it feel?"

You turn your leg a bit as you look down at the military get-up.

"Weird," you reply.

Phillip chuckles and walks back over to the crates.

"You'll get used to it. These will be much more efficient than jeans."

He walks back over holding a large knife covered by a leather sleeve. He reaches down to attach it to your belt opposite the gun holster.

"Now let's look over what we've got."

He grabs your backpack and turns it over kneeling to rummage through your belongings.

He looks over the pistol Ghost had given you.

"Didn't take you for a gun owner," he says setting it to the side.

"Oh... I uh- I'm not. I found it."

Your thoughts wandered back to your fight with Ghost. You still felt guilty about driving him away but, look at how Phillip had been helping. You thought. Maybe it was for the best that Ghost left.

You watch as Phillip splits the food and water rations, moving everything to a tan tactical backpack he'd found. The unnecessary items, like the dim flashlights, and the hammer you'd collected were left in a pile on the ground.

He packed the duffle bag you'd taken from the tent for himself, filling it with ammo, extra weapons, and other equipment.

With his hand outstretched he hands you your new bag. You pull it on over your shoulders, fiddling with the little buckle on the front clicking it over your chest. Admittedly, you felt pretty cool being geared up with all this military equipment.

Phillip straps on his own holster, looking over a pistol before slotting it on his thigh. He steps in front of you holding the pistol from your bag. He had a box of ammo tucked under his arm as he clicked the magazine into place flipping the safety on.

He reaches down to slide it into your holster and steps back placing the box of ammo in your hands.

"If you're going to keep guns on you, Then, you're going to need to learn to shoot."

Your eyes widen in surprise as Phillip throws the duffle bag over his shoulder and grabs two identical riffles.

"What? I- I don't know if-"

Phillip holds his hand up to silence you again.

"Don't worry. I'm going to teach you. Here."

He hands you the rifle once again and heads out of the tent. You hesitate to follow, eyeing the little black flashlight Phillip had left out of your bag.

Something inside you couldn't bear to leave behind Ghost's flashlight. Even though it wasn't necessary now with all the new stuff Phillip had gathered, you decided to take it anyway. Opening one of the velcro pockets of the cargo pants, you place the flashlight securely inside.

The afternoon sun was high in the sky as you leaned over the ledge of an apartment building. The rooftop looked out over the city streets littered with infected. You watched them wander below as Phillip prepared your rifle.

"You ready?" He asks.

You step away from the edge taking the rifle from his hand.

"Do I really need to do this?"

You'd been nervous about this idea. You'd never been a big fan of guns and since the outbreak, you'd gotten by just on your ability to run and hide. You hadn't had to kill anyone or anything so far and weren't ready for that to change.

Phillip stands behind you, positioning your arms to hold the rifle properly against your shoulder.

"Now, always remember... The gun has some kickback. So, keep steady. Watch where you hold it on your shoulder you don't want to hurt yourself. Only aim the barrel with the intent to kill and finger off the trigger unless you plan to shoot. Got it?"

You nod and Phillip steps to the side crossing his arms over his chest.

"Alright, keep your finger off the trigger for now and get a feel for aiming. Look down your sight and line up your crosshair with their heads."

Phillips's instructions were clear but, you were left with so many questions about his life before the outbreak.

"Focus. You want to always aim for the head. Every second counts... Making that a habit will save you one day."

You take a deep breath tightening your grip on the rifle and tilting your head to look down the sight as Phillip had instructed. The movement is slow as you scan the street, trying to line up the cross hair with the head of one of the corpses.

After a few moments of practicing your aim, Phillip gives his next instruction.

"Okay, next I want you to line up your crosshair just like that, but this time pull the trigger."

Your heart pounded in your ears, you were not fond of the idea, to begin with, and now you'd have to do it. Finally, you would have to take a life... Even though you knew the infected were dangerous and no longer human, it didn't sit right with you. They used to be normal people just like you. What would be left if not your humanity?

Phillip waited patiently as you built up your courage, taking in deep breaths to calm your nerves. You scan the crowd again. Your crosshair stopped on the forehead of a woman. You watched her shuffling forward. Her colorless eyes looked straight ahead.

It took all your strength to pull back the trigger. The attached suppressor stifled the loud bang you'd otherwise expected to hear. 

You were jolted backward. You'd missed your shot at the woman and gunpowder filled the space beneath your nose. Letting out a loud gasp you let your arms fall from their position, gripping the rifle tightly at your waist.

"It's okay," Phillip reassures.

"Try again, keep your stance tight. You'll need to put a bit of strength in it."

You nod, taking a few more deep breaths to calm your racing pulse.

Raising the rifle again you steady your feet aiming down the rifle once more. Slowly scanning, looking for the same woman as before. Once your crosshair lands on her, you take another deep breath and brace yourself for the impact.

Your finger squeezes the trigger. The bullet whizzes through the air landing on your target.

The woman's lifeless body drops to the cement. Adrenaline fills your veins and guilt settles in your stomach. It was a conflict of emotions, excited that you'd succeeded but sad that you'd shot a person.

Phillips' encouraging words broke you from your thoughts.

"Yes! Great job Y/N! Do exactly that. Go again."

The night settled over the city. An orange light illuminated the space around you as you watched the roaring flames of the crackling fire. Phillip had decided it was best to spend the night up here after a long session of gun training. 

"You did a good job,"

Phillip says, sitting down across from you.

"You'll need a bit of practice, but I think you've got the hang of the basics."

Although encouraging, you couldn't push away the dreadful ache of guilt in your chest.

"That was the first time I'd ever had to kill one."

You speak up with a sad smile.

"Well..."

Phillip pauses, he gives you a look of understanding.

"I know it's hard... but sometimes we have to make those tough choices if we want to survive."

You thought back to Ghost again. Was his choice to leave you hard for him? Did he think he wouldn't survive if he stuck around?

"Phillip?"

You ask, almost hesitant to finish your question,

"How did you know about all of this?"

Phillip assumed you were referring to the guns and military camp.

"I was in the military... Before all this."

The answer hadn't exactly surprised you.

"The group you were with... Were they from the camp?"

He avoided eye contact with you deciding whether or not to answer you.

"No."

The answer was short and simple like he was holding back.

"But... back at the camp, you'd said that you weren't sure how much of the equipment would still be there. Does that mean you'd been there before?"

He sighed, it was obvious your curiosity had struck a nerve with him. 

"Let's just say... I was in the city when it fell. It's not something I'd like to relive so, leave it at that... yeah?"

You had a lot more questions for him but, it didn't feel like a good time to push. So, instead, you changed the subject.

"Thank you."

Confused, Phillip raised his head looking at you over the fire.

"Without all your help... I probably wouldn't have made it today."

Phillip flashes one of his charming smiles. You were glad to see that he cheered up so quickly. He looked prideful even. Evidently, your thanks hadn't gone unappreciated.

"We all need help from time to time. It's like they say... Strength in numbers."

He explains. You smile back before letting your gaze fall. That rule may apply to all but Ghost. You thought.

PART 3.5 (optional) >> PART 4 >>

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the mission wasn't supposed to end like this. it was supposed to be simple—delivering a scroll to the kazekage and coming back home. but the ambush was quick, violent, and you were left for dead. when sasuke had gotten the news, he'd felt sick in a way he hasn't experienced since his teenage years. he knew you'd be alright—what, with sakura and tsunade on your case? but still. it was a terrible, dreadful feeling.

he'd been comforted when he saw you, your injuries almost entirely healed by now thanks to sakura. you were unconscious, but he'd been assured that you'd wake up in a few hours. that was two weeks ago. the dread has continued getting heavy hour by hour—the worried looks exchanged by the medical staff not easing his mind in the slightest. he hasn't left your side, taking an indefinite leave from his duties to stay in the hospital with you 24/7. he doesn't want you to wake up alone. that is, if you wake up at all.

you blink your eyes open, squinting at the assault of the bright lights. you furrow your brows, shutting your eyes again and letting out a slight hiss. your head is pounding. you try to lift your hand in hopes of covering your eyes but find it weighed down by another. squinting your eyes open again, you tilt your neck stiffly to look at a figure sleeping by your bedside, hand in yours. you don't recognize the person—or where you are. looking around, you realize you're in a hospital. you're not sure why, having virtually no memories of any events, but you try to keep calm.

your attempt of moving your hand had waken sasuke, who was immediately alert. and when he saw you looking back at him? god, he could've cried. he breathes your name, quickly sitting up straight to cup your face. "you're awake," he whispers, voice a little shaky. "how do you feel?" he asks, concern evident. you stare at him, a little alarmed. this complete stranger not only knows your name, but is being rather...intimate? you're uncomfortable, but you don't want to jump to conclusions. swallowing, you furrow your brows. "i- uhm.." you trail off, voice scratchy and dry from weeks of not using it.

his expression softens and he stands. "hold on. i'll get sakura." he murmurs, giving you one last look before leaving the room. your mind races once you're left alone, unsure of...everything, really. you wrack your brain, trying to get your thoughts in order, trying to make a mental checklist. name? check. age? uhhh...you'll get back to it. career? check. family? next question. friends? fuck. not looking good. but still, you take a deep breath. thankfully, remembering your job means remembering the dangers that come with it.

you're sure you're just experiencing a temporary injury that's resulting in this blankness. the doctor will help you! feeling a little soothed, you let your body relax again, looking down at your hands in your lap. the door opens and you drag your gaze away, letting it settle on the figures entering. a pink haired woman in a white coat—the doctor, you assume. a few other people in scrubs, presumably the nurses, and the man from earlier. the doctor smiles at you, genuine relief on her face.

"[name]. i'm so glad to see you awake." she says softly, approaching your bed. you offer her a strained smile, nodding. "yeah, uh...how long was i out?" you ask. "two weeks." she answers. you take in the new information while taking a sip of water from the glass the man handed you, whispering a thank you to him. "and...what happened?"

she sighs, pulling out a small light from her pocket. "you were ambushed while returning from a mission. you had a lot of external injuries, and you lost a lot of blood. you were found approximately 5 hours after the attack and you were unconscious." she explains, shining the light into your eyes. "we thought you'd wake up the day of, but..." she trails off with another sigh. "can you tell me your name?"

you swallow, murmuring your name. "good." she hums, writing something down on a board she picked up from your bedside. she continues to ask you question and it becomes apparent quite quick that you don't seem to remember a whole lot. "okay, uh..." she exhales, shooting the man a worried glance. "do you know who this is?" she tries. you look back at him, taking in everything about him. you try to jog your memory but are met with frustratingly little. "no...i'm sorry." you whisper. his shoulders drop a little but he says nothing. "okay. don't worry about it, okay? just rest for now." the doctor gives you a reassuring smile, and you nod, pretending not to notice the anxiety in her gaze.

over the next day or so, they try multiple different things to jog your memory to no avail. you're starting to grow increasingly more anxious with every failure, not sure what you'll do if your identity never returns. "i'm sorry, uhm...i'd like to go home." you say to the doctor after yet another failed attempt. she bites her lip, looking away as she gives it some thought. "alright." she finally says. "but, i need you to be careful, okay? you're still concussed. if you feel weird at any point, you need to come straight back. i'm going to give you a list of exercises—mental and physical. i need you to do them everyday, okay?"

you nod, giving her a small smile. "thank you, doct- ...sakura." you murmur. her eyes soften and she can't help but smile back. "of course. sasuke will go sign your discharge forms, you just get ready to go." she explains. "sasuke...?" you blink. "uhm- your husband." she reminds you. you remember him introducing himself yesterday, but his name had slipped your mind. "right."

with one last smile, she leaves the room. you glance around, scanning for any personal belongings. seeing none, you melt back into the bed, having nothing to do but wait for your husband to come get you. to say you were surprised when he told you that you were married would be an understatement—you were downright gobsmacked. you'd think someone would remember something like that! wanting to focus on the positives, you've decided to go with the flow. him being hot doesn't hurt either.

your train of thought is interrupted by the sound of the door opening. sasuke enters your room quietly, brow slightly furrowed. "are you sure you're ready to go home?" he inquires quietly, moving over to your bedside. you nod, sitting up a little straighter. "yeah...i mean, the only problem is my memory, right? i don't think it'll get jogged by this sterile room." you shrug. he nods, placing a gentle hand on your back as you move to stand.

you're still a little weak, your body having trouble supporting you steadily. sakura had explained it was because your daily caloric intake had tanked after the two week coma, leading to your body burning internal energy. all you heard from that is that you get to stuff your face, honestly. no complaints! "how far is our house from here?" you ask, taking the change of clothes that were sitting on the chair by your bed. "a ten minute walk. will you be okay?" he murmurs, hovering. you nod, making your way towards the bathroom. "yup."

you change out of the hospital gown, relieved that sasuke had brought something comfortable. you check your appearance in the mirror, gaze lingering. it's still so strange to you—having no memory of your life, yet still having an idea of who you are. you can't be yourself if you can't remember the things that made you that way, right? another wave of anxiety hits you, your stomach churning at the thought that you'll never go back to how you were.

but you quickly brush it off, tying your hair up. you exit the bathroom, finding sasuke waiting for you. the discharge is quick and easy, sakura instructing both of you on what she expects you to do daily—being very clear that she'll know if you skip a day. she also gives you a handwritten version to be safe, parting ways with a hug and a comforting smile. although you don't remember her, you've come to understand over the past 24 hours why she was someone you loved deeply.

turning your gaze to sasuke, you take a deep breath. "ready?" he nods. he hasn't said much, honestly. you've understood quickly that he's the quiet type, but you feel like he's overly quiet, given the situation. you can't fault him, though. he hasn't left your side since you've come to. the utter devotion is strange, honestly. you've never experienced anything like it before—so to get it from someone who's (basically) a stranger is leaving you feeling conflicting emotions.

the walk back is filled with him pointing things out, though—hoping to jog your memory. the street on which you grew up, your favourite market, a restaurant he took you to for your last anniversary. you can conjure up an image but it's purely imagination, not memory. your life sounds nice. that's the worst part.

"well...here it is." he sighs, stopping in front of a house. it's large, but modest. it's quite beautiful—lush with trees, plants, wildlife. it's very homey. you can't help but smile a little. "i like it." you hum. "i'm glad." he replies, voice suddenly softer. you follow him inside, taking a look around. although it's all very beautiful, it's not ringing any memories. still, you try not to feel disappointed. "where's the bathroom? i think i wanna shower first."

he nods in understanding, putting your hospital bag down. he leads you upstairs, taking you to a large bedroom. "this is our room. your clothes are in there, and that door leads to the bathroom." he says before pausing. "do you uh...need...help?" he asks awkwardly. you stiffen a bit at that, feeling a little shy. you know he's your husband, meaning he's definitely seen you naked, but you don't remember! "i think i'm good but, could you wait here? i might need to call you." you decide. he nods immediately, taking a seat on the bed. you give him a small smile before going to the dresser he'd pointed out, digging around for clothes.

settling on some pajamas, you enter the bathroom. taking a shower is difficult. your body is sore and weak, and you feel a little dizzy. but you push on, not quite comfortable with the concept of sasuke being in here with you right now. by the time you're out of the shower, you need to sit on the toilet seat for a few moments, your limbs feeling like they're made of lead.

you get dressed and leave the bathroom to find him still sitting there, never ending patience. "are you okay?" he asks worriedly, standing. his hand hovers by your waist, not touching, even though he desperately wants to. all he wants is to gather you up in his arms—to feel your breath, your heartbeat, your warmth. to hear you giggle as you bury yourself against him, hands "sneakily" sliding under his shirt. but he knows that's far away right now, and that's okay. "yeah, just a little tired." you murmur. "do you want dinner? or do you want to go to bed?"

you consider the options. although you were hungry earlier, you honestly don't feel like doing anything anymore. "i think try to go to bed." you decide. he nods, watching you pull back the covers. "i'll be in the guest room next door. let me know if you need anything, even if i'm asleep." he says. you nod. "okay." for a second, neither of you moves. sasuke lingers in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame. like he's waiting for you to stop him. you don't. he gives a barely perceptible incline of his head and turns away. the click of the bedroom door closing behind him echoes through the house.

sleep doesn't come. you lie on your back, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, tracing the wooden beams with your eyes. every so often your gaze drifts around the room instead. there are books on the shelves, a pair of swords displayed carefully against one wall, plants by the window that look lovingly maintained. and photographs. you sit up, moving slowly to avoid the wave of dizziness that immediately greets you, you shuffle toward the dresser. there are dozens of framed pictures, and your interest is immediately piqued. one of you and sasuke catches your eye.

you're sitting cross-legged beneath a tree, a teasing glint in your eyes as you stare at him, grinning, while he's looking at you with something impossibly soft in his expression. you blink. nothing—no flash. no memory. just an odd ache in your chest. a wish that you could remember already, so that you could return to this life that you had. you analyze every photo that you can find, wanting to absorb every little detail, looking for yourself. the one thing that seems consistent across every photo, though, is that you both seem happy—genuinely. you feel a lump in your throat.

when you hear the door creak open behind you, you tense momentarily before relaxing. "i heard you walking." sasuke murmurs. "sorry. i didn't mean to wake you." you reply, still staring down at one of the photos in your hand. "you didn't." he answers. he watches you quietly before his eyes settle on what you're holding. a moment of silence passes before you speak up. "you look different," you murmur. "in these."

he steps beside you, keeping an appropriate distance. "yes." is all he says. biting your lip, you hesitate before asking a question that's been nagging you. "did you love me...a lot?" you ask. you know it's probably a stupid question. you two are married for a reason. but still—it's foreign to you. his gaze shifts from the photo to your gaze, a long silence following. "yes. i still do." he replies quietly. "and...i loved you a lot?" you tilt your head. a flicker of amusement crosses his face when he says, "you made it hard to doubt."

you can hear the fondness in his voice and for the nth time today, you feel guilty. "i'm sorry." you mumble. "for what?" he looks at you. "for not remembering you." the confession comes out as barely a whisper. "i know everyone's trying to act optimistic, but every time you look at me..." you shake your head. "i can tell you're hoping i'll suddenly recognize you," you risk another glance at him. "and i don't."

the room is still, and then sasuke reaches over. not for your hand or a hug. just gently taking the picture from your fingers before setting it back on the dresser. "you don't have anything to apologize for." the words are simple as he speaks them, eyes trained on your face in the photo. but something about them makes your throat tighten.

soon after, you both went to bed for real this time. the next couple of days go similarly. awkward, barely there conversation—you asking questions, him answering, you feeling bad. still clueless. still missing yourself. but he doesn't leave. he makes you breakfast every morning, makes sure you take your medication, goes through your exercises with you. he seems to always know what you need—knowing before even you do. you guess that's what comes from being married to someone, and it's comforting in a way.

one evening, the two of you are sitting at the dining table, a bag of photos and a diary sitting in front of you. your family had visited you earlier, dropping off some of your things from when you were younger. they stayed, laughed with you, shared memories they have. it just made the ache get worse. now you're reading through the thoughts of your teenage self, tears pricking at your eyes. you don't recognize her—you don't recognize anything. you've been trying to stay calm, hopeful, optimistic. but you're so frustrated, so confused—so scared. you pick up one of the photos, staring at your own face before slamming it down onto the table.

"she's not me!" you snap at nobody in particular, tugging at your hair. "i don't- i don't know what to do. none of this is me! i'm trying to act like it is, but it doesn't feel right. i can't be who everyone wants me to." you breakdown, pressing your palms to your eyes. you feel sasuke's hand come to rest on your back, no words spoken. "i'm sorry." you sniffle, hanging your head. "i keep hurting everyone." you whisper. "no." he replies. "yes."

he moves closer, cupping your face slowly, giving you an opportunity to pull away. "the only person you're hurting is yourself." he murmurs. silence, because you don't know how to respond to that. truthfully, this is hurting him. of course it is. he's had such a terrible life, having lost one thing after another. and now? he's terrified that he'll lose you too. he doesn't know if he'll able to live with himself if that happens. but this is the fault of the circumstances—of the people who hurt you. not you.

"you always used to cry when you got frustrated." he says randomly. you blink, lashes wet. "what?" he wipes your tear before continuing. "you'd get mad but instead of lashing out, you'd cry." he states again. "i still do that?" you question. a part of you knew that, somehow. "seems so." he answers. a strange feeling settles over you. learning about yourself from others, being told about similarities...it feels like somebody describing an old friend. someone you wish you could meet.

by the end of the first week, the awkwardness has left. he's still a little distant emotionally, but you can tell he's trying. and you feel comfortable in his presence—more than you'd like to admit. he's not exactly a stranger, is he? seeing all the evidence that you'd chosen to trust him, you feel a strange obligation to your past self to follow through with that. so you make more of an effort—speaking more, asking about him, following him around. you can tell he appreciates it—that glimpse of the person you used to be.

"you haven't tried to convince me to love you again." you say one night, sat on the couch with him. he blinks at you, like you just said something stupid. "...i know." he says dryly. "yeah, but like- i would've thought you'd want your wife back." you try to reason. "i do." he answers simply. "but forcing you wouldn't bring her back." he continues, standing to put his book away. you feel a weird flip in your stomach. he keeps saying and doing these little things that make it obvious why you fell for him. he's such a grounding force, and a part of you thinks that you'll fall in love with him again if you don't get your memory back.

"sasuke," you mumble, also standing. he tilts his head to look at you, waiting for you to speak. "can i get a hug?" you breathe. he pauses before his expression softens. he steps closer, stopping in front of you. he doesn't move, allowing you to control it. you haven't really let him touch you past short, fleeting touches—not that he's tried to initiate anything further. you step into his space, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, burying your face into his shoulder. you feel his body loosen instantly, his arms coming up to wrap around your waist. he pulls you against him, pressing you close, pressing his head into the crook of your neck. he inhales your scent, saying nothing.

the way he's holding you feels so comforting. a part of it feels familiar. not enough to bring anything back—familiar like trying to recall a dream you had. you both stay like that for what feels like forever, not wanting to break the moment. you take in his scent, the feel of his sturdy frame, his slow breaths. "i feel like...i miss you." you whisper, voice unsure. "i miss you too." he murmurs, grip tightening. with a slow breath, you finally pull away. he lets you, arms dropping back to his sides. you both stare at each other for a moment before you lean up, kissing his cheek.

"can i try making dinner tonight?" you ask. he blinks, a little flustered, before nodding.

over the next month, you continue this. exercises, a growing intimacy between the two of you, and a sense of acceptance settling inside of you. acceptance of the fact that maybe you're not going to get better—that you're not going to get your memories back. you're still unsure of how that makes you feel. you're still unsure of everything, really. except for the fact that you're happy when you're around him.

"sasuke," you groan, pouting up at him. "i'm tired. i don't wanna." you complain, annoyed at the fact that he's waking you up early on the weekend for your training. your physical exercises lasted two weeks before sakura determined that you were okay to start slowly going back to your old training routine. you didn't remember it, but your body did. at first, it was fun—the strength, the endurance. but now? you're not really in the mood to go get sweaty at 7 am. sasuke scoffs, flicking your forehead. "lazy." he scolds, brushing your hair out of your face.

you huff, narrowing your eyes. "you have some kind of disorder." you mutter, sitting up. he smirks, raising an eyebrow. "oh, do i?" he drawls, pinching your cheek. "fine. go back to bed. we'll train later." you blink, suprised by his compliance. in the month or so that you've "known" sasuke, he hasn't seemed like the type to give into things like this. but who are you to complain? with a triumphant grin, you flop back down, getting comfortable under the covers. he lets out an amused sound before exiting the room, leaving you to fall back into your slumber.

as you drift off, your subconscious mind takes hold of you as it's done every night—taking you through dreamworlds full of things that make sense in the moment. recalling faces you saw on the street, scenes you saw on the television, conversations you don't remember having...? and suddenly, you jolt awake, gasping for air. your head is spinning, while also pounding. your chest is heaving, your body sweaty. memories swirl through your head, your hand coming up to clutch at your head. one thing after another, you feel unbelievably overwhelmed. decades of memories are washing over you, and you can't help the sob that rips its way out of your chest.

you drag yourself out of bed, feeling a panic attack coming on. "s-sasuke?" you call out as you get to the hallway, leaning against the wall. he's by your side in a moment, hand on your shoulder. "what's wrong?" he asks urgently, cupping your face. you blink up at him, your breathing beginning to slow—just a little. you don't speak for a moment, just taking it all in. you're so overwhelmed, but seeing his face now, you're so relieved. "sasuke, i remember."

those three words are enough for his own eyes to get wet with tears. suddenly, he can breathe again. "you- what?" his voice cracks as he pulls you closer. "i remember." you repeat, burying your face into his chest. for a heartbeat, he doesn't move. as if he's afraid saying it out loud will make it disappear. then his hands come up—one cradling the back of your head, the other pressing firmly against the middle of your back.

"you remember?" he repeats, almost inaudibly. you nod against his chest, another sob escaping you. "i remember everything." your first mission. your academy graduation. the war. the wedding. this house. the nights spent curled against him. the mornings where he'd silently slide a cup of coffee toward you before you were fully awake. every tiny moment that had felt just out of reach crashes into place until your head feels too full to contain it.

"it hurts," you whisper. "i know." he whispers back. "no—you don't understand. it's all at once." his thumb strokes the back of your neck. "i know." he doesn't ask you to explain. he doesn't bombard you with questions. he just stands there, holding you steady while your world rearranges itself. slowly, your breathing evens out.

you pull back enough to look at him. his eyes are red. actual tears cling to his lashes. you stare before you reach a hand up to cup his cheek. his eyelids flutter shut for the briefest moment because the touch is familiar now. not because you've been rebuilding your relationship over the last month—because you've done this hundreds of times before.

so overwhelmed, your knees nearly buckle, but he catches you before you can fall. "i'm okay," you insist. "i know." he murmurs. "no, i really am." your gaze wanders across his face, tracing features you'd unknowingly memorized years ago. the line of his jaw. the faint scar beneath his chin. the way his hair always falls over his left eye more.

then your expression crumples. "i left you alone." you breathe. his brows knit together. "what?" he murmurs. "when i forgot," your voice breaks. "you were grieving me when i was still standing right in front of you." he goes still. then he shakes his head once.

"you came back." he says. "but for a month—" he cuts you off, voice firm. "you came back." there's no accusation in his voice, no resentment. only relief so profound that it steals every other emotion from his face. you bury yourself against him again. "i'm sorry." his chin rests lightly atop your head.

"stop." he mumbles. "i knew you'd remember." you grip the fabric of his shirt. you pull away just enough to look at him again. "me too. and i think..." your own smile grows through the tears. "i was falling in love with you again anyway."

for the first time in weeks, for the first time since you waking up in that hospital bed, sasuke smiles properly. it's small, quiet, but unmistakably real. he leans forward until his forehead rests against yours. "so i noticed." he teases quietly. you huff out a watery laugh. "you didn't say anything about it."

"i wanted you to find your own way." he murmurs. "i did." you whisper. "you did." he repeats. a peaceful silence settles between you, but after a while, your stomach lets out an embarrassingly loud growl. you freeze, he blinks, then another laugh escapes you. "sorry."

he exhales through his nose, amusement softening his features. "you skipped breakfast." he sighs. "because someone let me sleep in."

"you were difficult to wake."

"i always am."

"you are."

you grin. "see? i remember." he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. "yeah. welcome home."

nav

taglist: @zorixchi @hachiologist (open)

“He had pretzels for breakfast.”

“He’s a grown man.”

“He’s a prosecutor,” you corrected. “That’s basically the same thing as a raccoon digging through survival supplies.”

Evelyn pointed at you accusingly. “See? This is exactly how it starts.”

“What starts?”

Unfortunately, she wasn’t entirely wrong. 

The thing about Mark Callan was that he loved quietly, not with speeches or grand gestures, but with small, careful acts that slipped beneath your skin before you even realized they mattered. 

What you never saw was how deeply these acts cost him, how each gesture was the product of a dozen silent decisions. 

Mark’s mind spun constantly around you, cataloging your preferences and making quiet promises to himself that he would notice, remember, protect. 

He never said it out loud, but every morning, every gently placed coffee, every watchful glance in a crowded hallway, was Mark’s way of telling you what he didn’t yet know how to say.

Like the way he automatically moved you away from crowded hallways with a hand on your lower back, or how he’d started leaving sticky notes on your desk attached to coffee cups.

Eat lunch with me today.

You forgot your scarf.

Don’t climb anything while I’m in court.

You kept every single one, which felt equal parts romantic, pathetic, and maybe a touch concerning for your mental health.

Until one Tuesday morning, when Rita walked into records and saw Mark setting a blueberry muffin beside your keyboard.

“Oh, so we’ve entered domesticity.”

Mark barely looked up. “Good morning, Rita.”

“You brought her breakfast.”

“She skipped it yesterday.”

Your mouth fell open. “How do you know that?”

Mark finally glanced at you.

“That’s not important.”

The terrifying thing was, he genuinely meant it. 

Of course, he noticed things like that, as if it mattered by default. Your chest warmed painfully. 

Rita looked between both of you, her expression that of a woman witnessing the slowest courtship in human history.

“You two are one shared grocery list away from retirement.”

“We are not together,” you protested weakly.

Mark handed you your coffee without even looking away from the file in his hands. You stared at him in betrayal while Rita physically wheezed. 

She wasn’t entirely wrong. Over the next few weeks, your routines quietly tangled—dangerously so. 

You started eating lunch in Mark’s office because pretending you didn’t want to see him was harder than you thought. At first, it was by coincidence, then it became normal.

You'd walk in, balancing takeout containers and iced coffees, while Mark sat buried beneath case files at his desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his forearms. 

Every single time, the second he saw you, something in his face unknotted, eyes softening with a glow that belonged only to you. Without fail, a small, unguarded smile would break through, and your heart would thud with giddy affection. 

God, you loved being the reason he smiled.

You realized it one mortifying Thursday, when Mark smiled at something ridiculous you said over cafeteria soup, and your whole chest ached with something softer, deeper than affection.

You began noticing the little things, too.

The way he pushed his coffee toward you automatically when you reached for it absentmindedly. 

How he remembered which pens you liked because you “complain dramatically” about the bad ones.

The way he silently moved dangerous obstacles out of your path after witnessing enough of your accidents to lose faith in your survival instincts entirely.

After days of slipping into routine, you stepped into his office one rainy afternoon, shivering from your dash through the parking garage, umbrella forgotten.

Mark looked up from his desk, noticed you shivering, and immediately stood, concern evident on his face.

“You’re soaked.”

“I noticed.”

“You didn’t bring a coat?”

“It looked sunny earlier.”

“That was six hours ago.”

“Time is fake in this building.”

Mark sighed softly like a man carrying an unbearable burden. Then he shrugged off his suit jacket and walked toward you. Your heartbeat instantly stumbled.

“You’ll freeze.”

“Mark—”

“Take the jacket.”

You stared at him helplessly as he settled the jacket around your shoulders himself, his hands carefully draping the fabric and smoothing it down. 

The jacket was warm from his body and smelled like dark coffee, cologne, and him. 

Your pulse hammered, wild and unfair, as his hands lingered by your collar, fingers warm and close, heat prickling along your skin. He was always too close now, close enough for your heart to trip and your breath to catch.

His eyes dropped to your mouth automatically, then back to your eyes. 

Silence filled the office, heavy and familiar, the kind that always ended badly for both of you.

“Tell me,” you whispered softly, “that you’re thinking very respectful thoughts right now.”

Mark looked genuinely offended.

“I’m a prosecutor.”

“That is not an answer.”

His mouth twitched faintly. Then he stepped closer, and your breath caught immediately.

“You’re standing in my office wearing my jacket,” he murmured. “I’m doing my best here.”

Heat flooded your entire body.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said quietly, “you keep coming back.”

Your heart folded painfully in on itself because he still sounded almost bewildered, as if he couldn’t quite grasp why you wanted him. 

Warmth climbed up your throat as you reached up—almost without thinking—to straighten his crooked tie, your hand trembling with tenderness. 

Mark went completely still, the intimacy of the gesture striking you both at once. When your fingers accidentally brushed the warm skin of his throat, his breathing shifted—subtle, but enough. 

“Careful,” he said softly.

You looked up. “Why?”

His eyes darkened immediately.

“Because I haven’t kissed you all day.”

Your stomach dropped; your hands turned sweaty and hot. 

The room seemed to shrink, every sense narrowing to him. Suddenly, you needed air and more of him all at once.

You barely had time to inhale before Mark’s hand slid along your jaw and he kissed you.

It started restrained. Careful. A soft press of his mouth against yours like he was still pretending he had self-control left.

Then you kissed him back harder.

Mark made a low, rough sound in his throat that sent heat spiraling straight through you, and suddenly the carefulness cracked.

He guided you backward until the edge of his desk pressed against your hips, his hand firm at your waist now, fingers tightening just enough to make your breath catch.

The kiss deepened fast after that.

Hotter. Messier.

Like weeks of tension had finally found somewhere to go.

Your fingers slipped into his hair instinctively, and Mark swore softly against your mouth before kissing you deeper immediately, like that tiny pull unraveled the last thread keeping him composed.

His mouth moved against yours with growing urgency, slow enough to savor but rough enough to leave you dizzy, and every shallow breath you managed to take tasted like coffee and him.

A quiet sound escaped you before you could stop it.

Mark’s reaction was immediate.

His hand slid higher along your waist, thumb brushing beneath your shirt as his forehead knocked briefly against yours, both of you breathing unevenly now. His eyes stayed half-lidded on your mouth like he was trying very hard not to lose the remainder of his restraint.

“You are so much trouble,” he murmured against your mouth.

“You kissed me first.”

“You fixed my tie.”

“That’s not a crime.”

“It should be.”

You let out a breathless laugh. Mark smiled against your lips and kissed you again—slower this time, gentler, drawing out the moment. 

The office door suddenly rattled.

“CALLAN!” Evelyn shouted from outside. “If you’re emotionally compromising each other again, your witness is waiting.”

You covered your face at once. Mark braced a hand on the desk and laughed, helpless and warm enough to make your chest ache.

After a moment, he looked at you again, and the smile faded into something quieter, fonder, dangerously real.

“You should probably go before I forget I have a job to do.”

Your heart did a painful little flip, and the worst part was that you didn’t really want to leave either.

—𝜗𝜚—

Mark Callan did not get jealous easily. Mostly because Mark Callan did not allow himself many things easily. Anger, sometimes. Exhaustion, constantly.

But jealousy was new to him, dangerous and tucked away, like something sharp hidden quietly behind his ribs.

You noticed it for the first time on a Wednesday afternoon. A subtle shift: a new investigator from downtown lingered too long near records, smiling at you. His name was Tyler Greene.

Pretty in an aggressively polished—expensive watch, perfect suit, the kind of man who leaned in too close when he talked, assuming women enjoyed that kind of thing.

You were only being polite.

Mark knew that.

Unfortunately, Tyler apparently mistook basic human kindness for encouragement.

Mark saw the whole thing from halfway down the hallway.

The investigator leaned casually against the records counter. You laughed nervously at something he said—not real laughter, just your polite one.

Mark could tell the difference now; God help him, he knew all your different laughs.

Tyler smiled wider anyway, then he touched your arm—briefly, casually, but enough to make something sharp move beneath Mark’s skin. 

Rita noticed immediately from her desk. “Oh boy,” she muttered.

Mark didn’t answer, but his jaw clenched once—nothing more. 

He kept walking, maintaining his professional, controlled, untouchable facade, but ten minutes later, while reviewing witness statements, he realized he’d missed an entire page—Tyler Greene’s laughter from records still ringing in his ears. 

Absolutely pathetic.

He hated how his attention kept drifting,hated the irrational irritation crawling under his skin.

Most of all, he hated the ugly little thought that kept whispering beneath it all.

He can give her things you can’t; time, ease, normalcy, a life that didn’t revolve around homicide trials and emotional exhaustion.

Mark forced himself back to work, but his focus only lasted approximately twenty minutes. 

Then, when he walked into the break room for coffee, he heard Tyler’s voice around the corner.

“…I’m telling you, she’s adorable.”

Mark slowed automatically. Another investigator laughed quietly. “The records girl?”

“Yeah. Sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Something possessive and immediate twisted low in Mark’s chest at the phrase ‘records girl’. As if you weren’t a person, just something soft to point at. 

Tyler kept talking, oblivious. “She’s got that whole shy thing going on.” 

A pause.

“Bet you she blushes if you say literally remotely sexy to her.”

The other man snorted.

“What, you trying to ask her out?”

“I mean…” Tyler laughed. “Maybe. If Callan doesn’t murder me first.”

Mark went still, and the second investigator laughed harder. 

“Oh come on. They’re not actually together.”

“Still,” Tyler replied. “Guy looks at her like he’s one inconvenience away from putting somebody through drywall.”

They laughed again. 

Mark should’ve walked away; he knew that. 

He was a prosecutor, an adult man; this was ridiculous, but then Tyler spoke again.

“She’s probably worth the trouble, though.”

Instantly, something in the wording hit wrong—not admiration, but assessment, like Tyler was talking about winning a prize rather than a person.

Mark felt his irritation sharpen, turning cold and precise—the same controlled anger he channeled in court.

Without giving himself time to reconsider, Mark stepped around the corner. 

Both investigators straightened at his approach, Tyler’s smile fading first.

“Callan.”

Mark looked at him evenly.

“You have work to do?”

The other investigator vanished instantly. Coward. Tyler recovered slower. “Just grabbing coffee.”

Mark nodded once. Then quietly:

“Then grab coffee.”

The silence afterward felt suffocating. Tyler shifted first. “Look, man, I wasn’t—”

“She works here,” Mark interrupted calmly. “She’s not entertainment for bored investigators.”

Tyler’s expression tightened slightly. “I was just talking.”

“You were talking about her like she wasn’t standing ten feet away.”

The younger man looked uncomfortable now—which was good. Mark stepped closer; not threatening, but somehow worse.

“You want to ask her to dinner?” Mark said evenly. “Do it respectfully. You make comments about her with your friends again, we’ll have a different conversation.”

Tyler stared at him.

“…Are you her boyfriend?”

The question landed squarely in the center of everything Mark had been trying not to think about. Technically, no—you weren’t his, even if his entire body reacted to you as though you already belonged there.

Mark’s jaw flexed once before he answered, careful and measured.

“No.”

Tyler relaxed slightly. Big mistake.

“But,” Mark continued quietly, “you should still be careful.”

The younger man swallowed.

“Right.”

Mark held his gaze for another second before stepping away—conversation over, control restored. Or so he told himself. Yet his chest felt tight for entirely different reasons, because the question lingered: 

Are you her boyfriend? 

No, not officially.

Suddenly, that realization bothered him far more than it should have.

By the time Mark made it back to his office, he was thoroughly exhausted with himself. Of course, that was precisely when you appeared in his doorway with two coffees and a paper bag.

At the sight of you, his entire nervous system relaxed—an infuriating response he couldn’t control.

“There you are,” you said. “You forgot lunch again.”

Mark stared at you for a second too long. You noticed instantly.

“…What?”

In that moment, he looked tired—not with the usual courtroom fatigue, but with something deeper. You slipped into the office quietly and set the coffee on his desk, your movements gentle in response to his mood.

“Hey.”

Mark leaned back in his chair slowly, watching you.

“You flirt with everyone like that?”

Your eyebrows lifted. “What?”

“The investigator.”

Realization flickered across your face, and to his horror, a gentle smile appeared—not mocking, but softly amused.

“Oh,” you said quietly. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Mark exhaled through his nose. “I dislike him.”

“You don’t even know him.”

“I know enough.”

You moved closer slowly, warmth flickering in your eyes now, and somehow that made it worse.

“You know,” you murmured, “you get very broody when you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You look one minor inconvenience away from prosecuting somebody emotionally.”

“That’s my normal face.”

You laughed softly, and the sound made Mark’s chest ache; in that moment, all his irritation melted away, replaced by something far more dangerous: affection—deep enough now to terrify him. You stopped beside his desk, standing close.

“Mark.”

His eyes met yours immediately, and that unbearable pull between you surfaced once more. 

When your fingers brushed lightly against his tie—a tiny touch, yet still enough to unravel him instantly.

“You know I only bring lunch to one grumpy prosecutor, right?”

The jealousy vanished so quickly it almost embarrassed him, replaced in an instant by something warmer. He let his hand settle gently around your wrist, the gesture instinctive and tender.

“You shouldn’t say things like that during work hours.”

Your heartbeat stumbled at the low roughness in his voice.

“Why?”

Mark looked at your mouth. Gone. Absolutely gone.

“Because I’m trying very hard to behave.”

—𝜗𝜚—

The fight began because Mark Callan loved you enough to suddenly believe someone else could make you happier.

Which, unfortunately, was the worst thing to say to a woman already halfway in love with him.

It happened on a Friday—of course it did. Fridays at the courthouse were always strange: everyone was exhausted, emotionally frayed, and surviving on caffeine and bad decisions. 

You were already struggling when Tyler Greene intercepted you near the elevators. 

He didn’t physically corner you, but strategically positioned himself between you and the exit, that too-smooth smile in place again.

“Hey,” he said easily.

You adjusted the files in your arms. “Hi.”

Tyler shoved one hand into his pocket. “Listen, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to grab dinner sometime.”

Your stomach sank—not because he’d asked, but because you already knew this would get complicated. 

Reaching for gentle honesty, you replied carefully.

“That’s nice of you, but—”

“C’mon,” he interrupted with a grin. “One date.”

You shifted slightly. “I’m actually not really looking—”

“Is this about Callan?”

Your expression gave you away at once, and Tyler caught it, his knowing smile appearing immediately.

“There’s nothing happening there, right?”

The question hit harder than expected, because technically, what was happening between you and Mark? Stolen kisses, shared lunches, hands lingering a moment too long; he looked at you like you mattered. Still, there were no labels, no promises, nothing solid enough to explain. 

Sometimes you wondered if you were making it all up in your head, if all those unspoken moments could really add up to something real.

You wanted to ask, to pull the words into the open, but fear kept you silent: fear that putting a name to whatever this was would break the fragile, lovely tension or turn it all into something casual. 

Longing twisted quietly in your chest for something you could point to, something you could call yours—something more certain than coffee and glances you almost understood.

Your hesitation lasted just a beat too long, and Tyler’s expression softened slightly.

“Then let me take you out.”

Before you could respond, the elevator doors slid open behind Tyler, and Mark stepped out. The timing might have been funny if your life weren’t in the process of unraveling. 

Mark’s eyes found you first, then Tyler, then the unmistakable tension between you both. 

Instantly, something shuttered behind his expression.

“Callan,” Tyler greeted casually.

Mark’s gaze stayed on you. “Everything okay?”

You nodded too quickly. “Fine.”

Tyler leaned back slightly. “I was just asking her to dinner.”

A heavy silence fell, and your pulse spiked instantly. Mark glanced at Tyler, then at you—and for one horrible second, you caught it: that flicker of hurt, almost immediately buried beneath professionalism. 

His jaw tightened once before he nodded.

“That seems reasonable.”

Your stomach dropped.

Tyler looked surprised; you, devastated. Mark didn’t seem to notice either reaction—or maybe he saw both and chose to keep going anyway.

“She should probably say yes.”

The words hit like a physical impact and you stared at him.

“What?”

Mark finally looked directly at you. He was calm, too calm.

“Tyler seems nice.”

Betrayal bloomed slowly, hot and sharp beneath your ribs. 

Tyler glanced awkwardly between the two of you, suddenly realizing he’d stumbled into something dangerous. 

You let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “Wow.”

Mark’s expression shifted slightly. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, I think you did.”

Tyler immediately stepped backward. “Okay. I’m gonna—”

“Great idea,” you snapped.

He vanished instantly, coward. 

Then it was just you and Mark, stranded near the elevators in terrible silence. 

Your chest hurts, actually hurts, because suddenly, every soft thing between you felt humiliating. 

Every lunch, every kiss, every moment, you’d started believing maybe this was becoming real.

Mark lowered his voice carefully. “You deserve someone who can give you more than this.”

“There it is.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“The self-sabotage thing you do whenever something starts to matter.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” Your voice cracked slightly despite your best effort. “Because you kiss me in your office, you look at me like— like I matter to you, and then the second someone asks me out, you tell me to go?”

Mark looked stricken instantly.

“You matter too much.”

“Do you hear how insane that sounds?”

The hallway fell unnaturally quiet around you, people nearby pretending not to listen—cowards. Mark stepped closer, lowering his voice even more.

“I’m trying to be realistic.”

“No,” you said softly, hurt blooming wider now. “You’re trying to decide for me.”

His jaw tightened.

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither is pushing me away every time you get scared.”

The words landed hard, and you saw the impact immediately—because beneath Mark’s composure was a man held together almost entirely by guilt and exhaustion. 

Now, you had struck the exact fracture point.

“You think this is fear?” he asked quietly.

“I think you’ve already halfway convinced yourself you’ll mess this up.”

A heavy, terrible silence settled between you—because you were right. 

Mark looked away first, and that hurt worst of all. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was tired.

“People like Tyler don’t come home at midnight carrying every verdict they couldn’t save, and closing arguments still bleeding through their teeth.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“They don’t cancel plans because a witness disappears. They don’t cancel dates or spend night sleeping in their office.”

“Mark—”

“You want honesty?” His laugh came rough and joyless, the sound scraped raw from somewhere inside him.

There was a long, fragile beat before he continued, and when he finally spoke, his words faltered, thin as glass.

“Fine. I like you enough that I notice every time you enter or exit a room. Enough that hearing another man talk about you makes me irrationally angry.”

Mark swallowed, struggling for the right words, his gaze dropping to the floor as if ashamed. 

"Sometimes it feels like everything in me is wired wrong—like loving you is a test I'm always failing even when I try."

He forced himself to look back at you, every defense peeled away, voice trembling now. "And I still think you’d be happier with someone easier to love."

The ache in your chest turned unbearable because he believed it completely. You stepped closer before you could stop yourself.

“You don’t get to decide what makes me happy.”

Mark looked wrecked now. Utterly wrecked.

“You say that now.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means eventually this stops being charming.”

Your eyes burned unexpectedly.

“Wow.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I’m serious too,” you shot back. “Why would you do this to me? You say that you care and then act as if it wouldn’t matter. That you’d rather go out with Tyler Greene?”

Something in Mark’s expression cracked at that, as if hearing it out loud wounded him. 

Good—you were hurting too.

“You think I want easy?” you whispered. “I want you.”

An enormous silence followed. Mark stared at you, as if he couldn’t breathe, as if your words had physically wounded him. For one horrible moment, you thought he might finally say it too—but instead. 

“You shouldn’t,” he said it quietly. 

That was the breaking point—pain flashed hot across your face before you could hide it, and you stepped backward at once.

“Wow, got it.”

Mark’s expression changed instantly. “That’s not what I—”

“No,” you interrupted softly. “I think maybe it is.”

The hurt in your voice embarrassed you instantly. 

You hated that he had this power over you—and hated, too, how miserable he looked. 

Neither of you moved. 

Finally, you shook your head once.

“I can’t do this today.”

You turned before he could stop you.

“Wait—”

But you kept walking—quickly enough that he couldn’t see your eyes burning or hear the tremor in your breath. 

You stepped into the elevator alone, jaw clenched tight, throat burning. For the first time since falling for Mark Callan, he didn’t follow.

Each second he stood there settled like a cold weight in your chest. 

By the time the doors slid shut, you pressed your back to the mirrored wall and let a silent tear slip down, furious at yourself for wishing he stoped you from going, even now. 

The ache was sharp and absurdly hopeful—that maybe, just maybe, he’d still come after you.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the records room, surrounded by transcrip files, terrible vending machine coffee, and the deeply uncomfortable realization that you were hopelessly in love with Mark Callan.

Then the doorway darkened, and there he was. His tie was gone, sleeves rolled up, dark hair a little messy, and exhaustion clear on his face.

He looked so drained that a sharp concern twisted in your chest, but when his eyes met yours, relief eased across his face, and affection softened the exhaustion. 

The mix left you feeling seen and unexpectedly hopeful.

“You’re still here,” he said quietly.

“So are you.”

Mark glanced toward the pile of files surrounding you. “How long have you been sitting on the floor?”

You looked around vaguely. “Time has lost all meaning.”

“That’s concerning.”

“I had a system.”

“You absolutely did not.”

“That feels judgmental.” He stepped inside with two coffees, and when your fingers brushed as he handed you the cup, that familiar spark moved between you again. 

“You brought me caffeine?”

“You looked half-conscious three hours ago.”

“That’s just my face.”

Being around Mark had become easy now—dangerously easy. The silence that followed didn’t feel awkward anymore. Instead, your nerves tingled with the sense that something was changing between you.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

You noticed the tension in his shoulders, the way he absently rubbed his wrist. 

“Your hand bothering you?” you asked softly.

Mark glanced down like he’d forgotten he was doing it.

“Old injury.” He said it quickly, as if the explanation should be enough, but you caught the way his eyes darted away for a moment, distant and shadowed. 

Sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, you had seen him flex his left hand over and over, like he was testing its memory against something that once hurt much worse. 

Whatever it was, you sensed that pain still lingered, more in his mind than his body.

“You should rest.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. “You say that like it’s an option.”

“It should be.”

When he looked back at you, the room shifted in that sudden, unbearable way it always did between you, and your chest tightened with anticipation.

“You worry about me a lot,” Mark said quietly.

“You make it very easy.”

Before either of you could say anything else, the fire alarm screamed overhead. 

You jolted up too quickly and caught your foot in your bag strap. Mark reacted on instinct, one hand grabbing your wrist and the other steadying your waist. 

Unfortunately, this still sent you crashing directly into him, coffee spilling forgotten onto the floor as you found yourself pressed against his chest, his hand firm at your waist, red emergency lights flashing across his face.

Neither of you moved. 

Your heart thudded wildly with fear of what might happen and desire for something you’d wanted for so long. You could feel his hesitation in the way his hand stilled, unsure whether to let go or hold on.

The alarm blared around you, but all you could focus on was Mark’s warmth, his slow, slightly uneven breathing, and the way he looked at you like every careful wall inside him had finally started to crack.

When his gaze dropped to your mouth, your entire body reacted with nervous anticipation and hope, and you saw the exact moment he realized you had noticed his internal struggle. 

“Mark,” you whispered.

His jaw tightened with restraint, as if holding back a storm of feelings, but when you whispered his name, something in him finally broke free.

His hand rose to your face slowly, almost carefully, his thumb brushing your cheek like he was afraid you might disappear. 

“You have no idea,” he said, his voice rough and unsteady, “what you’ve done to me.” 

The honesty of it ruined you. 

You leaned into his touch, just barely, a silent confession of your feelings, and that was enough to send relief and urgency through you. 

Mark exhaled sharply, a breath full of pent-up longing and fear, then kissed you like he had been trying not to for weeks, desperate and finally unrestrained.

At first, the kiss was careful, almost hesitant, as if both of you feared what this meant, but when you made a helpless sound against his mouth, relief and overwhelming desire deepened it. 

The courthouse, the alarm, the spilled coffee—everything faded away. 

There was only Mark, his hand cradling your face, his other hand tightening at your waist as he kissed you with all the intensity he usually kept buried beneath professionalism and restraint.

His mouth was warm against yours, firm at first, almost careful, like he was still trying to be good, still trying to hold back even as every part of him gave away how badly he wanted this.

He tasted faintly of coffee and peppermint, sharp and warm and impossibly him, and when his thumb brushed along your cheek, the tenderness of it made your knees feel dangerously unreliable.

You clutched the front of his shirt, feeling the crisp cotton twist beneath your fingers, and Mark responded like the touch broke something in him.

His mouth moved deeper over yours, slower now, more deliberate, like he was learning the shape of you, memorizing the way you softened against him.

He kissed you once, then again, each press of his lips a little less restrained than the last, his breath unsteady against your mouth when you made a small, helpless sound you couldn’t swallow.

The low sound he made in return nearly undid you completely—rough, quiet, and pulled from somewhere deep in his chest.

His hand flexed at your waist, drawing you closer before he seemed to remember himself and loosened his grip just enough to make it careful again.

That only made it worse somehow, the restraint, the way he kept trying to be gentle even while kissing you like he had been starving for this. Like he had spent weeks imagining your mouth and still wasn’t prepared for what it would do to him.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads nearly touching while the alarm still screamed overhead. 

Mark looked stunned, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened; anxiety flickered through his wide eyes, mixed with a kind of amazed vulnerability that left him uncertain how to react. 

“That was a terrible idea,” he murmured.

You stared at him breathlessly. “You say that after kissing me like that?”

For a heartbeat, a sharp ache of uncertainty filled your chest. Fear and insecurity flared as you worried that this moment might ruin everything between you.

Mark was stubborn and flawed, but his quiet kindness, the way he made you laugh even on the worst days, and the rare gentleness in his touch remained in your mind. 

He listened when you spoke, remembered the smallest details, and made you feel safe, even when the world felt impossible. Wanting him was terrifying, but the chance for warmth, laughter, and steady affection felt like a risk worth taking.

You stared at him, feeling both exposed and brave, and told him he had no right to say that after kissing you like that.

“You should not look that pleased right now,” he murmured.

“I’m sorry,” you said, still dizzy, still smiling helplessly. “I think my brain melted fifteen seconds ago.”

A helpless laugh escaped him, and then he smiled—really smiled, relief and joy breaking through his usual guardedness, making your chest ache with happiness and affection.

Then the records room door slammed open.

Rita burst in with Evelyn and two courthouse security officers, and you and Mark sprang apart so violently it looked criminal. 

Silence fell, long and horrifying, as Evelyn looked from your flushed face to Mark’s, then down at the overturned coffee on the floor. 

"Oh," she finally said, her tone stuck somewhere between shock and delighted suspicion, while Rita clutched her chest like she had just witnessed the most important moment of her life. 

For a split second, Evelyn's eyes widened, her mouth opening as if to say something before she pressed her lips together to hide a dawning grin. 

Rita blinked twice, caught between gasping and beaming, she looked back and forth between you and Mark, her excitement almost impossible to contain.

—𝜗𝜚—

You quickly learned there were almost no dignified ways to recover after being caught making out with Deputy District Attorney Mark Callan during a courthouse fire alarm, especially when Rita and Evelyn were the witnesses—the two women immediately became unbearable.

“You know,” Evelyn said the next morning while pouring coffee in the break room, “most people wait until at least the second date before violating municipal safety procedures.”

Without missing a beat, you shot back, “We’re just overachievers. Some of us like to make a good impression with the fire marshal.”

Evelyn waggled her eyebrows. “Is that what the kids are calling it now?”

You buried your face in your hands. “Please stop talking.”

Rita looked delighted beyond reason. “No, no, let’s really unpack the fire alarm aspect. Symbolism matters.”

“It was not symbolic.”

“You literally kissed under flashing red lights.”

“Accidentally,” you argued weakly.

Evelyn nearly choked on her coffee. “You accidentally tongue-kissed a prosecutor?”

You felt like you could die from embarrassment.

Across the room, Simon from intake whispered, “Tongue-kissed?” to another clerk with the urgency of a man receiving state secrets.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

The rumors spread through the courthouse before noon, and they were not subtle. 

By lunch, someone had anonymously left a tiny fire extinguisher on your desk with a note reading: For future workplace passion emergencies.

You wanted to die from embarrassment, mortification burning under your cheeks. Rita, meanwhile, was on another level. 

Not content with merely enjoying the spectacle, she kept sneaking pictures of your horrified face every time Mark’s name was mentioned, already scheming about the perfect photo collage for your as-yet-nonexistent wedding. 

Every time you caught her eye, she grinned even wider and mouthed, "You’re welcome," like she had orchestrated the whole thing. 

When someone walked past your desk with a knowing look, Rita would lean over and whisper outrageous ideas about T-shirts and group chats, all with the delight of someone who lived for this kind of drama, her loyalty always taking the shape of relentless, infuriating cheerleading.

Meanwhile, Mark Callan had become impossible to look at directly because now you knew what his mouth felt like, how his hands tightened when he kissed you deeper, and the rough sound he made when you touched him back. 

Your brain replayed it constantly like a cursed movie trailer.

Unfortunately, Mark seemed equally unsettled, the memory of the kiss flickering in his eyes and a tension clinging to him that matched the electric nervousness you felt inside. 

You noticed right away when he walked into records that afternoon, looking composed—too composed, the kind of composed that screamed barely holding it together inside.

His tie was perfect, his suit immaculate, but his eyes found yours instantly, and suddenly the entire room felt too warm.

Nobody spoke, mostly because the entire records department was openly pretending not to watch. 

Mark cleared his throat once.

“I need the Benson files.”

Rita handed them to him immediately without breaking eye contact with either of you.

“Thanks,” Mark muttered.

A heavy silence settled between the two of you because neither knew how to act normally anymore. 

Not after last night, not after he kissed you like he was starving.

You tucked your hair nervously behind your ear. 

Mark’s gaze followed automatically, dropping to your mouth before snapping away, sending your heartbeat into public health concern territory. 

“Can I talk to you?” He finally said.

The room instantly erupted into fake coughing, and you glared at everyone while Mark looked one second away from prosecuting somebody personally. 

You followed him into the empty conference room beside records, your pulse hammering violently, and the second the door closed, silence swallowed both of you whole. 

Neither of you moved, and there was a brief silence until you spoke simultaneously. 

“I’m sorry—”

You both stopped.

Mark exhaled sharply through his nose. “You first.” 

Your stomach twisted nervously. “I didn’t mean to make things harder for you.”

He stared at you like you’d said something incomprehensible.

“You think you’re the problem here?”

“I mean…”

He took one step closer, not enough to touch, but enough to make breathing difficult.

“You are the only easy thing in my life right now.”

Your heart broke instantly because he sounded exhausted, honest, and completely defenseless as he dragged one hand down his face before continuing quietly.

“I’ve spent two weeks trying not to cross lines with you.”

You swallowed hard.

“I know.”

“No,” he said softly. “I don’t think you do.”

His eyes met yours fully, dark, intense, and completely wrecked.

“You smile at me, and my entire day changes.” His laugh came rough and tired. “You trip over air, and somehow I still think you’re the most beautiful woman in every room.”

Heat flooded your chest so painfully it almost hurt as Mark stepped closer again, still careful, always careful with you.

“I hear your voice in hallways before I see you,” he admitted quietly. “I know the sound of your footsteps now.” His jaw tightened slightly. “And last night…”

He stopped like he didn’t trust himself to finish the sentence, and when you finally spoke, your voice came out tiny.

“Last night what?”

Mark looked at you in a way that completely unraveled your nervous system.

“Last night I kissed you,” he said softly, “and realized I’ve been wanting to do so for a lot longer than I realized.”

Your eyes burned unexpectedly, because there it was again—that terrifying sincerity, no games, no smooth charm, just honesty—and you stepped toward him before fear could stop you, making Mark go still immediately.

"You know what the worst part is?" he whispered.

“What?”

“I think it started when you covered my files in coffee stains.”

A startled laugh escaped you, warm and doubtful.

“You have terrible judgment.”

“So I’ve been told.”

That look crossed his face again, the one that made him seem emotionally doomed, as his hand lifted slowly toward your face and paused halfway there like he was still asking permission. 

“You tied my shoelace…”

“You nearly concussed yourself on six separate occasions.”

“…and you caught me every time.”

You leaned into his touch immediately, and the relief in his expression nearly destroyed you as his thumb brushed softly across your cheek, his forehead resting briefly against yours until both of you simply breathed, quiet and close, like the world outside the conference room didn’t exist for a minute.

“You scare me a little,” he admitted softly.

Your heart squeezed painfully. “Why?”

“Because I like you enough to ruin this.”

You pulled back slightly to look at him properly.

“Mark.”

“I mean it.” His eyes searched yours. “This courthouse— my job— people talk.”

“People already think we’re one workplace incident away from marriage.”

A helpless smile tugged at his mouth before fading again.

“I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.”

For a split second, you thought about all the ways this could go wrong—the courthouse rumors already out of control, HR policies neither of you had bothered to look up, the real possibility that one or both of you could get written up or worse if anyone decided to make an issue of it. 

It wasn't just gossip, it was jobs and reputations and the countless ways people you barely knew could have power over your happiness. 

The weight of it pressed against your chest, sharpening your worry, but even knowing the risk, the thought of not taking the chance with Mark felt even scarier.

The tenderness of that almost undid you, because even now, he was worried about you, and you touched his wrist carefully.

“Hey.”

His eyes lifted immediately.

“You’re allowed to want something good too.”

Something in Mark’s expression cracked at the words, like nobody had ever told him that before.

When his mouth found yours, it wasn’t desperate or consuming—it was soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that asked you to stay instead of trying to take anything from you.

You melted against him before you even realized you were moving.

He exhaled quietly into the kiss, forehead leaning against yours afterward, his nose brushing yours once in a way that felt almost shy.

Then a knock slammed against the conference room door.

“CALLAN!” came Evelyn’s voice from outside. “If you’re done secretly making out again, your witness is here.”

You covered your face instantly while Mark closed his eyes in visible defeat and actually laughed, full and helpless, and somehow hearing that sound mattered almost as much as the kiss itself.

As the sounds of laughter faded and the world outside pressed in again, you felt something new settle in your chest—a cautious, hopeful certainty that this was only the beginning. 

No matter how complicated tomorrow might be, you found yourself smiling, heart open and eager for whatever came next, ready to see where this would take you.