slaying and chilling and killing

you’ve spent the past two days alternating between staring at a blank page and berating yourself for staring at a blank page, which is, ironically, just another form of procrastination.

it’s not even that you don’t want to start, you just don’t know where. it feels like every thought you’ve had has already been said, painted, sculpted, dissected to death, and who are you to think you’ll come up with something new?

it’s exhausting, loving something this much. it’s exhausting, feeling everything so deeply that even the act of trying to put it into words feels like a betrayal of how big it is inside you.

you only remember the gallery because of a poster. you’re halfway across campus, nursing a smoothie from the caf’s walmart version of jamba juice, when you spot it tacked to the bulletin board— nouvelle exposition française: art from the 18th to 21st centuries.

“okay,” you mutter to yourself, squinting at the glossy image of a woman in a powdered wig, “what kind of french art?”

there’s no answer, obviously, but you still roll your eyes, half at yourself, half at the vagueness of the world. fine. you’ll take whatever inspiration you can get, even if it means enduring an entire exhibit of pastel cherubs and men in powdered wigs pretending to be thoughtful.

so you go that afternoon.

the campus museum— the gallery — is almost empty when you get there. just a couple of tourists trailing behind a guide, some art majors sketching quietly in the corner. the student at the front desk doesn’t even look up when you flash your id.

you take the stairs up to the second floor two at a time, where the exhibit starts.

it’s… fine. you can tell it’s supposed to be inspired, but something about the arrangement feels lazy, like they ran out of space halfway through and started improvising. you make mental notes anyway, walking past the first few displays in a polite sort of disinterest. oils, pastels, sculptures, impressionists next to surrealists next to something that looks like it belongs in a completely different museum. 

you start to think maybe your adviser was wrong, maybe there’s such a thing as starting too early. still, you stop in front of each piece because that’s what good students do, hoping that maybe something will stick.

and then it does.

you almost miss it, tucked away in a quiet section, almost hidden between two larger, louder pieces, a modest brass filigree frame, no bigger than a door, maybe four feet by six. not grand, not loud. just quiet. pretty unassuming. but it catches you anyway, in that strange, magnetic kind of pull that stops you mid-step.

the subject is a young man. he’s seated, turned slightly toward the painter, his gaze soft. his hair is dark, the kind of brown that turns golden when the light hits it, his skin luminous in the half-shadow, his mouth curved like he’s trying not to smile. the clothes are simple, a white shirt, collar open, a dark coat draped over his shoulders. it looks late 1800s, judging by the clothes and the furniture, but that’s not what hooks you.

it’s the way he’s painted. the light falls on him like he’s being seen for the first time, like the artist loved him so much he had to make him immortal. you can feel the affection in every inch of it— the slight tilt of his head, the soft crease between his brows, tthe way his hand rests on his knee as though the painter couldn’t bear to let that detail go unseen.

you lean in to read the plaque beside it. one word. alexandre. no artist’s name, no date, no title. just that.

you should move on. there’s an entire hallway left to see. but your feet don’t move. you just stand there, your reflection faint against the glass, the hum of the gallery’s air conditioning soft in your ears.

not to say you fall in love, but—

you sit down right there, ignoring the slight creak of the bench, the soft hum of the air conditioner, the faint echo of your own heartbeat. you take out your sketchbook. you don’t even think— your pencil moves before your brain can stop it. you start tracing his face, line after line, until you can almost feel the shape of him under your fingertips. the curve of his jaw. the tilt of his head. the mole near his ear that the artist must have adored enough to keep.

hours pass before you realize the light outside has changed, spilling through the high windows in muted gold. your music has looped twice, your pencil’s smudged your fingertips gray, and still you can’t stop. you’re not sure what exactly you’re searching for in his face— maybe the story, maybe the feeling— but whatever it is, it’s enough to make you stay there until the gallery lights flicker, warning you that it’s closing time.

you pack up reluctantly, look back once more before leaving. the man in the  painting stares back, unchanged.

you tell yourself it’s nothing, just curiosity, just character study. but when you get home and see your sketches laid out across the floor, every one of them looks just like him.

isack hadjar does not believe in luck. he never has. his father told him once over dinner that luck was just the word people used when they didn’t want to admit someone worked harder. luck wasn’t what got him into the best physics program at his university, nor was it luck that got him the full ride. luck didn’t make the universe expand or make the equations click into place in his head like they were always meant to.

merit did all that. long nights spent hunched over equations did. his scholarship, his discipline, his absolute refusal to believe in coincidence— that’s what did it.

so, obviously, he doesn’t believe in luck. or he shouldn’t.

except lately, he’s starting to think luck might believe in him.

because somehow, despite all that, he’s stuck giving tours at the campus museum for his required work hours, and if that isn’t a cosmic joke he doesn’t know what is. it looks good on paper: air-conditioning, a small allowance, no heavy lifting (though he wouldn’t mind that, even!), and it’s a campus job, which means proximity to the lab.

the thing about paper is that it’s flat, and the thing about real life is that it’s not.

he thought the job would be easy. maybe he’d hang out behind the desk with pepe, the guy who’s manning the reception counter for the summer. he thought he’d get to stand around, read a book, maybe answer the occasional question about where the bathrooms were.

what he hadn’t accounted for was that apparently, everyone decided the gallery was the perfect summer activity. tourists, parents, retired professors, and most especially art camp kids in matching t-shirts, toting around sketchbooks bigger than their torsos.

so now, every day, he’s giving tours in the echoing halls of the museum, repeating the same script over and over in that half-bored, half-fake-enthusiastic tone he’s perfected. 

“this piece— uhhh— portrays the struggle of…” he trails off, realizing he’s read the wrong paragraph from his notes again. “...light and shadow. in a very symbolic way.” he gestures vaguely toward the nearest painting. the group murmurs politely.

isack knows gets away with it because his accent distracts people, makes everything sound more authentic. the upper deities of the financial aid department assigned him this post because he’s french. that’s it. not because he knows art, or cares too much particularly about it, but because the exhibit is called new french art, and apparently that makes him the closest thing to a cultural ambassador this side of the atlantic.

he doesn’t hate it, it’s just… tedious. the same questions, the same footsteps echoing against the same parquet floors. 

by the third week of summer, he’s perfected the art of cutting corners. he shuffles people past the middle section quickly, the one with all the portraits. no one ever notices. he times his speeches by heart: ten minutes from impressionism to postmodern, eight if he walks fast enough.

he thinks of luck again sometimes, but only when he catches the bus just as the doors are closing, or when pepe sneaks him free coffee from the café. those are just… a series of events falling into each other, not luck.

he doesn’t notice you.

not the first time, or the second, or the sixth, or even the tenth. to him, you’re just another blur in the periphery, someone sitting cross-legged on the bench, sketchbook open, headphones on, the faint clatter of pencil against paper swallowed by the museum’s stillness. he’s too busy counting heads, too busy watching the clock, too busy thinking about lunch.

but if he did notice, if he ever slowed down long enough to look, he might see how your shoulders tilt slightly when you draw, how you bite the inside of your cheek when a line doesn’t come out the way you want. he might see the mess of graphite on your fingertips, the ghost of the painting you’re recreating etched across a dozen half-finished pages. 

he might have even liked the way your brow furrows in concentration, how the strands of your hair keep falling into your eyes until you push them back impatiently, smudging a streak of pencil on your cheek without realizing. he might like the smallness of that moment, the sheerintimacy of it, the quiet act of someone so consumed by something that time forgets to move forward.

but he doesn’t notice any of that.

instead, isack hadjar finishes another tour, pockets the crumpled script the manager, claire, gave him at the start of the summer, and leans against the reception counter. pepe offers him a mint. he declines. there’s a smear of charcoal on the back of his hand— from brushing past one of the art camp kids brandishing their art supplies like a sword, maybe. he wipes it away without thinking.

luck doesn’t exist, he tells himself again.

if it did, maybe he would have noticed you earlier.

the janitor’s name is marcel, though most people at the gallery just call him mar. he doesn’t mind, really— he’s been working here long enough to know that art people aren’t good with names, just shapes and color and the idea of people.

he used to work construction before his knee went out, so now he cleans floors and empties bins and sometimes fixes the lights when they flicker too long. the gallery’s been his routine for nearly eight years, and by now, he knows every inch of it— the smell of oil and varnish that never quite leaves, the way the air shifts colder when it rains, the paintings that seem to breathe when the light hits them right.

he starts noticing you mid-june. 

he’s cleaned the floors around you more times than he can count. every evening, when the sun starts dripping through the high gallery windows and the shadows stretch long across the marble, he does his usual route of sweeping, wiping down benches, emptying the bins, until he reaches your corner. that’s when he gives you the same nudge he’s been giving for weeks now, broom handle tapping gently against the baseboard near your feet.

“closing soon, miss,” he says, voice low so it doesn’t echo too much.

you always blink up at him like you’ve been pulled out of a dream, pencil still hovering in mid-air. “already?”

he chuckles, every single time. “already,” he repeats.

and every single time, you fumble to pack up your things, pencils rattling into a tin, papers rustling, the faint panic of someone who doesn’t want to leave just yet. you always glance back once, before the turn of the stairwell takes the painting out of sight. he doesn’t miss it.

sometimes, when he locks up after you’re gone, he wanders over to that same corner. not for long— just enough to look at the painting you keep sketching. alexandre. he’s not an art man, never claimed to be. he cleans up the places people make art in, that’s all. 

he tells thea, the security guard who works the second floor, once, during their late closing rounds. “that girl— the one with the sketches— she loves that painting too much.”

thea just shrugs. “artists. they all get obsessed with something.”

but mar doesn’t think it’s obsession. it’s gentler than that. it’s the same look, he thinks, that he gets when he comes home, sees his wife on the couch watching her usual reruns of jeopardy, murmuring that dinner’s in the fridge, asking if she wants him to reheat it, and he’ll always shake his head, says he’ll do it himself. it’s the same look, he realizes, when you’re in love.

by july’s end, he knows your rhythm by heart. the faint squeak of your shoes on the stairs. the sound of your bag clinking with keychains. and he starts timing his rounds around that, letting you stay a few minutes longer before he has to turn off the lights.

sometimes he thinks about asking what it is you see in that boy— what keeps you coming back. but he never does. instead, he lets you have your quiet, and he keeps your secret safe.

and every night, right before lights-out, he finds you there, still sketching under the too-bright fluorescents, shoulders curled inward, pencil racing against time. he gives you that same small nudge, careful not to startle you.

“closing soon,” he murmurs again, softer this time.

and you, as always, look up, eyes a little dazed, heart still somewhere inside the painting. “already?”

he smiles. “already.”

you smile back, a little sad, a little grateful. and then you leave, the sound of your keychains echoing down the empty hall.

your roommate has long since given up on the idea of personal space when it comes to you.

not that she minds— you’re her best friend, her artistic tornado of a human being, and you’ve bared your lives to each other that you’d never do to anyone else, but it’s close to midnight on a sunday, and you’re sprawled at the foot of her bed like you’re at your therapist’s couch. she’d been half-asleep when you barged in, laptop in hand, hair a mess.

she’s half under the covers, scrolling through her phone, when you start wailing— not dramatically, but close enough. that low, frustrated groan that means you’ve hit another creative wall.

“i can’t find anything,” you say, as if the world itself has conspired against you. “nothing. no record, no origin, no provenance, nothing.”

your roommate glances up from her screen. “you’re still talking about the painting, huh?”

you nod, hitting your head on the mattress over and over again, cursing how soft it is, “you’d think someone, anyone, would’ve written about it, but all the catalogues just skip over it. some don’t even list the artist’s name, and the ones that do can’t agree if alexandre is supposed to be the artist or the subject or maybe someone’s dead lover. like— how does that happen? how does a painting like that just— slip through the cracks?”

she hums in sympathy, which, in her language, means she’s listening but also trying not to roll her eyes. you’ve been like this for weeks now, sketching, googling, scouring the archives, even emailing the museum’s administrative office (“for research purposes,” you said, like that made it sound any less crazy).

“maybe it’s cursed,” she suggests, deadpan. “maybe if you say alexandre three times in front of a mirror, the painting appears behind you.”

your ears perk up at that, “you think so?”

her eyes widen, incredulous, “oh my god!”

jack’s head pops out from beneath the blanket, hair mussed, squinting at the light. “do you have to be here?” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “it’s, like, midnight.”

you jolt. “oh my god, jack, i didn’t know you were—”

“he’s always here,” she says, running her hand through jack’s hair. “i told you, we have no personal space in this household. none. you, me, and apparently my boyfriend, who’s now invested in your art crisis.”

jack rubs his eyes, still half-asleep. “what crisis?”

“she’s in love with a painting,” she says simply.

“i am not—” you sit up straight, indignant. “i am not in love with him! i just— i find him fascinating. artistically.”

jack raises an eyebrow. “uh-huh. sure.”

“she has a crush,” she supplies, grinning.

“i do not have a crush!” you exclaim, voice climbing a full octave higher than usual, which, of course, only makes them laugh harder. “it’s not a crush, it’s— it’s academic interest!”

your roommate bites back a grin. “academic interest,” she echoes. “sure. because everyone spends every free afternoon staring lovingly at their academic interests.”

“you don’t understand, it’s— it’s the composition!” you say, gesturing wildly. “the brushwork! the way the light falls on his face, it’s just— god, it’s like he’s breathing. you look at him and you just know the artist couldn’t have painted him without—”

“without wanting to kiss him?” jack mumbles into the pillow.

god, you want to throw your laptop at him. “shut. up.”

he laughs, muffled, half-awake. “i’m just saying, sounds like a crush to me.”

“it’s not—” you insist again, even though both of them are grinning now. “it’s research.”

they both look at you pointedly, like they don’t quite believe it.

eventually, you deflate— shoulders slumping, laptop pressed against your knees. “i just… want to know who he is,” you say quietly. “it feels wrong that someone could’ve loved him that much and left no trace.”

for once, she doesn’t tease. she reaches out and nudges your stomach with her foot. “then find him,” she says softly. “but maybe do it tomorrow, yeah? because right now, you’re keeping my boyfriend from sleeping.”

jack mumbles something in agreement, already sinking back under the blanket.

“you’re no help at all—” you mutter, gathering your laptop, retreating toward the door with as much dignity as you can manage.

“tell alexandre we said hi!” your rommate calls after you, and you don’t dignify that with a response.

thea works the “evening” shift at the gallery, the quiet one between four and midnight. most people would balk at it, say it sounds too creepy, or make a joke about how the paintings come alive at night like that one movie, but she likes it. she likes the stillness, the way the gallery breathes differently after dark. she likes that she can take her time on her rounds, pausing to look at the paintings without the noise of tourists or students.

she’s been here for three years now, a former criminology major who couldn’t finish school when her mom got sick, and the museum job pays steady enough. she knows the sound of every hinge, every flickering light, every whisper of the air conditioning vents. she knows which paintings crackle faintly when the humidity rises and which display lights take an extra second to turn on.

she knows the janitor, mar, who hums while he mops, and pepe, the scholar working his hours at the desk, who leaves exactly at five, no matter what.

she notices you first through the camera monitors, the grainy black-and-white footage of a girl in loose jeans and paint-stained sneakers, always carrying the same bag with a mess of keychains clinking together, breaking the monotony of the quiet halls.

when you start coming so often she knows your schedule better than her own, so much so that she realizes that her rounds where she passes by the second-floor exhibit coincides just as you’re packing up. you always nod politely when she walks by, the type of nod that means i see you, i know you’re just doing your job, thank you.

she likes that. most people don’t look at security guards. most people treat them like furniture.

she doesn’t talk to you until one evening in late july. the gallery is nearly empty, the light turning gold through the big glass windows, the kind of light that makes everything look softer, more temporary. she finds you sitting cross-legged again, pencil moving fast, and she almost doesn’t want to disturb you. but it’s close to seven-thirty, and mar is already waiting by the breaker room to turn the lights off.

“hey, kid,” she says, gently, stepping closer. “closing soon.”

you look up, startled, like she’s pulled you out of a dream. “oh— sorry! i lost track of time again.”

she smiles, shaking her head. “no worries, just letting you know before the lights shut off.”

you grin sheepishly, gathering your things. “i know. i just— i keep thinking i’ll see something new if i stare long enough.”

“and do you?” she asks.

you glance at the painting, at alexandre, “yeah,” you say quietly. “every time.”

something in the way you say it makes her chest ache a little. she’s not an artist, doesn’t pretend to understand that kind of devotion, but she recognizes sincerity when she sees it.

she wishes she’d ever felt that strongly about something that didn’t disappoint her.

as you sling your bag over your shoulder, one of your keychains— a small enamel heart— snaps loose and falls to the floor with a clink. you don’t notice, but she does. she picks it up after you’re gone, tucks it into her pocket, meaning to return it later.

the next day, she waits for you by the front desk. when you arrive, she holds out the keychain between two fingers. “you dropped this yesterday.”

your eyes widen. “oh my god, i thought i lost it. thank you!”

you take it from her gingerly, clipping it on to your bag with the rest of its siblings.  “no problem,” she says. “so, another day of sketching?”

you laugh, and it’s such a bright, unguarded sound that even mar looks up from buffing the floors to smile. “don’t encourage her,” he teases. “she’ll stay here till midnight if you let her.”

“you wouldn’t kick me out now, would you, mar?” you ask, all mock-innocent.

“depends,” he says. “you bring coffee?”

you grin, and to thea’s surprise, the next day, you do. one cup for him, one for her, both still warm, labeled in messy handwriting— for mar and for thea.

“what’s this for?” thea asks, blinking.

“for letting me haunt the place,” you say. “you guys don’t get enough appreciation.”

she stares at you for a second, then shakes her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “you’re something else, kid.”

“can you tell my adviser that?” you jokingly reply, and then you’re gone again, disappearing up the stairs toward your corner of the world.

after that, the gallery feels different. when she and mar lock up at night, they always check that painting last. mar says it’s habit. thea thinks it’s something else. she swears the air in that corner holds a trace of your presence— a faint hum of graphite dust and headphone music and warm coffee.

“she’s a good kid,” mar says one evening, flipping off the final switch.

“yeah,” thea agrees softly, watching the lights fade across alexandre’s painted face. “she is.”

jack doohan should probably get out of here. 

jack doohan shouldn’t even be ‘here’ at all– ‘here’ being his girlfriend’s dorm suite, with his girlfriend’s roommate (hey, that’s you!) pacing in the living room outside. he knows better by now, knows that the dorm’s got a strict ‘no-boys’ policy, knows that the RA lives two doors down, knows that if he gets caught, he’ll probably be immortalized as a cautionary tale on the building’s group chat. but he can’t help it.

what’s a guy supposed to do when his girlfriend bats her lashes and says just stay over, no one will notice?

it’s fine, usually. was fine, anyway— right up until you started haunting the common area.

… not that jack had any problem with that! obviously not, he’s just a guest here, but up until a few weeks ago, you usually stayed in your own room, playing something from that one girl you liked who wore skeleton pajamas, which meant jack was free to just… come and go as he pleased. no need for the awkward, pre-walk-of-shame small talk.

halfway through debating whether to crawl out the window (which, for the record, is six stories up), he hears your voice.

“if you’re planning on sneaking out, now’s the best time. the RA’s got classes until the afternoon.”

he cracks the door open. “you know your RA’s schedule?”

you grin from your perch by the window, legs crossed, sunlight painting your face in warm shapes. “yeah. we used we to sneak a lot of guys in here back in the day.” you say it so casually that he chokes on air, blinking, until you smirk. “kidding. relax, doohan. you know how it goes— sheshe only has eyes for you, wants to marry you, raise little surfboard babies in some beach house, and—”

“okay! got it!” he cuts you off before the teasing can get worse.

his eyes then focus on the elephant in the room (big, loud address me practically floating in front of it): a rolling whiteboard covered with finished and unfinished sketches of your mystery man, pinned and taped onto every available surface, like a madman trying to connect together a murder, sans the red string.

“what’s this?”

“uh… character study?” you provide, though it’s barely believable.

“this your mystery guy, right?” jack walks closer, studies the subject closer, the slope of his nose, the mole on his neck, right below his left ear. “feels like i know him, like i’ve seen him before.”

“yeah, probably,” you say, sliding off the stool to join him. “he’s based on a painting in the french exhibit at the gallery. that’s probably where.”

“right,” he says, nodding. “yeah, that must be it.” a beat, then: “so, the RA’s gone, yeah?”

“yep,” you say. “you’re safe. go out the boring way, lover boy.”

he salutes halfheartedly, grinning as he slips out. nearly runs into the RA, who apparently had a cancelled lecture, and laughs under his breath all the way down the hall.

he doesn’t think much of it— your sketches, the painting, the strange déjà vu curling in his chest. just one of those things, he tells himself.

later that night, at a friend’s apartment, he meets his former roommate kimi’s new roommate’s (ollie's) friend’s (gabi's) friend. an intricate, unnecessary chain of introductions that lands on one name: isack.

jack stares for a second too long, trying to place him. there’s something naggingly familiar about the guy— something in the slope of his nose, the way the light catches just under his jaw.

after a few beers, he finally mentions it. “you look familiar, mate. have we met before?”

isack just shrugs, “probably. orientation week, maybe? think we were in the same cohort or something.”

“yeah,” jack says, though it doesn’t sit right. it’s close enough, though, and he lets it go.

he doesn’t think about your mystery man again— why would he, when there’s a perfectly logical explanation sitting right in front of him?

the museum manager’s name is claire delacroix, which, ironically, makes her sound like she should’ve been a curator at the louvre instead of managing a midsized university gallery whose biggest claim to fame is that one visiting monet sketch that wasn’t even real. she doesn’t mind the job, though. it’s calm and it’s not like it’s the kind of work that follows her home… most days.

she knows every exhibit rotation, every insurance contract, every shipment that comes in wrapped in bubble foam. she runs on routine and tea and the occasional thrill of catching a student trying to sneak a selfie too close to a sculpture.

what she doesn’t love, though, is being chased down in her office by another eager art major with too much passion and not enough boundaries.

you knock— not even properly, just two hurried taps before you’re already halfway inside— and she knows, immediately, that it’s you. she’s seen your emails, both of them, sent two weeks apart. polite, but insistent, curious to the point of interrogation. she’d almost admired the persistence if it hadn’t been clogging up her inbox at the height of inventory season.

“hi, ms. delacroix,” you start, breathless, clutching your sketchbook to your chest like it’d fly away if you didn’t. “sorry, i know you’re busy, but—”

“you’ve emailed me,” she says, voice sharp.

“right,” you say quickly, nodding. “twice. but i just— i thought maybe it’d be easier to talk in person. it’s about the french exhibit. specifically, the portrait. alexandre.”

claire sighs softly through her nose, gesturing toward the chair across from her desk. “sit.”

you do, all jittery energy and enthusiasm, and claire folds her hands on the table, watching as you flip open your sketchbook, showing her— god, dozens— of studies of the same man’s face. different angles, expressions, lighting. she’s seen art students obsess over paintings before, but rarely like this.

“i can’t find anything about it,” you say, almost pleading now. “nothing online, nothing in the archives, not even in the gallery’s public catalog. i know it’s a loan from some french university, but there’s got to be a record, right? provenance papers, exhibition history, something?”

“it’s part of the musée de montparnasse collection,” claire says, reaching for a folder from the drawer behind her. “they’re notoriously disorganized, i’m afraid. we only got a partial file— no name, approximate date, listed artist unknown. the only thing we have is the inscription.”

“alexandre,” you murmur.

she nods. “yes. but that could refer to anyone— the subject, the painter, even the patron. nineteenth-century records are often vague. sometimes intentionally.”

you frown, the frustration written all over your face. “there must be something,” you insist quietly. “this piece… it feels like it mattered to someone. i just— i want to know why.”

unfortunately for her, claire feels a small pang of sympathy. she used to be like you, earnest, relentless, unwilling to accept that not every story could be recovered. “if it helps, i can ask around,” she offers. “though most of our french works are handled by the curatorial assistants. have you spoken to any of the staff?”

“i’ve talked to the janitor,” you admit, sheepish. “and the security guard.”

claire smiles despite herself. “resourceful. but maybe try one of the docents? our student guide— oh, what’s his name again— ah, isack. yes. he’s been assigned to the exhibit all summer. maybe he’s overheard something useful.”

you perk up immediately. “is he here now?”

she glances at her watch. “he should be. let me check.” she picks up the desk phone, pressing a button for reception. “pepe? can you check if isack hadjar’s free? i have a student who’d like to ask him about the exhibit.”

a pause. muffled static.

“ah,” says pepe finally, “he’s with a group right now. just started a tour. sorry, mate— ma’am. i meant ma’am. sorry.”

claire hums. “all right, thank you.” she hangs up, turns to you with an apologetic smile. “looks like you just missed him. he’ll be done in an hour or so if you want to wait.”

you hesitate, glancing at your watch, at the mess of notes in your lap. “i— i have a consultation with my adviser soon.”

she nods, watching as you leave, the sound of your keychains fading down the hall, the faint click of the gallery door behind you.

a few minutes later, she hears laughter through the window overlooking the second floor, the echo of a dozen children and, faintly, isack’s voice, patient and slightly exasperated as he tries to wrangle them into a line.

claire glances down at the folder still open on her desk. the photocopy of the painting’s record stares back at her: alexandre, c. 1887.

by the time isack finishes his tour and the museum quiets again, you’re long gone.

francis has always thought of himself as a patient man. he has to be— it comes with the job. teaching art history to undergrads and half-dreaming grad students means you get used to questions that lead nowhere, theories that collapse under their own sentimentality, and passion that burns way too bright, way too fast. 

still, when you show up at his office door one afternoon, breathless and clutching a sketchbook that looks like it’s been through a war, he knows this isn’t going to be one of those simple ten-minute consultations.

“professor roberts?” you start, knocking lightly even though the door’s open. “do you have a moment?”

he looks up from the stack of essays on his desk— yet another batch of overconfident takes on impressionism— and smiles. “well, you did ask me to pencil you in for this afternoon.”

you step in, uncertain but determined, like someone who’s already rehearsed this conversation twice in your head. “it’s about my dissertation. or, like— the idea for it. i think i’ve found my subject, but…”

francis gestures to the chair across from him. “but you’re not sure if you’re insane for choosing it?”

you blink, surprised, then laugh. “yeah. that.”

he leans back, folding his arms. “try me.”

so you tell him, about the summer exhibit, about alexandre, about how you’ve been going back almost every day, sketching him, researching him, emailing the manager and getting nowhere. you tell him about the ambiguity of the inscription, the missing records, the lack of documentation. and then, in the smallest, softest voice, you say, “but there’s something about him, professor. it’s like… whoever painted him didn’t just want to capture what he looked like. they wanted to remember what he felt like.”

francis listens quietly. he doesn’t interrupt. he lets you talk until your voice runs out of steam, until all the frantic energy that’s been building inside you for days dissolves into the still air of his office. “you think you’re connecting with the subject,” he says slowly, “but maybe you’re really connecting with the artist.”

you look at him, brow furrowed, thoughtful. “what do you mean?”

“it’s not uncommon,” he continues, “to see yourself in the creator. especially when the work is intimate. you start asking the same questions they must’ve asked. what did they see? why did they stay? why did they leave?” he pauses, just briefly, “sometimes it’s not the art we fall in love with, it’s the feeling that someone once felt the same thing we do. that they couldn’t bear to forget.”

“so you think i’m projecting,” you say after a while, voice slightly defensive.

he smiles, not unkindly. “i think you’re an artist. it’s what we do.”

you exhale, leaning back in your chair, staring at the sketchbook again. “sometimes i feel like i’m in the same position as whoever painted him. like i know what they felt. like i’m supposed to finish what they started.”

that makes him look at you a little closer. “finish?”

“not literally,” you say quickly, cheeks warm. “just— i don’t know. like the painting isn’t done. or maybe i’m not done with it.” you close the sketchbook carefully, almost reverently. “it’s stupid.”

“it’s not stupid,” francis says softly. “it’s the beginning of something. maybe not what you expected, but it’s something.”

“something… like my dissertation?”

the clock on his wall ticks softly. somewhere in the distance, the faint hum of students filters in through the open window, the city alive beyond the safety of academia. francis remembers being your age, staying up in his studio until dawn, chasing a feeling he couldn’t name, painting and repainting the same face until he could admit that he was driving himself mad.

“art isn’t supposed to make sense,” he says finally. “not when you’re in the middle of it. you don’t need to explain the connection. just follow it.”

you nod, slowly, like you’re storing his words away for later. when you stand, he notices how your fingers linger on the edge of your sketchbook. “thank you,” you say quietly. “for not thinking i’m insane.”

he laughs, a low, warm sound. “if i thought every student who fell in love with a painting was insane, i’d have quit years ago.”

“it feels like i know him,” you admit. “like he’s waiting for me to figure something out.”

francis smiles faintly, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “then maybe that’s where you start.”

“my dissertation?”

“your story,” he corrects. “whatever it is you’re trying to say. don’t force it yet. just… follow it.” he pauses, glancing at his watch. “though if you want a jumpstart, give me a working title by next week. you’ll be ahead of anyone in your year. no pressure.”

you groan softly, leaning back in your chair. “no pressure, he says.”

“one week.” he says, tapping your sketchbook. “figure alexandre out.”

the name on the bartender’s tag reads milo, though most people forget that halfway through their third drink. he’s been tending bar long enough to know that most faces blur together by the end of the night— the lovers, the loners, the students half-broke and overconfident on cheap beer. the place itself isn’t fancy, just the regular-degular off-campus bar that smells too strongly of the lemon cleaner management tells him to use.

tonight’s quiet, even for the summer semester, the air humming with heat and the ceiling fan clicking every few seconds like a metronome for the empty room. the booths are mostly empty except for two graduate students arguing about methodology, and milo’s polishing glasses he’s already polished twice before, just to give himself something to do.

you look like someone who didn’t mean to end up here, like you took a wrong turn and decided to stay anyway. there’s paint under your nails and a sketchbook peeking out of your bag, and you order a gin and tonic like it’s something you do all the time even though you hesitate before saying it.

“slow night,” he says, filling your glass, trying to be friendly.

you smile faintly. “yeah. i needed a change of scenery.”

he nods, slides the drink across the counter. “you from the uni?”

“yeah,” you say, distracted, flipping through your sketchbook.

you don’t notice when the door swings open behind you, when another student walks in— curls flattened from the drizzle outside, ID tag still tucked haphazardly into his pocket, a quick stride that makes him look like he’s always late to something.

he’s been here before, the boy, though not often, milo’s remembered him once or twice, thinks his name starts with an i— isaac, was it? either way, he takes a seat at the far end of the bar, a few stools down from you.

he doesn’t notice you either— not because you’re forgettable, but because the universe seems committed to keeping the both of you orbiting without collision.

“beer?” milo asks him.

“hit me with the cheapest you’ve got.”

milo pours, sets the bottle down, and turns back to the sink. the bar hums quietly, the low murmur of music filling the space between strangers. for a moment, you both exist in the same frame— you sketching, him nursing a beer, both of you looking down instead of sideways.

at one point, milo swears your reflections almost overlap in the mirror behind the bar, just for a second, like two ghosts moving through the same place at slightly different times. he half-expects one of you to turn, to catch the other’s eye, to say something. but you don’t. you never do.

when you turn to glance toward the door, he’s bent over his drink. when he finally looks around the room, you’re sketching again, pen moving fast.

it’s almost cinematic, if milo were the type to notice that kind of thing. but he’s not. he just keeps wiping glasses and refilling drinks, letting the moments pass the way they always do.

the door opens again, the faint jingle echoing through the empty-ish room. the boy looks up, leaves the bar to join his friends in a booth at the back.

a minute later, you finish your drink, leave a few bills and a polite smile, and turn to leave.

milo watches as you pass in front of the boy’s booth, a split second before the boy looks up from his phone, his gaze brushing the space where you’d been sitting moments ago. his friends are laughing, one of them gesturing toward the bar, and he glances that way idly— only to find your empty stool, the ring of condensation still on the counter.

milo notices a piece of paper left behind on the counter, half tucked under your empty glass. he picks it up, meaning to throw it away, but pauses. it’s a sketch— graphite and smudged fingerprints, a face he faintly recognizes. a man with dark curls, a soft mouth, eyes caught in that impossible space between thought and silence.

milo whistles under his breath. “hell of a doodle.”

he sets it aside, intending to pin it to the corkboard behind the bar, the one cluttered with fake IDs and love notes and 1x1 photos of students who have made the bar their home. but then something stops him.

because an hour later, when the boy returns to the counter to pay his tab, milo looks up— and for a second, his brain stutters.

the resemblance is uncanny.

the jawline, the curve of the mouth, the exact slope of the nose. it’s him. the guy in the drawing.

“everything all right?” the boy  asks, noticing the stare.

milo blinks, laughs it off, handing him the receipt. “yeah. just… thought you looked familiar, is all.”

isack nods, uninterested, pockets the change, and leaves.

milo watches the door swing shut, the rain swallowing him whole.

when he looks back down at the sketch, he swears the drawn eyes are watching him.

he pins it to the corkboard anyway. just another lost thing.

and the next day, when you return to the bar, you glance at the wall and smile softly, relief flooding your face when you see it hanging there.

“thought i lost that,” you tell him, and he shrugs, moving to unpin it from the board before you wave it off, “nah, i’ve got, like, a million more like it— ‘sides, it’s nice. seeing my work on display.”

and milo, for reasons he can’t explain, feels like he’s just witnessed something that doesn’t belong to this world— like luck, if he believed in that sort of thing, had brushed through the bar for a moment, then vanished.

isack doesn’t usually come back to the bar twice in the same week— let alone two weeks in a row— but it’s thursday again, and pepe had texted him something like “beer? i need to stop thinking about my cat’s vet bill before i cry”, and well, there are worse reasons to go out.

so he comes. it’s raining again, that soft summer rain that sticks to the air, and the bar smells like wet denim and the strong lemon cleaner. milo’s behind the counter, wiping down glasses, looking about as half-asleep as isack feels.

isack takes a stool while pepe orders two beers, already chatting up someone three seats down. he’s halfway tuned out when his eyes drift to the corkboard, to the messy collage of old receipts, photos, doodles, and the hundreds of paper scraps that make the place feel alive. but then he pauses.

there, near the center, pinned with a pushpin and curling slightly at the corners, is a sketch. graphite on cream paper, smudged and deliberate. it’s a face. it’s his face.

he stares at it for a long moment, blinking, certain he’s imagining it. but the resemblance is undeniable. the jawline, the hair— slightly tousled, falling over his forehead just so. the small mole under his left ear. even the faint tension in the eyes.

“what the hell,” he mutters under his breath.

pepe leans over, already laughing. “what?”

he points. “why is there a picture of me on that wall?”

pepe squints, following his gaze. “shit, that really does look like you.”

the bartender — joel, his name tag reads, though isack swears last week it was milo— overhears them and glances over, raising an eyebrow. “what looks like him?”

“that.” pepe gestures toward the corkboard. “you hanging up portraits of customers now?”

milo laughs, walking over to take a closer look. “oh— that? yeah. someone left it here last week.”

isack frowns, incredulous. “someone left it?”

“yeah,” milo says, pulling the paper free and smoothing it out on the counter. “she was sitting where you are now, spent the whole night sketching in this little book. left this behind when she left. i kept it ‘cause it looked… well, i don’t know. familiar, i guess.”

“you’re telling me someone came in and drew me without me even being here?”

“looks that way.”

pepe leans over, squinting. “mon dieu,” he says, in mock awe, imitating isack’s accent. “it does look like you. what, are you posing for mysterious artists now?”

“i’m not,” isack says flatly, still staring at the page.

milo shrugs, half-smile still on his face. “then you’ve got a doppelgänger somewhere who’s very popular with art students.”

isack laughs under his breath, shaking his head, but the sound doesn’t quite reach his eyes. because the longer he looks, the more unsettling it feels. it’s not a caricature, not some random doodle. it’s intimate, almost, like the artist wasn’t drawing a face but him.

“you said she left it?” he asks.

“yeah,” milo— no, joel— no, joel-milo?— says. “came back the next day to get it, though. seemed pretty relieved to see it up there.”

“what did she look like?”

the bartender pauses, trying to remember. “uh, kinda quiet. art kid, you know the type. she had this bag covered in keychains— could hear her coming before i saw her.”

pepe snorts. “so, half the arts department.”

isack doesn’t reply. he just keeps staring at the sketch. there’s something about it that won’t let him go— not just the resemblance, but the way it feels. whoever drew it, they’d spent time on it. cared. maybe too much.

“you want it?” joel-milo asks, seeing his hesitation. “i can make a copy if you want the original. it’s yours, technically.”

isack shakes his head. “no, keep it. she came back for it, right?”

“yeah, but she left again pretty quick. didn’t even finish her drink. said it was nice to see her work up somewhere that wasn’t the studio.”

“then it’s hers,” isack says simply, finishing what’s left of his beer.

he tries to brush it off. he really does. but later, when he’s walking home through the rain, the image won’t leave his head. the eyes, the lines, the way it looked unfinished and yet complete all at once.

and the strangest thing—

when he gets home, he catches his reflection in the hallway mirror, the dim light flickering above him, and for a moment,  just a second, he sees the same expression on his own face.

that quiet, half-familiar softness. like he’s been painted before and just forgot to notice.

how can someone paint someone with such love?

you think about it constantly now, in the bus, in line for coffee, in the empty corners of the library when you should be drafting a proposal outline. it sits behind your eyes, the thought of it, like it’s been tattooed into your eyelids. that painting, him, the way he looked, not just at you, but through you—

no, not through you. through time. through whoever was standing there the moment the brush touched canvas.

you’ve spent weeks trying to understand it. the intimacy of it, the unbearable softness, how someone could take oil and pigment and turn it into devotion.

because it wasn’t just skill. skill could capture resemblance. this… what ever this is— it’s something else. whoever painted alexandre must have loved him so deeply it spilled from their fingers. it’s in the tilt of his mouth, that half-smile that doesn’t know whether to stay or go. in the way the light catches his skin, in the curve of his shoulder, the space left unfinished near his wrist, as if the artist couldn’t bear to paint the rest.

you close your eyes and try to imagine it.

the studio, maybe. a small one, late 1800s, the air thick with turpentine and cigarette smoke. afternoon light slanting in through lace curtains. the sound of someone humming quietly under their breath. the artist, you, maybe, in some strange daydream of reincarnation, standing before an easel, brush trembling, trying to steady your hand.

and him— alexandre, or maybe you’re alexandre, or maybe it’s your benefactor— sitting a few feet away, draped in soft linen, curls falling into his eyes. he’s patient, but not still. his mouth moves as he speaks to you, though you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. he’s laughing, sometimes, when you mess up, when the paint runs, when you curse softly in the old language of the heart. and the entire room smells of him— of sunlight and tobacco and the faintest trace of cologne that will someday stop existing.

you paint him the way you’d memorize someone’s voice. line by line, stroke by stroke, desperate to keep him real just a little longer. the light keeps changing and so does he. at some point, he stops talking, and you both fall into silence. there’s nothing left but the rhythm of your breaths falling into place, of paint against canvas. and you think, if i stop now, he’ll disappear. if i finish, he’ll leave.

so you keep painting. keep loving him through color and shadow and the shape of his hands.

and when you open your eyes again, you’re back in your room, sitting on the floor, sketchbook open across your knees. your pencil hovers midair. you’ve drawn him again, without meaning to. the same face, the same jawline, the same eyes that refuse to look anywhere but at you.

you press your thumb against the paper, smudge the graphite where his cheek should be, and feel an ache rise in your chest.

how can someone paint someone with such love?

the answer, you think, is that maybe they couldn’t help it.

and maybe you can’t either.

ten.

you wake late. sunlight slipping through the blinds, half-burning, half-gentle. the morning feels like it’s already running ahead of you, like time forgot to wait.

today’s the day you promised your adviser your title, a working thread for the dissertation that’s been bleeding through your thoughts for weeks, a jumpstart ahead of those in your year. your sketchbook is a mess— half drawings, half frantic notes. alexandre, intimacy, permanence, memory, devotion. it all loops, over and over, until the words stop sounding like words.

you throw on clothes without thinking and sling your bag over your shoulder. the keychains jangle like your nerves. you don’t have time for breakfast. you only have time to get to the museum. you don’t even know why— you just do. maybe to see him again. the painting, you mean. not him. not anyone else.

nine.

isack’s morning starts slow. slower than usual, maybe because it’s his last day at the gallery. the scholarship hours are up, and he’s counting the minutes until he can hand back his name tag and stop pretending to know the answer to the difference between monet and manet. pepe teases him about being sentimental. he’s not. or he tells himself he’s not.

the air feels strange, though. like something’s about to shift.

“one last tour, eh?” pepe says, tapping his clipboard.

“one last,” isack repeats, not quite smiling.

eight.

you take the long way through campus. the pavement still slick from last night’s rain.

you could’ve gone straight to francis’ office, handed him your paper, said something like, “my working title is about love and loss in portraiture.” but that feels dishonest now, incomplete. because what you’ve been doing isn’t just research anymore, it’s searching. for something you can’t name.

the museum steps are practically like muscle memory to you, you could walk them blindfolded.

you take the stairs two at a time.

seven.

isack finishes his last tour before lunch. a group of teenagers, bored and loud, phones out, barely listening. he doesn’t blame them. he mumbles through the last description and lets them scatter. the echo of their sneakers fades into silence. he breathes.

he thinks about the sketch from the bar again. the one milo said a girl left behind. he hadn’t meant to think about it, but it keeps flashing back— those smudged lines, the eyes that looked like his but weren’t his. sometimes he catches himself thinking about the girl too, even though he doesn’t know her. maybe because she looked at his face without ever seeing him.

six.

you enter the gallery, breathless. the lobby is almost empty— the kind of emptiness that hums. the receptionist, pepe, greets you absently. you smile, distracted, muttering a thanks, already climbing the stairs. your bag bumps against your hip, your keychains clinking, a small echo of your hurry.

you think about francis’ words. no pressure. you think about alexandre, about the artist who painted him, about the love that filled every inch of color until it couldn’t hold anymore. you think maybe that’s your title. maybe that’s what this whole thing has been about.

you just need to see him one more time.

five.

isack’s helping mar stack chairs in the reception area, trying to be useful before he signs off. mar tells him something about how he’ll miss having someone to complain to about the mop handles. he smiles, says, “you’ll find another pessimist,” and mar laughs, low and warm.

then the radio crackles. “hadjar,” pepe’s voice, “one last favor— someone’s asking about the french exhibit, can you check the lights on the second floor?”

he sighs, rolls his eyes, but goes anyway.

four.

you round the corner toward the exhibit, the familiar chill of the air conditioning wrapping around you. it’s quiet, but not silent. somewhere, a floorboard creaks. you adjust the strap of your bag, heart picking up for no good reason.

the light in the U-shaped room glows soft, golden, dust floating like slow snow. you head for the far corner. you could walk this path in your sleep.

three.

isack takes the stairs two at a time.

the light hums overhead. he runs a hand through his hair, the cheap fabric of his polo sticking to his back. he’s not really thinking, just moving, wanting to get this last task over with so he can finally clock out.

two.

you turn the corner.

he turns the corner.

it’s that simple.

your bag swings wide, your foot slips, and you collide chest-first into him. it’s clumsy, the impact that knocking the breath out of both of you. your sketchbook spills from your hand, pages fanning open on the floor like wings.

you blink, startled, stepping back. he bends down automatically, picking it up before you can.

and then—

one.

“shit— sorry—” you start, dropping to your knees to gather your things.

“no, i should’ve— i didn’t see—”

the voices overlap. you look up at the same time he crouches to help, and the world seems to tilt just slightly out of focus.

for a second, neither of you move.

his hand pauses over your sketchbook. your fingers brush his when you both reach for the same page— that page, of course, the one with alexandre’s face.

and then you see him, really see him.

the shape of his mouth, the dark curls that never quite fall right, the mole beneath his left ear.

the air goes thin.

his eyes flicker down to the sketches in his hand before he’s looking at you, too, brow furrowed, confusion and something like recognition flickering across his face.

“that—” you start, your voice catching.

he blinks, “is this supposed to be—”

“it’s you.” you whisper.

he laughs, a breathless, incredulous sound. “it’s me.”

[some time in the future, or maybe later that evening. time has gone soft around the edges, either way.]

the room is quiet except for the hum of the city outside, the faraway rhythm of cars on wet pavement. the moonlight cuts through the curtains in strips, painting the bed in cool silver.

isack is lying on his stomach, one arm slung over the pillow, hair messy and skin still warm from sleep. his breath rises and falls in slow, even waves. you’re sitting up beside him, knees drawn to your chest, sketchbook balanced against your thighs. the pencil moves softly, its sound barely audible over the quiet.

he shifts, mumbling something against the pillow. his voice comes out rough and drowsy. “what’re you doing?”

“nothing,” you whisper, though your pencil betrays you, still scratching quietly across the page.

he groans softly, stretching, turning his head to look at you with one half-lidded eye. “you should sleep.”

“in a bit,” you murmur. “just trying to get this right.”

he smiles lazily, then goes, “you’ve been sketching me for hours.”

you glance down at him, pencil hovering above the page. “not hours.”

“feels like hours,” he says, voice half-drifting into a yawn. “go to bed, mon ange. you can draw me tomorrow.”

“i just want to finish the light,” you protest softly.

he hums, eyes fluttering closed again. “you’ve got the rest of forever for the light.”

you freeze at that. the rest of forever.

you look at him again, the curve of his spine, the dip between his shoulders, the quiet weight of his presence beside you. you press your pencil to the paper and keep going, slower now, tenderly, tracing him like he’s the last thing you’ll ever want to remember.

eventually, your hand stills. you set the sketchbook aside and lie down next to him, tucking yourself into the warmth of his skin, his heartbeat steady against your ear. he shifts slightly, instinctively, arm sliding around your waist.

“forever’s a long time,” you whisper, barely audible.

he smiles without opening his eyes. “good thing we’ve got it, then.”

somewhere in the dark, your pencil lies still, and the moment⸻ this ordinary, infinite moment, paints itself.

p.s.:  almost  a  year  ago  i  lowkey  also  found  myself  fascinated  by  my  own  version  of  alexandre,  which  i  immediately  reported  to  kae,  in  the  screenshot  below.  obviously  mine  was  more  jokey-jokey,  but  i  joke  a  lot  about  ‘visiting  my  husband’  every  time  i  go  to  the  museum  (which  is  now  a  lot  more  frequently  since  i  have  book  club  there!)

She pushes herself up, face burning at this point because the memories are spinning around in her head, haunting her like a ghost. It’s like remembering things said and done while drunk and wondering, Who the hell was that? I was out of my damned mind. It feels as if she has opened her chest and let James see right through her. Will he think differently of her? Will he toss her aside like she told Mycroft he would?

“We should put a bell on you,” she says. The sheet is warm from her sleeping body but still, a shiver ripples through her, shoulders curling and nipples pressing against the fabric. She knows how he tastes, yet this is what feels strangely intimate: sitting naked before him, hair tousled, covered only by a sheet.

James tilts his head. He’s having fun and there’s a lightness to him, an ease that wasn’t ever there before. “Having a lovely dream?” His voice is a purr, his lips curling. He knows he has her.

“Yes,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “I was all alone.”

James beams. “You wound me.” He touches his chest like she shot him. “Would you like tea?”

“Yes, please. A dash—”

“Dash of milk and a pinch of sugar, aye,” he finishes for her, already disappearing into what is meant to be a kitchen.

Warmth floods through her as smooth and languid as honey. There is something terribly delightful about being known.

[Name] tucks the sheet against her chest as she leans practically entirely out of the bed, grabbing at the first article of clothing she finds, which happens to be one of James’s button-ups. As she pulls it on, she basks in his smell: masculine and perfumed with wood and neroli. Another strange intimacy that makes her almost giddy: her naked body against his clothing. It stirs something half-awake within her.

When James returns, cup in hand, his eyes seemingly twinkle upon sight of the shirt draped on her, but he says nothing. She sits on the edge of the bed, blushing and biting down a smile, legs dangling beneath his shirt. “Thank you,” she mumbles, suddenly nervous as she takes the cup from him. It tastes perfect and its heat settles in the pit of her belly. He’s silent still, smiling down at her. She wonders what the hell is happening in that head, wanting to gorge herself on every thought he has, then wonders if perhaps she is better off not knowing. She is all too aware of his heat and his nearness, how easy it would be to reach out and pull him to her and—

“Did you know that you talk in your sleep?”

She peers up at him, squinting and confused. “I do?”

He fiddles with his earlobe. “Aye, heard you this morning. Something like, ‘Oh, James, so handsome and clever and—’”

She glares, cutting him off with, “Are you perhaps remembering your dream, James?”

“Or perhaps just remembering last night, darling.” His eyes wrinkle, nearly a wink and just as teasing. He always knows just how to undo her.

(Only you get to see me like this, mo chroí.)

“I can hardly remember,” she lies through her teeth, chin tilting high.

“I can jog your memory, if you’d like.” The smile that follows is devastating and only makes her blush more.

It feels good, talking to him like this. Like nothing has changed—except that everything has changed and she knows they won’t be the same ever again, and it scares her, this thought. James and Sherlock and Mycroft are her friends, the people she spends every day with. She didn’t realize just how much it all mattered to her until right now, worrying at the potential of ruining things.

“Y’know,” says James, and he crouches in front of her, his elbows resting on his thighs, holding his tea very gingerly as he looks up at her, “despite the…confession of utter adoration,” he continues, waving a dismissive hand and rolling his eyes at himself, “I want to make sure that all is…well.”

Her heart sits somewhere inside of her throat. “Well?”

“Like…” He tilts his head from side to side like a pendulum, weighing his next words. “That we’re on the same page. That last night was not…”

Not just some one-time thing? Something loosens in her chest, and she realizes it was her own unease. She has never not felt safe with James—quite the opposite, actually—but it’s mortifying to lay yourself bare—literally and figuratively—and wake up to navigate the consequences.

It’s funny to remember telling Mycroft that James would discard and forget her, that she would just be a prize for him to win. How could she have ever thought that when he stares at her this softly? She remembers his caresses the night before, face aflame, and knows that is not the touch of a selfish, uncaring man. 

“Last night meant a lot to me,” she says softly because if her voice gets any louder, she may burst into tears.

James smiles, and it seems he breathes more easily.

“It’s…strange, though, isn’t it?” she asks, brow pinching as she mirrors his smile, abashed and quiet.

“A wee bit,” he agrees, squinting with a pinched nose.

She laughs a little, barely a breath, but her eyes lower, suddenly shy.

He tilts his head in order to catch her eye, which only makes her smile widen. They’re like two schoolchildren blushing on the playground.

James says, “We can take our time. How does that sound? We’ll be the first folks to go from crime partners to engaged to…whatever this is.”

“Crime-solving partners,” she corrects. “We aren’t committing crime together.”

He makes a doubtful little sound, his mouth turning downward. “Debatable.” A touch of sincerity smooths his face, the weight of his stare heavy. “So, what do you say? We can figure this out as we go.”

“It’s a deal, Moriarty.”

She offers her hand, which makes James laugh, those little lines by his eyes crinkling, and when they shake on it, James yanks her forward. She squeals, nearly falling out of the bed as James brushes his nose alongside hers, his breath warm and flowery from the tea. It’s hard to think straight when he’s so near to her, his presence overwhelming and impure. 

It’s even harder to think when he kisses her, his lips feather-light but possessive, literally making her melt into him until she almost falls out of the bed again. His hand clasps her neck, holding her still. When he pulls away, her lips follow him without thinking, chasing for more. Slowly, her eyes open, greeted by his soft smile.

The deep rumble of his voice makes her thighs squeeze as he whispers, “Can’t get you out of my fuckin’ head. You—”

There’s a very hard, very abrupt knock on the door, so loud that she jumps. Even James seems surprised, pulling away to peer across the room.

Then there’s a voice, dreadfully familiar: “James, answer the bloody door! I know you’re in there!”

Sherlock.

“What should—”

James silences her with a single look. “Perhaps you should hide.”

“Hide?”

Sherlock pounds harder on the door. “I’ll just keep waking your neighbors if you don’t open up!”

“He’s on the warpath after we ditched him,” says James, bouncing his brows as his mouth presses into a line. He rises, staring down at her. “I’ll take the bullet. Here,” he adds, grabbing her clothing from where it lays thrown over the table. Her dress, her corset, her undergarments. “Dress in the washroom. I’ll handle our dear friend.”

She doesn’t have to be told twice. She would hate to be caught in a state of considerable undress in James’s apartment, especially with how things were left last night. And Sherlock will get far too much enjoyment out of teasing her, she imagines.

These damn boys, her mind hisses as she runs off to the washroom, locking herself in right as James opens the apartment door. She can practically see him leaning against the frame, calm as still waters as he asks, muffled through the wall, “How are you on this fine morn, Mr. Holmes?”

“How am I? How am I?” Sherlock must’ve shoved past him because suddenly he’s in the apartment, the floors creaking as he paces. “You abandoned me at Whitby! They were wondering why I was locked inside of a room with an unconscious man.”

“Aye, I did, didn’t I?” James has the decency to sound sheepish, probably rubbing the back of his head, but even Sherlock must be able to hear the falsity in it. James is practically grinning through his words. “See, I was wondering if you could—”

“Mycroft had to explain that I was looking for Moreau and happened to find him unconscious. I spun some story about how he must’ve slipped and hit his head while he was checking on his artwork,” Sherlock says, ignoring James. “Fortunately we still had our carriage to ride back in—which Mycroft spent the time accosting me for my carelessness, thank you very much—but you and [Name]? Vanished!”

“About that—”

“Yes. About that,” says Sherlock. She can hear the arms crossing, the patronizing look he must be giving James. “Would you care to explain?”

[Name] is slowly and carefully dressing as they bicker back and forth, and she’s sliding her red dress on, twisting her hips, when Sherlock says this, and she freezes in the silence that follows. She waits, holding her breath, to see how James can get out of this one.

“She was sick,” says James flatly.

“Sick? Of you, perhaps?”

“You should really be on a stage with that wit of yours, Sherlock,” says James, and the floor creaks as he separates from Sherlock, maybe even shaking his head a little. She knows her boys so well that she can see it all playing out in her mind’s eye: Sherlock glaring, James taunting. Maybe a little finger wag, too. “It’s a talent that truly shouldn’t go to waste—”

Sherlock overtakes, his voice louder and cutting like a blade with its gravity: “You promised to leave her be. Then I get to Whitby and what do I see?”

James is quiet, so quiet that she knows he is suddenly very mindful that she is just on the other side of the wall hearing every word. Her own breath quickens, trapped in her chest like a bird in a cage. 

“Look—” says James, but his voice is so soft that Sherlock has no trouble interrupting with, “I see the way you look at her, James. I know you’ve told me it’s not just…concupiscence—”

“What an interesting choice of word,” mutters James.

“—but I…”

A silence follows, thick enough to cut through. A breath comes in deeply through a nose and out of a mouth, and she knows it’s James.

“Am I so bad, Sherlock?” It’s meant to be something of a joke, but it’s betrayed by the flatness of James’s voice.

“No,” says the other, so quickly that it must be the truth. “You’re my friend, James. But to me she…she’s like a sister. That’s what worries me.” The last words deflate in his mouth, like he hears himself and feels vulnerable, bare.

Sherlock has lost one sister; he is fearful of losing another.

“She’s a big girl, Sherlock. She can take care of herself against the big bad wolf.”

“That is not what I meant,” says Sherlock in a voice that brooks no argument. “About her or about you.” He pauses, then softly adds, “I know she is…fond of you, too.”

Blood rushes through [Name]’s ears. Has she always been so obvious? Has everyone always been able to see what even she couldn’t?

“Scared I’ll turn her against you?” James asks.

This time the pause is broken by a short laugh from Sherlock. “Now that I could see.”

The tension shatters like glass. James chuckles, too, and [Name] feels she can breathe a little more easily. She would hate to see them fighting, especially about her. She has half a mind to burst from the washroom and throw herself into James’s arms just to prove a point, but she stays put. James can handle himself. She rests her forehead against the door, hovering in her unlaced dress.

“We have Bernard to track down, still,” says James, an attempt at redirection. Nothing can steal Sherlock’s attention better than a mystery.

It works. The two discuss the case as [Name] steps away and attempts to lace up her dress, her arms twisted around to her back. A huff escapes her, feeling a little claustrophobic and trapped—in the room and in the dress. How in hell did she wear this all of last night?

From the footsteps, James must be leading Sherlock towards the door. He’s telling him about how he’ll find her and the three of them can decide their next move. The two of them are adamant about finding her first, wanting to make sure she is well before they continue on, which she would be appreciating more if she weren’t beading with sweat as she hops up and down, trying in vain to get the laces right—and then she stumbles.

She doesn’t entirely fall, but she accidentally kicks a wastebasket and sends it onto its side with a dreadful clatter, and the boys fall silent.

“What was—”

“I have mice,” says James. “Look, I’ll go deal with…that…and we can meet at the university library at, say, noon. Sounds good?”

His voice has quickened, rushing Sherlock out the door.

“Sure. I may have to bring Mycroft—”

“Whatever you need, sure. Alright, then. Good—” The door swings shut. “—bye,” finishes James with a relieved sigh. He waits a moment before calling out, “Now, how much did the little mouse hear?” as his steps come closer to the washroom.

The door swings open.

Her hair is tousled about her face, her breasts hiked up to her chin, the dress half-done as she holds the laces out on either side of her, and it’s all quite silly, but the look she gives James through the strands of hair is pure consternation. “What did you promise?”

James sighs deeply, holding the door open. “Sherlock asked me not to try anything with you. It wasn’t so much a promise as a…suggestion…early into our friendship.”

She has a few questions—more than a few, really—but they seem to dissolve in her mouth before she can say them. 

“Seems I’m so obvious with my feelings for you that I may as well be wearing a sign,” he says.

“To everyone but myself,” she agrees, softly.

James’s lips press into a line, humble and sympathetic. Never did she think humble would ever describe James Moriarty, but it’s not the first surprise she’s had this morning. She’s quickly learning that anything is possible when it comes to James.

“Can you help me with this bloody dress?”

James’s head hangs as he smiles. He twirls his finger and she spins around, holding her hair out of the way as he jerks her laces tight, a yelp escaping her. “Are you angry with Sherlock?” he asks as his deft fingers work.

“I’m not mad,” she says, holding her stomach, and it’s only in saying the words that she realizes the truth in them.

He may be an idiotic man, but at some point that is to be expected. She will have to give him a frank talking-to about her capabilities and independence, but in the meantime, she is flattered to know he thinks so highly of her. That he wishes for her safety and happiness. There are much worse things to learn about a friend behind your back.

“As tricky as this has suddenly become,” says James, and just from the purr in his voice she knows she’s in trouble, especially when his mouth finds the shell of her ear and whispers, “it’s a little thrilling, aye? We might have to hide this from him. Since we’re not allowed.”

“Is that so?” she says a little breathlessly, still holding her hair up and out of the way.

James tucks his nose against her bare neck. His breath is ticklish, enticing. “Puts us in a tough spot, doesn’t it?”

Trust James to find a way to make anything sound so alluring. And it’s hard to argue with him when he’s pressed against her back, his soft lips brushing against the nape of her neck as he ties up her corset. He knows just what thread to pull to make her unwind.

Her eyes flutter shut. He will make this as difficult as possible, she knows.

Once again, here they are: the game is afoot.

————————

When [Name] gets home, slipping out of the dress feels a bit like how a snake must when it sheds its skin. It truly is a beautiful, rich garment, but she can’t wait to feel a bit more like herself after so much pretending. Not to mention the looks she drew when walking home; perhaps the eye-popping evening dress was a poor choice for her morning stroll home, but now she knows.

Bruises trail along her arms, the inside of her thighs. Her fingers brush over them, fascinated by the memory they leave with them. Proof that what happened the night before isn’t all in her head.

[Name] opens a window for some fresh air.

It isn’t until she has dressed again—attired in her normal affair: a brown pinstripe dress that she often wears around Oxford—that she discovers she is missing something: her engagement ring.

Well, her fake engagement ring.

When did she last see it? She has no memory of taking it off. She offers the room a cursory glance, even kneeling and looking beneath her bed in case it happened to slip off and roll away, but it is nowhere in sight.

It was worth a pretty penny, surely. That will have to be a problem for later, though.

She smooths out her dress and leaves her place almost as soon as she arrives and takes a carriage to the school. She arrives at the Oxford library about twenty minutes before planned, so she sits on a bench and waits, pulling a book from her bag to pass the time.

Mycroft finds her first a handful of minutes later, ever the punctual. “Miss [Name].” Just from the way her name rolls across his tongue, she knows she’s in a spot of trouble with him. Perhaps being abandoned at a party in a stranger’s home alongside an unconscious man isn’t the most ideal circumstance. She’ll have to remember for next time.

“Mycroft,” she says kindly, rising and offering a hug—a meager attempt at placating his iciness. She does hate to be in trouble with him.

It seems to work, judging by the pink in Mycroft’s cheeks. He clears his throat and adjusts his tie after they separate. “You had us rather worried last night,” he says. “We had no clue where you and Moriarty had run off to.”

“A bit too much to drink for me, unfortunately,” she says. “James was ever the gentleman and helped me home.”

Mycroft hums, more like reluctant acquiescence than complete agreement. His eyes venture about, seemingly looking for their companions. “I hear that you may have need of me again?” He doesn’t hide the nervous skepticism, his brow tilting as he looks back at her.

“I know nothing of the sort,” she admits, hands behind her back, “but it’s always a delight to have you around, Mycroft.”

Mycroft falls into another fit of clearing his throat when James and Sherlock arrive together. When she meets James’s eye, something in her feels like she has come home. He’s wearing a rich brown, crosshatch-patterned suit, and cutting a rather imposing figure, his legs looking a mile long, his shoulders broad. The smile they share is soft, meant only for them, and then he winks.

The game is afoot.

“We need to discuss our next move,” says Sherlock, all business.

“How about over drinks?” proposes James, the image of ease with a hand in his pocket.

But just then Sherlock seems to really see [Name], eyes alighting, and he asks, leaning in, “Are you feeling well?”

“Much better.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“You did look a little peaked at the party,” says Mycroft unhelpfully, gesturing towards his cheek.

Her head tilts to accommodate Mycroft, her mouth pressing flat. “Thank you for that, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s eyes widen. “You looked lovely. I–I only meant—”

“Drinks, for the love of God?” asks James again. Unamused. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was jealous.

————————

The pub is unusually raucous, especially for the middle of the day. The foursome somehow find a table in the corner, fortunately. The chaos of the pub is perfectly suited to the secrecy of what they’re planning, the sound so loud that there is no way for anyone to possibly overhear what is being said. [Name] sits across from James, the Holmes brothers on either side of her like a human wall. Every time James catches her eye, a firework seemingly bursts in her chest. 

When did she fall for James? When did she know she was in trouble?

The moment she first met him: his outstretched hand, that handsome face, the sonorous Irish lilt. When she helped them crack a clue with their first case and his eyes had nearly twinkled when he looked at her and said, Well done, darling. Just those three words made her flush with the joy of pleasing him, which didn’t usually happen to her. She has no interest in pleasing men—but James has always been different. He can make her laugh like no one else, and he is endlessly surprising. She has always liked puzzles, and James was just made for her.

Or maybe it was the first time laying in bed after a night spent solving crime with James, and her hand had slipped between her legs as she remembered his smile, his hair, his voice. 

Sherlock sputters, his drink nearly spewing from his mouth. “James, you’ve just kicked me.”

James looks at [Name]. “Apologies, lad.”

She rests her elbow on the table, hiding her laugh behind her hand. No doubt that foot was meant for her. Scoundrel, she thinks with adoration.

“What do we do about this?” asks Sherlock, and he slaps the business card onto the table. Mycroft takes it up and tilts it at every angle beneath the bulb that hangs over their table. “We have an address, but I discovered last night that it leads to a shop, not a home.”

“Did you truly think it would be that easy?” asks James. He takes up an English accent, presumably in imitation of Sherlock, and knocks thrice on the table. “‘Oi, sir can I get a spot o’ tea? Also, have ya murdah’d anyone?’”

She sighs through her nose. “Perhaps if you had let me get to know Moreau a bit better—”

“No,” barks James. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” says Mycroft as he tosses the card back onto the table, “but I’m in agreement with Moriarty.” He sits back in his chair, legs crossed. He levels his gaze with [Name] and says, “That Moreau seemed like a proper rogue.”

“More than these two?” she asks, tossing a thumb towards James and Sherlock.

Mycroft considers this. For a bit too long, seemingly, because James snaps, “Alright, then. We have a way to contact Bernard—but now what? The man is still elusive as all hell. Unless we try planning a meeting with him to buy some shite antique vase.”

“What shop is this address, Sherlock?” asks [Name], tapping the card.

“Some high-end dress shop. I wonder if that’s how he finds his victims.” He poses this last bit to James, who merely shrugs.

The moment the first few words leave Sherlock’s mouth, something must shift in her face because James looks at her with a deep suspicion. With eyes only for her, he asks, “Do I dare ask what is happening in that pretty head of yours?”

“Probably not.”

Something sunny rises in his eyes. “Should we reprise our roles, darling?”

“I had someone else in mind,” she says, relishing in the thunder that suddenly rolls into James’s eyes. Then she turns to her right. “What do you think, Mycroft?”

————————

The foursome stand across the street from the dress shop. Business seems to be bustling, couples coming and going as they keep an eye on the front door. Through the window, [Name] sees women in beautiful dresses twisting and turning for a mirror, looking absolutely delighted.

That’s when a thought occurs to her, one she should’ve had much sooner.

She holds her palm out for James.

“Am I meant to pay you?” he asks, brows raised.

“I do require a ring," she says, leering.

James’s mouth curls into a devious little smirk. He digs into his pocket and produces her fake engagement ring, just as she suspected, and drops it into her open palm. Her fingers close around the ring, warming the metal instantly.

“Were you afraid I would pawn it off and run with the money?” she asks.

James ducks his mouth to her ear. “I needed to give you a reason to come back.”

Damn him, she thinks, face hot—especially when James steps away to reveal Sherlock looking between them, his brows low as he inspects them like a case to be solved. [Name] steps back even further, desperate to keep distance between them because God knows what will happen if they get too close. Can Sherlock—the great detective—see everywhere James has touched her?

She knows her body will betray her. Now that she knows James in such a unique way, it is harder to deny the familiarity. And she feels like anyone, not just Sherlock, can read her like a book.

She stares daggers at James—How dare you—and says in a much-too-sharp voice, “Mycroft. Let us go, shall we?”

“What’s your angle?” asks Sherlock, teetering. He wants to keep her there. He wants to get a better look at the pink in her cheeks and figure out what the hell happened last night.

And she wants to run away. She grabs the sleeve of Mycroft’s stately navy blue coat and drags him away from the two scoundrels, stepping off of the curb and onto the cobblestones, ready to dash at a moment’s notice. Mycroft, all the while, seems dreadfully flustered but ready to go along with whatever is happening.

“Well, we—” Her voice catches, mouth agape as she tries to elaborate, but she knows the boys have her: she has no clue what she is doing, and only one of them knows why she is desperate to run off.

“How about me and Sherlock join you two lovebirds?” James proposes, a clever little grin dancing across his face. He buries his hands in his pockets, standing tall beside Sherlock. The two boys inspect her with a scrutiny she doesn’t appreciate: Sherlock with the mind of a detective, doubtless lost somewhere in his overactive imagination, while James basks in keeping her on her toes, always three steps ahead at any given time.

“Yes,” says Sherlock in such a way that she knows he has an ulterior motive.

Good Lord.

“In what regard?” she asks, tilting her chin up.

“A brother and friend of the groom,” says James. He seems much too pleased with himself. “You two can distract the shopkeep while Sherlock and I get a good look around the place.”

Unfortunately, it makes perfect sense. “Fine.”

James shoots her a wink.

Two can play at this game, it seems to mean.

Amazingly, it is Mycroft who makes the first move: he holds his arm out for her. Smiling like a villain, she takes Mycroft’s arm, smiling up at James on the sidewalk all the while. His own smile sharpens with venom, and she knows she will pay for this later. Terribly, she feels immense delight at the very thought.

“Come,” says Mycroft. “Let’s get this over with.” He leads her from the curb and across the road, dodging a carriage as they go.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” she mutters under her breath.

Once they step inside the dress shop with a tinkling of the bell hanging over the door, there is an endless flurry of movement and fabric. It is abruptly overwhelming and calls to mind the party at Whitby the night before: a cacophony of voices, the pressing of bodies. The storefront is deceptively small, but the inside is long, stretching back farther than she can immediately see. Racks of utterly divine dresses line the walls. Patrons stand before mirrors wearing some of these dresses, twisting and turning this way and that. There are workers crouched beside them with tape measures, others assessing with a finger to the lips. 

She finds herself tucking closer against Mycroft, intimidated by the busyness.

“Hello,” chimes an employee, a man with a mustache to rival Mycroft’s. “What a fine couple you are. How could I be of service?”

[Name] jumps in before Mycroft can even think to draw breath. With a big smile, she says, “My dear fiancé thought it a good idea to bring me to get my measurements for our wedding."

“My congratulations,” says the man as Mycroft peers at her from the corner of his eye, stifling a cough. “May I…oh, my,” he says, holding a hand out to inspect her own, her engagement ring glinting in the daylight. “Such a handsome ring for a beautiful woman.” He leans closer, wiggling his glasses to see the jewel better.

“I’m quite pleased,” she gushes. Her teeth may rot out of her head if she keeps piling on the sweetness.

Mycroft says nothing, seeming utterly baffled by the entire performance. She would never tell the man himself, but a part of her misses having James for a scene partner.

Perhaps more than just a part of her.

“Well, let us get you to a station—”

The man leads the two of them away, his attention stolen as James and Sherlock stroll about the place, inspecting dresses as if they have a personal interest, blending in with the chaos and going utterly unseen as Mycroft falls into a chair and [Name] stands on a pedestal before a mirror. The man falls to a crouch as he measures seemingly every corner of her: her ankles, her hips, the swell of her arms. He mutters numbers under his breath like a gifted mathematician, working at a swift pace that utterly baffles her. He could give James and Sherlock a run for their money.

She holds her arms out at her sides as he measures her waist and she turns her head just enough to catch James and Sherlock deeper in the shop, swept up in conversation with another worker. James has a big smile, which can only mean they are attempting charm to learn more about the shop. She’s desperate to be in the thick of the investigation, but she needs to keep the man preoccupied.

“Now, precisely how many shades of white do you do?”

The man’s eyes glint like he has been waiting to be asked this question all his life. “Well—”

Mycroft pulls back his sleeve to peer at his watch. He drums his fingers on the sides of the chair, his chest rising with a deep breath.

The bell over the door chimes just then. [Name] hardly hears through all of the noise, but something makes her turn. And standing there, donning a hat and a pristine suit, is Algernon Moreau. 

“—cream is a popular choice in recent years, although ivory is a personal favorite of mine—”

[Name] whips back to the mirror. In her own eyes, she sees the panic, like a mouse caught in a trap. Does he know they are here, or is this some terrible coincidence? What is most likely is that he woke from his unfortunate punch, searched his own person—aided by the vague memory of leading a woman to a room full of artwork—and discovered his card for Lucas Bernard missing. Of course, his first step would be to come to the address on said card.

Perhaps to find a familiar face…

“Oi!”

James—unaware of the man’s entrance—whips around at the voice that is, unfortunately, meant for him. Silence falls like a cloak over the shop. Also unfortunately for James, his handsome face is much too memorable for a man like Moreau to have forgotten, even if he had only seen it for a split-second the night before.

And it is made worse when, like a magnet, Moreau’s eye is drawn to the pedestal where [Name] stands, and as soon as he sees her, all else is lost. 

There is no escape.

“Thieves! Crooks!” Moreau shouts.

All heads in the shop spin towards [Name] and Mycroft, even as Moreau points at James, who is coming slowly closer with Sherlock at his side.

Mycroft rises from the chair, rebuttoning his jacket with one hand, and asks, “What seems to be the problem, sir?”

Moreau is red in the face, his stylish hair falling out of place and in disarray around his face as he sputters, “The—She—She stole from me! That woman!” He spins towards James. “And him! The two of them!”

“There must be some mistake,” starts James, his Irish lilt cool and unassuming.

“What was stolen from you, sir?” asks the employee working with [Name].

“They took—They—” He is indignant and losing his last traces of control.

Then he reaches under his jacket.

All within a single second, several things happen: Sherlock shouts, “Gun!” which causes an outburst of screeching amongst the patrons of the shop; Mycroft stumbles back and knocks over his chair, which goes clattering to the ground; and hands slip around [Name]’s middle and pull her behind a solid, familiarly warm body. Wood and neroli meet her nose, and for some reason that is all she can think about when the gun goes off.

More screaming. The sound is deafening and echoes in her ears with great pain, but then people are running and the body that shields her—James, it’s James—takes her hand and he runs to the back of the store with her. She has no problem keeping up. Everything narrows like she is inside of a tunnel and all she can see is what is right ahead of her. She looks back and finds Mycroft and Sherlock following—they aren’t hurt, thank God—the smoke from the gun drifting to the ceiling, but Moreau is right there. 

He’s coming.

James slams his shoulder into a door at the back of the shop and it bursts open as if a bull hit it. They skitter, a slight stutter-step, and with a hand on her waist, James pushes her in front of him and then they’re running again, the clop of their shoes filling the dirty, gray alleyway they race down, splashing in puddles as they go. Another gunshot rings out, and James and her instinctively duck their heads, a yelp involuntarily slipping out of her. Never has she felt more like her heart might just burst straight out of her chest.

They come to the end of the alley and James shouts to the people standing confused in the street, “Gun! There’s a man with a gun!” right as another shot goes off, chipping the stone beside James’s head. The mere sight makes [Name] the one to grab his hand this time, leading him down the road right as Mycroft and Sherlock reach the street, too. 

It is utter chaos in the street now. James’s warning not only alerted them, but it caused a scene, making it harder for Moreau to find them in the throng. 

James whips around. “Sherlock!”

“Hide!” calls Sherlock, and he and his brother slip into the closest building right as Moreau spills out of the alley.

“Fuckin’ hell—” breathes James, stunned, right as Moreau raises the gun, staring down the barrel through the running mob. 

“More running,” she instructs sternly, grabbing James around the forearm and yanking him away. She is so mixed around and has no clue where in Oxford they have spilled out from, but her feet do all of the thinking for her. The panic within her is choking her, fingers trapped around her throat and her chest, constricting and unthinking until she is merely a thing that runs. How a hare must feel against a fox.

Two more shots follow them out of sight. She can only hope that nobody has been hurt.

James’s palm is slick against her own. They shove through people inside of a department store, unaware folks that yell at them to slow down, show some decorum. Somehow, even with everything blurring past, she spots a cleaning closet. [Name] pulls James there and, mercifully, the door is unlocked. They slip inside and slam the door shut.

The small, dark space fills with their heavy breathing, the smell of their fear. Hands come up to her cheeks and she waits, expecting James to say something, but instead, his forehead tips to hers and they stand there like that, coming down from the adrenaline in each other’s arms, just grateful to see the other still alive. 

Voices rise, some confused and then turning to panic, but no more shots ring out. Either the man is out of bullets or he, too, is sapped of energy.

She swears she hears Moreau yell, asking some question or another. Hopefully no one points him to their hiding place.

But everything sounds so far away, like it all doesn’t even exist. For a moment, it doesn’t. This strange, smelly closet is their own little world. 

James holds her close still, like he can’t bear to be separated from her. “Are you alright?” he whispers, and his voice in the darkness is all she knows. Like she is engulfed by him.

Their foreheads still together, she nods. “Are you?” she asks, even softer.

“A little fuckin’ panicked,” he says, “but I’m in one piece.”

“Good. That’s how I prefer you.”

A sigh escapes him, but it is one of immense relief and a bit of madness. He grasps her face more tightly, their noses brushing as he tips her face up. In the darkness, where not even God can see them, they can be themselves. No performance, no game. Just them. Just like in the garden at Whitby: the only two people on the planet.

Then James kisses her forehead, a lingering, sweet kiss, before he wraps his arms around her waist with a firm but careful reverence and her own slip around his neck. Perhaps this is all nothing but a dream. That strange place before waking up, buried in the darkness of sleep with her greatest joy. The way her heart calms when she is near to him. Like magic. 

A swell of adoration fills her when she remembers James putting himself between her and the gun. It astonishes her. So simple, yet it means everything. 

She hugs him tighter. Words won’t come close, but she still whispers, “Thank you.”

“For pissing off a madman with a gun? You’re welcome, I suppose.”

In the darkness, she smiles, just to herself. Her eyes shut, strangely content in this fetid closet. 

————————

A second day in a row of abandoning the Holmes brothers at a moment of great peril doesn’t sound very appealing, so when it is safe to, James and [Name] emerge from the closet. With their heads on a swivel, Moreau is nowhere to be found, but one can never be too safe. They make their way—slowly and cautiously—to where they last saw Sherlock and Mycroft. On their way, they find only the aftermath of the chase: chipped stone and bullet holes, but nobody is hurt. The relief nearly makes her burst into song.

The brothers are nowhere to be seen, but there has always been a rule that if they are ever separated, you return to the last decided meeting place.

The library.

Minutes later, there are Sherlock and Mycroft, a little wild-eyed and disheveled—although Mycroft was quick to put himself back together as best as he could, she notes—and when the brothers spot the couple coming toward them, they don’t even question why James and [Name] are holding hands. Sherlock closes the distance and sweeps her into a hug, hounding her with questions about if she got hurt, if she is alright. This, finally, is what makes a tear slip down her cheek.

“Let the poor woman down,” says James, chuckling to himself. 

Sherlock sets [Name] back to earth. He looks into her face and she can see the pain leashed within him, that constant fear of something going wrong yet again and him unable to stop it. So she gives him a little smile of reassurance, one that transcends words. Her and Sherlock don’t need them: I’m safe. So are you.

Sherlock nods once. He steps away, letting her breathe.

“What on God’s green earth is wrong with you three?” shouts Mycroft, practically stomping a foot.

The trio stand together, having the decency to look sheepish.

“Now, Mycroft—” says Sherlock.

But Mycroft has only just begun. “You three have to be the most puerile and hazardous group of people I have ever had the misfortune to know. Running straight into danger like it is calling your name! Is there not an ounce of sense in any of you? You play with your lives like—like—” His hands wave around, grasping for the right word.

“You’re causing a scene, mate,” says James, goading the poor man with a devilish smile. 

“As much of a scene as a bloody gunfight?” insists a steadily-reddening Mycroft. Her brows rise; Mycroft must truly be mad if he’s cursing. “I would say that you are the problem,” he says, stabbing a finger at James, “but Sherlock has always been an absolute animal to control. He has dragged you two down with him! His damned cleverness has doomed you!”

“That’s rather kind of you, brother.”

“It is not a compliment!”

[Name] would say something, but there’s no arguing with Mycroft when he gets this way. He’ll scold them for all they’re worth, but the next time he catches wind of whatever shenanigans they’ve got themselves into, he’ll suddenly be there to help and make sure they don’t accidentally kill themselves.

“I am going to return to my office and try to forget this day ever happened,” he says. He fixes his hair, which is threatening to slip out of place. He takes a short, quick breath, like a weight has lifted from his shoulders. “I suggest you three do the same. Now, if you will excuse me.”

And with that, Mycroft spins on his heel and vanishes from the courtyard, shaking his head and grumbling as he goes.

“Well.” Sherlock turns to his friends. “That was almost as exciting as being chased by a madman with a gun.”

“Aye, about that. Wasn’t…ideal,” says James, rubbing the back of his head. 

“Not at all,” [Name] says. “Do you think he’ll be looking for us?”

“Possibly,” says James. “We’ve slipped the man twice. It’s personal now.”

“Keep your heads on a swivel. We will find some other way to track down Bernard. It’s enough that we all live to see tomorrow.” Mischief twinkles in Sherlock’s eye. “I have solved one mystery, though.”

“And what’s that, mate?” asks James.

Sherlock’s stare drops down—to James and [Name]’s clasped hands.

Her stomach drops. “Sherlock, it—”

But Sherlock shakes his head, interrupting her. Unbelievably, a lonely smile dances across his face. “It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?” and it’s not a question, not really. Where she was expecting an interrogation, perhaps some bickering, instead there is a peculiar contentment in Sherlock’s face. Like seeing the proof before him has shown him all he needs to know. 

Perhaps he can see the devotion radiating from them. 

His face is soft. “Just promise not to abandon me on a balcony again.”

“Can’t make any promises, mate,” says James, still recovering, but his smile puts the sun to shame. He squeezes her hand.

————————

May I walk you home, madame? and a proffered arm. That’s how her terribly eventful day ends and she wouldn’t have it any other way. She tucks against James, basking in his solidity, his closeness. With the shenanigans they get into, she knows never to take it for granted. Even if he does happen to annoy her on occasion. 

Her apartment is cool, the curtains gently whispering against the floor as they blow in and out of the room. 

James tucks his hands in his pockets, looking around the room with fresh eyes as she digs out a stash of whiskey from her kitchenette. He has been here a handful of times with Sherlock, but they never linger for long. “That surprised me,” he says. “Sherlock.”

“He’s a strange man,” she says offhandedly, crouched and reaching for her bottle. 

“After this morning, I thought he would give me the noose if he ever found out.”

“He is all bark, that one.” She pours a finger of whiskey for each of them and returns to James as he hovers, dazed yet focused. He takes the glass gratefully. “A reward for our survival,” she says, lifting her glass. He does the same, and they sip. 

“What changed his mind, do you think?”

The whiskey burns in her throat, leaving a trail down to her chest. It warms her from within. “You.”

“Me?” James snorts a laugh, shaking his head. “Certainly not.”

“He knows you’re a good man.”

James makes a face. “Stop, or I may hurl.”

Trying—and failing—to suppress a smile, she does stop. There is nothing worse to an Irishman than to applaud him, particularly for heroic acts. 

She looks down into her drink, swirling it around the glass. 

Something must cross her face because James says, “Let’s sit.”

The two of them perch on the edge of her bed, his hand coming to her knee. She knows he wants to talk about it, but she doesn’t. Not now. She wants to forget the rest of the world is out there for the moment. She wants to pretend she’s back in that closet, cocooned in the darkness with James. 

“Have you ever hurt someone?” James asks in a different voice than she has ever heard from him. 

She looks at him. There is no smile, no light. He is still her James, but something is happening behind those eyes that she knows she will never get a look into. “Accidentally, perhaps,” she answers slowly. 

“Have you ever wanted to?”

Their eyes hold. 

“I’m not sure,” she breathes out. 

James swallows. He’s the first to look away, and he watches his thumb rub the edge of the glass. He tells the whiskey, “Today, I wanted to hurt Moreau. For trying to hurt you. Still do, really,” he mumbles as an afterthought. 

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to protect the people you care for.”

“Yes, but…I want him dead.” The rage that has always sat buried within James snaps at the end of its leash for a moment, gnashing its teeth: she can hear it in the tightness of his voice. 

His jaw clenches after the words escape. Like he didn’t mean for them to. 

She touches his hand. He looks at her. 

“I’m ok, James.”

His pretty brown eyes are wet. “If something happened to you, I don’t know how I could survive it.”

The words kick her in the gut. She stares at him, her own eyes watering, and she swallows the sadness threatening to rise in her. Her clever, sweet James has never been so serious before. It has knocked her off of her own axis, like suddenly a curtain has been pulled back to show everything making the play work. 

She’s here. So is he. 

She doesn’t want to think anymore. She doesn’t want him to either. 

So she kisses him. A firm, sweet kiss that seals an unspoken promise: I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Her hands clasp in her lap, unsure of what to do with themselves, afraid of her own desire.

James breaks the kiss just to put his whiskey on the nightstand beside them. The glass clinks on the wood. His heavy-lidded eyes never leave her, his nose pressed beside hers. He kisses her again, and desperation has possessed him. 

His hands come to her cheeks and he pulls her in, his thumb parting her bottom lip so that his tongue can fill her, dizzying her. She melts, helpless and satyric, and falls into James’s arms. 

Sounds from the outside world whisper into the room—a bird calling, voices down below, a chiming bell—but it strikes her as unreal, like none of it is happening and only this is: James’s mouth, James’s hands, James’s body. 

Clothing starts hitting the ground. First he slips out of his jacket, then she undoes his tie with shaking fingers, then he finds the lacing of her dress. Without a word, James yanks her up and helps her out of her dress as she unbuttons his pants. Excitement shoots like lightning through her and she can’t help smiling against his mouth, like she can’t believe she can be so lucky. It makes her head spin when James smiles, too. She’s happy to make him happy. 

The cool afternoon air raises goosebumps all over her as James takes off her clothes. It is perfunctory, but there is a slowness to their undressing, basking in the resplendence of being together, right here, right now. 

James takes her up into his arms and he lays her on the bed. His fingertips whisper across her ribs, into the divot of her waist, then the swell of her hip. Memorizing her. Watching keenly as she shivers against his feather-light touch. Her nipples harden as her shoulders bunch, staring up at James with wonder. The things he does to her. 

His hot, wet mouth lowers and captures a nipple. A soft moan leaves her chest as her head falls back, trembling beneath him. She is so wet that it’s almost painful. Like he knows this, he touches her: slippery, soaked. She gasps, fingers slipping through his curls. His mouth works at her nipple as his thumb flicks the other, clasping her breast, all the while he slips two fingers inside of her and slowly fucks her with them. 

“Oh,” she gasps out, hips rolling to bury him deeper. She didn’t know she could feel this good. The heel of his palm grinds into her clit, the skin just rough enough that it makes her shiver. 

His teeth pinch over the hard bud and she cries out, a soft keening cry that makes James groan, the sound muffled. She can hear his fingers fucking her and her cheeks warm, embarrassed and unbelievably aroused all at once. She’s soaking wet and squeezing him so tight, especially as he adds a third finger, stretching her more and more. His thick, calloused fingers. 

James releases her nipple with a wet sound, then he’s kissing her breasts, her chest. He sucks on the skin, teeth holding her in place, until dark spots blossom like roses. Memories for later.

Her hips are thoughtlessly rolling, chasing her pleasure, and James rides with her, letting her use him. The pressure builds and builds until she is wriggling beneath him, moaning and sweating as the thread grows tighter and tighter. She knows she’s close. James knows she’s close. 

So when he suddenly pulls his fingers out of her, right before she trips into oblivion, it feels like the worst betrayal. She gasps, eyes fluttering open to stare at him, confused. Her body hums with need, burning with an animal desire for what she wants. “Wh—”

“I never want to see you hanging off of Mycroft fuckin’ Holmes again.”

Her chest rises and falls with her frenzy. Heat pools between her legs. She can feel her wetness seeping into the sheet beneath her, her heartbeat throbbing in her cunt. Her hand, with a mind of its own, moves to touch herself, but James is too quick. He catches her wrist and holds her hand at her side. The other one, too. 

She whines, bucking against his hold. “James.”

“You’re mine, mo chroí.” His brown eyes are almost black. His cheeks are flushed and his cock is hard against her thigh, dizzyingly close to where she wants him. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she cries. “Yours, James.” He could get her to say anything right now. 

“That’s right, pretty.” He noses at her cheek. Her eyes shut, basking in the touch. He stills for a moment. His ruined voice recites, “‘I do love nothing in the world so well as you.’”

Then he yanks her up.

James pulls her into his lap. He sits with one leg dangling over the side of the bed, the other stretched out. Her thighs fall open as she straddles him, her body trembling. She feels oddly vulnerable like this, breasts under his nose, hovering inches from his cock. 

“Be a good girl for me,” he whispers as he runs a hand through her hair. The Irish lilt, husky with his arousal, only makes her tremble more. 

She wants nothing more than to please James. 

Her fingers wrap around his cock. His lips part, staring at her with heavy eyes, a whisper of a smirk. Her fingers don’t quite meet around him. She runs her hand up and down the velvety length, and perhaps she does know what she’s doing because a soft sound leaves James, one she would very much like to hear again and again. 

A hand holds him up while the other finds her back. He touches her, pulling her close until she nearly falls into him. “Sit,” he says, like he’s being kind. Such an innocuous thing to say with an entirely new meaning now. Just that one word and she’s a goner. 

She sits—slowly. His cock stretches her open and she somehow forgot just how good it felt, like her mind couldn’t handle the memory. There are no words for the relief she feels as he fills her. He curses as he buries his face against her neck, his hands moving to her hips as he helps her lift them before sinking back down. 

The last dregs of coherence leave her. 

She is nothing more than a body seeking pleasure from a man she loves. James meets her thrusts, his hips rolling, and he buries himself deeper and deeper as she moans, calls his name, begs for more. He holds her waist until there are bruises. He tells her she is doing so good, taking him so well. 

She holds his shoulders and grinds down on him, James’s hands all over her as his mouth explores her neck, his mouth greedy and hot. She moves a hand to his hair, pulling on his soft curls as she rides him. 

The pleasure builds and builds again, her clit rubbing against him every time he sinks into her. James has his face in her hair, his mouth right beside her ear, when he asks if she can come for him. 

She shudders, gasping and holding him tighter, and James holds her down, thrusting in and out of her until a broken moan leaves her and heat flushes through her. 

She comes with stars behind her eyes. Her body quivers as her back arches, pushing deeper and deeper. “James,” she moans, loud and begging. 

“I know,” he breathes out, a wild look in his eyes. “I’ve got you, pretty girl.” 

He holds her as he softly uses her, burying himself and caressing her as he fucks her, like she is a piece of glass he can’t help wanting to shatter. Her arms circle his neck and he kisses her breasts, smothering her in adoration as he comes, warmth filling her. 

She falls into him, spent and tired and content, as her cheeks rests on his freckled shoulder. Her eyes linger on the curtain as it sways, dancing from the window before falling back into it. She catches her breath, coming down from her pleasure as James traces shapes against her spine, soft and caring. 

After the chase and making love, she wants nothing more than sleep. She doesn’t know she has drifted off until she feels James laying her against the pillows. He curls in beside her, kissing her forehead and her cheeks, his fingers dancing along her sides. He loops an arm around her, his chest against her back. He’s so solid and warm that it instantly relaxes her. 

As sleep tangles her in its web, she hears James whisper one last thing: “Stay, mo chroí.”

A shiver passes through her, undoubtedly from the night air. She’s squeezed into an evening gown that is only a shade darker than blood: it’s bold and it shows off her figure in a way she normally doesn’t dress, but she has to stand out tonight. Her arms are bare and every breeze makes her shoulders hunch, which certainly doesn’t help the corset she is tied into. She feels like a Christmas present, meant to be unwrapped.

Her chest, too, is bare with a scooping neckline—save for a glittering necklace. This jewelry came from Sherlock, and he claims to have procured it from Mycroft. Again, she isn’t sure if that is the truth, but being friends with James and Sherlock has made her come to expect that most things they darn her with have likely come to them through unfortunate circumstances. There is only so much they can throw together at the last minute.

“Is that how we met?” she asks.

James pouts, thinking. “Secretary?”

She scoffs and looks outside. “So very original.” Through the trees, lights wink at her. They must be getting close to the manor.

“That’s usually how it goes, darling,” says James, leaning towards her as he fixes his cuffs.

“It is much too overused.”

“Perhaps that’s what makes it so believable. Occam’s razor and all that,” he adds, waving a dismissive hand.

Persistent, she says, “If we are to be convincing, James, we have to feel real. We haven’t spent nearly enough time on our stories.”

“I do best when I improvise.”

She can’t help the snort that escapes her. “Yes, I’ve seen you improvising in the past.”

“Were you not impressed?”

“Are you referring to the time that you told that poor shopkeep that I was Sherlock’s wife whom you had stolen without his knowledge? All to find the owner of some hat.”

James shrugs a shoulder. “I thought you were rather…stirred at the time.”

“Mortified, more like.” The weathered stone of Whitby Abbey rises over the trees as they get closer and closer. There are more carriages ahead of them now, other guests waiting to be dropped off. “Only God knows whatever will come out of your mouth next,” she says. “I don’t think even He knows half the time.”

“I love to keep my captive audience forever on their toes.”

She shoots him a look that says Oh, I know you do. “I would at least like a hobby,” she insists after a moment’s silence. “Something to make me stand out.”

It was the wrong thing to say—especially to James, of all people. 

Before he can speak, she blurts out, “Perhaps I write poetry.”

That damned smile. Those teeth may very well cut her one of these days. “Oh? Are you any good, mo chroí?”

“Of course,” she says, offended he even has to ask. James is smiling at her as she adds, “I can lift some Browning if I’m questioned. I doubt anyone there knows a lick of poetry.”

Their carriage rattles as they sweep through the gravel in front of Whitby. The historic home sits with golden windows and the distant whisper of string music playing from within. There are many folks in their resplendent eveningwear wandering the grounds—smoking their cigars, sharing whispers—while the rest vanish inside. Not for the first or last time, she wonders why she lets Sherlock and James convince her to do these things with them. Her life used to be so quiet and simple and she resented it, but these men are terrible influences, even if she does love life a bit more with them in it. 

She’ll never tell them that, though.

James sighs deeply, resting his head back against the seat until he is nothing more than a silhouette again, calling to mind a Roman marble bust: hard, strong lines. His Adam’s apple shifts as he recites in a rough voice, “‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.’”

Staring up at the manor, almost wistful, she breathes, “‘I love thee to the depth and breadth and height / My soul can reach.’”

Her voice is so soft that she thinks James didn’t hear, but the silence is heavy. She turns and finds James looking at her, the smile lingering even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He looks to be somewhere else, dazed and a little distracted, and her immediate thought, for some reason, is Take me to wherever it is you’ve just gone.

The carriage comes to a stop, and the door swings open, startling her. A small gasp and she spins around.

But it is only a valet in a tailcoat, a white-gloved hand extended towards her. “Welcome to Whitby Abbey, madame.”

“How kind,” she says, a hand to her chest, still recovering, while the other slides across the palm of the valet. Her ring winks at her.

There she is, standing in her blood-red dress and similarly painted lips, a mere ant beside a home she has no right stepping inside of. In those handful of seconds, all she can think about is the little girl she used to be: so lonely, always on the outside. She had grown used to it, found comfort there. Lately it seems as if life has done what she can only compare to shoving her from behind the curtain and onto the stage. 

The melancholy threatens to drown her, but then a hand slides across the small of her back and her shoulders rise, turning to find James. He smiles at her, and it is such an honest, familiar smile, one that she knows better than anyone else’s, that when she smiles back, it is like their own little language.

“Are you ready, mo chroí?”

He refuses to tell her what that means. She only hopes it isn’t some joke he’s sneaking by her. “Let’s.”

————————

[Name] hasn’t been in a home quite like this before. They glide through the foyer—gray stone, curved archways, five-figure vases and marble busts—and into the ballroom, which opens up before them like a cloudless sky. A neck-breaking ceiling with shimmering chandeliers, white-draped tables with elaborately arranged centerpieces: flowers and flickering candles. There’s a stage off to the right-hand side of the ballroom where a string quartet plays.

“Fuckin’ hell,” mutters James, staring all around.

She was thinking the same thing. “Sherlock will be here soon?” she asks.

“So he claims.” He slips back his sleeve just enough to peek at a watch. He pauses for dramatic effect, then adds, “Him. And Mycroft.”

She can hardly hide her surprise. “Mycroft?” The only reason he would possibly be coming along is if his hand was forced. 

“He’s the reason Sherlock procured our attendance. I believe he wanted to be here to make sure we don’t humiliate ourselves.”

Naturally. She tilts her head and says, “So, I could’ve had Mycroft to pose as my fiancé.”

James, smiling like the cat that got the cream, tucks a piece of her hair back, his fingertips ghosting across the shell of her ear. It’s a mere whisper of a touch, yet she almost forgets to listen as he says, “I gallantly offered to take the role.”

“Why am I not surprised?” she asks, her voice breathy and trying to hide the very fact.

His eyes drift down to her painted lips, and she doesn’t want to even imagine what is stirring behind those dark eyes. “Would you have preferred Mycroft?” 

“He wouldn’t have been so lascivious,” she says, her cheeks warming. Thank goodness her face is buried beneath so much makeup. “He would have been a perfect gentleman about the whole thing.”

“Ah, but that’s the thing, darling,” says James, taking a step closer, and then his mouth leans into her ear, his hand slipping around to the middle of her back, caging her there. Just being near him, she can feel the warmth of him. Her eyes flutter, especially when his breath touches her ear: hot, ticklish. “I don’t think you want a gentleman.”

When James pulls away, she glares at him—or what she prays looks like a glare. If she thought she was blushing before, she certainly is now. She resists the urge to stamp on his foot or some other such childish thing.

This may be the worst idea they’ve ever come up with—and that’s truly saying something.

“How about a drink?” asks James, and he winks.

Right then, a servant passes with a tray of whiskey. James sneaks two from the tray, his naturally quick fingers making the glasses vanish in a blink. He turns, handing her her glass, and he makes a point to glide his fingers over hers, reveling in the way she scowls. His hands are much larger than hers, calloused from his schoolwork, but soft still, like he takes care of them.

She tries to put any thought of his hands out of her mind as she sips the whiskey. It’s harsh, but she relishes the way it helps her think more clearly. 

“Have you seen Fontaine yet?”

Damn. She’s been so distracted by James and his games that she hasn’t even looked. She does now, turning with her whiskey glass tucked against her chest, trying to cool herself down, appearing as if she is only taking in the sights. There are so many people, at least a hundred, and at times the voices rise right over the music, their own chorus. So many faces and smiles and laughs and beautiful clothes—and she doesn’t see their mark.

“Not yet,” she says, still looking. She cranes her neck. How in hell will they find him in this sea?

As if reading her thoughts, James says, “Don’t worry, love. He’ll find us.”

“How so?”

“He’ll find you, I should’ve said.”

The red dress, the red lipstick, James as her fiancé—this performance is all for Algernon Moreau, a celebrated art dealer. Although he is a married man, he is famous for his love of women, particularly those that are also married. Perhaps he likes the feeling of taking another man’s woman, [Name] had raised, and James and Sherlock agreed. 

Moreau is a mere stepping-stone in their plan—they believe he is acquainted with a murderer and thief they are hunting down; they know they work together and he may have something on his person—but tonight must work without a hitch if they are to get anywhere.

“Should we split up?” she asks.

James makes a doubtful sound. “It would be best if we stick together, I believe,” he says. “We have to be a convincing couple, eh?”

“This won’t be enough to tip him off?” she asks, holding up her hand and showing off her ring.

James squints at her, his nose wrinkling as he leans close. “Just to make certain, darling.” He finishes off his whiskey as another servant passes, and he replaces his empty glass with a fresh one. He downs the new glass with his head tipped back and when he finishes that one, he asks, “Care for a dance?”

So they make their way to the floor. They slip in among the couples, careful to stay visible on the edge of the circle, and her heart trips as she nearly does when James reels her in, his hand falling to her waist as the other takes her own hand, holding her fingers so delicately. Her arm goes around his neck. Has she ever danced with James before? No, she realizes, because she would’ve remembered this panic in her chest: like a bird in a cage.

James, of course, is a great dancer. How he learns all of the things he knows, she cannot begin to understand, but he seems good at everything he sets his mind to. It’s incredibly annoying. 

What’s more annoying is how their bodies move like water together. The space she has put between them shrinks as they step and turn with seemingly one mind. All the while James smiles down at her, like he has her right where he wants her. 

“Do you try to drive me to madness, or does it just come so easily to you?” she asks.

James laughs, his cheeks and the lines around his eyes bunching. And most annoying of all is that James is handsome and he knows it. He has a way of making one feel special and he often directs this superpower towards her. She wishes he wouldn’t, but she knows she would miss it if it were gone. She would never tell him any of these things; it’s embarrassing enough to think it in the privacy of her thoughts—but even then she wonders if he can see those, too.

“Can’t a man just dance with a beautiful woman?”

“There you go again,” she says, rolling her eyes as she looks beyond his shoulder. “Always there with a comment in hand. Ready to flatter at a moment’s notice.”

“Do I flatter?” he asks. His breath whispers past her ear, stirring the hair. “Or do I tell the truth?”

“I think,” she says, looking him in the eye, “that you show flattery to anything that draws breath.”

“If it gets the job done,” he agrees.

She guffaws. “So shameless!”

“Have I ever lied to you, mo chroí?”

“I would have no way of knowing, so I’m inclined to say yes.”

James spins her underneath his raised arm. Her heart spins with her, weightless as a feather, and then she is reeled back in just as quickly, nearly collapsing against him. Her hand falls on his chest to steady herself.

“Every word I say to you is true. I would swear my life on it.”

A little breathless, she says with a slight laugh, “You have told me some rather incredible things, Moriarty.”

There’s a sudden sobriety in his eyes. “As I said.”

She has only his word to take, and how good is the word of a thief? For she knows how good of a thief he is: he steals her heartbeat with a single look.

————————

People mingle amongst themselves, enjoying finger foods and drinks; others greet acquaintances and share stories, laughing together. Eyes catch on [Name] as she passes, some curious, others intrigued. She lets her gaze linger over them—all men. That feeling returns: a present to be opened.

Moreau is nowhere to be seen, though, and neither are the Holmes brothers. And she is bored—well, as bored as she can be with James. He flirts and he flatters and she parries every word with an acuity that has become their custom. 

At some point she wanders off, obtaining a little sandwich and a fresh gin, and when she returns to James—only ten minutes have passed—he has found himself an audience. He stands there, one hand in his pocket, the other holding whiskey, and he waves the glass around as he speaks. When [Name] approaches, the crowd has just started laughing. He flashes a winning smile at them, and his eyes alight when he sees her. “Ah, here she is,” he says, extending an arm.

Confused, she comes to him. His hand falls to the small of her back as he says, “Darling, I was just about to tell the story of my proposal to you.”

“Oh, please do!” says an enthusiastic and very pretty redhead. The man at her side seems utterly bored. As a matter of fact, the women seem most delighted by James, while their men stand there, some looking rather angry at James for distracting their partners.

“Yes. Do,” says [Name] with a sickly sweet smile.

“Well,” he begins, and they fall silent, only the string instruments accompanying his story, “I made sure to cancel any prior engagement she had, and I told her we were spending the day together. I took her on a tour of the city. With my job and her writing, we are so very busy. I wanted to treat her to a day of no obligation or worry. Anyways, I brought her to the university library where I read some Shakespeare to her—” The women coo, some clutching their chests; [Name] fights not to roll her eyes at him. “—and got into some business I would rather not share at the moment.” The audience laughs, gasping and scolding. [Name] wonders if perhaps she should vanish into a ghost about now. 

“We went to eat after, and then we went for a walk through the park,” he goes on. “I didn’t tell her where we were going, but I’m sure she could guess.” He looks down at her with such soft reverence as he says the words that she wonders, again, how he can be so good at lying. “The gardens. I knew it was her favorite place in the city, so I made sure to end things there. There were butterflies, more than I had ever seen in one place, and they were of every color under the sun—and perhaps some new ones. The look on her face was…” James’s voice drifts off, staring at her, seemingly lost in a memory that doesn’t exist. All breathing seems to stop, waiting for him. “She was beautiful.” James clears his throat. “We hardly said a word as we walked through the flowers. I was scared to ruin the moment. But eventually we found a bench and I recited some of her poetry to her. I had found a piece she had written privately. I recited it from memory and then…I asked her to marry me.”

The words flow from him as if they are real. How could he improvise such a story with so many eyes on him? Her face warms under the adulation they receive. The story is all a bit saccharine and certainly meant to flatter the audience, but it’s the sentiment that renders her speechless. How easily he toys with her and his flirtations.

Two can play at this game.

When a woman asks, “What was the poem?” [Name] jumps at the chance.

Turning to James, she warns him only with a devilish smile of her own as she recites, “‘I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. I love you not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me. I love you for the part of me that you bring out.’” 

Somewhere in saying the words, her smile vanishes until she is just standing there, staring into James Moriarty’s eyes, and declaring her love to him.

She hardly hears the fawning of their captive audience with their hands clasped, mouths falling into perfect o’s. It’s at this moment that some of the men slip away, tugging their wives along behind them, and there, just for a second, she sees him, watching with keen interest.

She stands on her toes and presses a kiss to James’s cheek, which seems to leave him rather flummoxed, judging by the way his fingers dig into her waist. She whispers, “Moreau is here.”

————————

The battle wages on. For every flirtation that slips past James’s lips, [Name] is shooting back. It’s as if all of the months of dealing with James have bubbled over within herself. She is sick of being the business end of all of his jokes and teases, rendered speechless and flustered by his practiced advances. She hates the way he affects her, and she is determined to put him in his place.

All the while, Moreau is circling. The dress has done its job, but it was James’ and her performances that caught him like a fish on a hook. He is here with his wife, but he lingers and he leers, trying to catch [Name]’s eye. She needs to encourage him to make the first move.

That’s when Sherlock and Mycroft arrive, looking utterly dashing in their spotless suits. Sherlock’s eyes roll practically to the back of his head when he sees James’s arm around [Name] as they sit at their table. “Truly selling the part, are you?” asks Sherlock.

“Aye. It’s the best role I’ve ever played,” says James, beaming.

[Name] jumps up from her seat. Moreau has been staring at the foursome like a hawk; this is the perfect opportunity. “Mycroft, would you mind sharing a dance with me?”

The elder Holmes pauses as he unwinds his scarf. “Really?” asks Mycroft.

“Really?” asks James, leveling his gaze.

“I’d love a dance,” she says, tucking her arms behind her back, her chest pitching forward.

Mycroft keeps his eyes firmly on her face, his mouth tight. He looks over her shoulder—at Sherlock? James? Whatever he sees there must help convince him. “I’d be honored.” 

As she takes his hand and leads him to the floor, she hears a chair scrape back and an Irish voice bark her name, but she doesn’t dare look back.

There is a tinge of pink in Mycroft’s cheeks as he takes her into his arms. His touch is much more delicate than James’s: James is firm and so sure of himself and what he wants, while Mycroft is the consummate gentleman, plagued with nauseating politeness and concern. She takes his wrist and raises his hand higher until he is right in the divot of her waist. The look he gives her is of pure shock. “[Name]?”

“It’s all a performance, right?” she asks, meaning to jest—but it comes out drenched in quiet resentment.

“Are you well?” asks Mycroft. She nearly steps on his toe as they twirl around the floor.

“Perfectly fine, Mycroft,” she says. She smiles at him, and wonders if she is trying to convince him or herself. “An evening spent with James Moriarty can fray the nerves.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” grumbles Mycroft. “Speaking of, my apologies that we were so late. Sherlock got himself into a—well, a bit of trouble, as he often does.”

“Oh, goodness, what was it now?”

“Well—” And here he dives into a story of a night of errors, constant delays, and nonsensical trouble hindering their arrival to the party. Mycroft says it all with a straightfaced, despairing tone that makes her smile, basking in the pure enjoyment of having a friend that is so utterly himself. She laughs at some parts, and they shake their heads about the chaos of Sherlock, even if they love him.

“Your brother is a handful,” she says. 

“I am well aware.”

“He is a good man,” she says softly. Tucking her cheek against Mycroft’s shoulder, she is suddenly so tired. She stares at the couples dancing all around them, wondering what their lives are like. “In his own crazy way.”

Mycroft breathes in sharply, his chest rising beneath her. “Yes, he is.” He clears his throat and asks in a clearer voice, “How is the business with that man going?”

“He’s rather like a gnat: constantly lingering,” she says. She casts her head about, wondering if she can spot him. “If he doesn’t make his move, I’ll have to.”

“Are you so sure about all of this?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You’re…well—” The pink returns to Mycroft’s cheeks.

“Luring him in?” she asks. It’s the kindest way of putting it.

Mycroft seems grateful. “Yes,” he says through tight teeth.

“Well. There are some other ways I’d rather spend my Thursday evening,” she concedes, “but if it will save lives, I’m willing.”

“Don’t let these boys make you a martyr.”

She laughs. “I can handle myself, Mycroft.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” he says, nodding to himself as he stares over her head.

“I’m sorry to involve you, Mycroft.”

He meets her eye. He really is very handsome; she wouldn’t have minded playing as his betrothed. “It’s…nothing. Somewhat.” His mouth presses into a line. “The less I know the better,” says Mycroft, but he smiles kindly. His eyes lift beyond her and into the crowd. “Those boys are trouble.” His brow knits, eyes narrowing. “Good God,” he mutters almost to himself, dropping his head. “I’m being glared at.”

“Moreau?” She forces herself not to turn; she doesn’t want to look too interested.

Mycroft loosens his touch. “Not him.”

Oh. 

Her eyes drop between their bodies, suddenly fascinated by the way her dress sways against the floor. Now that it has been pointed out, she can practically feel the hole being burned into her back. She won’t dare look. “Yes, he’s been playing his role rather well all night.”

“What role?”

“As my fiancé.”

Mycroft’s mouth pinches. “He’s always like this.”

She doesn’t know she has her jaw clenched. “Like what?”

The look that Mycroft gives her can only be described as: oh, poor thing. “Dear, he looks at you like he wants to eat you alive.”

She hates how those words move through her: in the way honey pours from a spoon; the way water flows through a river. But she knows James. He loves the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of winning. He knows he is handsome and he knows she finds him so. 

She wishes she didn’t. 

“He’s a cad,” she says, scoffing. Trying not to care. “He would tire of me the moment he has me.”

Mycroft’s brow is tight. He stares at her, confused. “I don’t think—”

A finger taps on Mycroft’s shoulder. The two of them turn and there is Moreau: he’s about Mycroft’s age, handsome enough, with slicked blond hair. His blue eyes don’t leave [Name] as he asks, “Mind if I step in?”

————————

All they know about Algernon Moreau is his notoriety in the art world: supposedly he is a highly regarded dealer. Their interest is his connection with Lucas Bernard, an antiquarian who works with a select few—including Moreau. The two men and several others are all connected to an underground market. Bernard doesn’t deal to just anyone.

They found a woman who spent some time with Moreau. She told them that Moreau has cards on him for all of the men in this little gang.

You’ll need to get him alone, Sherlock had suggested. They had stood around the table, looking at blueprints of Whitby Manor. He had his closed fist to his chin, staring down at the map as he pondered.

That should be easy enough, she’d said. Would [Name] a mere year ago have been so willing to do any of this? Probably not. But getting tangled up with these two boys had brought out a piece of herself she never knew was buried within her. 

Then what? asked James. He had looked across the table at her, hands buried deep into his pockets. He looked up at her through his lashes, his brow framing his suddenly serious face. She wasn’t used to such a grim James Moriarty.

She had met his eyes like it was a challenge. I’ll get the card. 

How, though? He said the words slowly, circling the table until he was standing beside her. He could be imposing when he wanted to be, and he was right then. Are you going to ask for it? Or do something else to convince him?

Whatever it takes.

James’s stare was hard enough to cut a diamond. Without his eyes leaving her, he told Sherlock, I’ll follow them. I can take care of it.

Do you have no faith in me, James? She had a hip cocked, a hand resting on the table.

He looked her up and down. The opposite, actually. That’s what worries me.

She thinks of that night and James’s face—the flickering candlelight, the low rumble of his voice—as she dances with Moreau. Unfortunately for her, Moreau is a dreadful bore. It amazes her, sometimes, how men like this can secure such lovely women and reel them into their net. But she laughs and flatters like he is the most fascinating man in the world.

As Moreau blathers on about selling a painting overseas, there is James, waiting. He is sitting at the table where she left him. When their eyes meet, he gives her a small nod. 

(I can take care of it.)

“I’m holding a few paintings here,” Moreau is saying. “There’s an auction in a few days' time. Would you like to see them?”

Her eyes alight. “I’d love to.”

The pair separate from the dancefloor. Moreau lets his hand fall to the small of her back as he guides her through the crowds, an innocent enough gesture if she didn’t know him.

[Name] holds her dress to keep from tripping as they mount the stairs.

“How far is the art held?” she asks, suddenly realizing she will be alone with this man.

Moreau turns, looking down at her heels. “Don’t worry,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “You won’t hurt your feet.”

She laughs. “I’d hate to have blisters.”

He tuts at her. A red and gold carpet softens their steps as they reach the second floor. Nobody is up here except for them, the music and voices dissipating with every step. “I saw you dancing all night,” he says. “The stairs shouldn’t be an issue.”

Boring and condescending. What dreadful company. He’s walking ahead of her, so she lets her eyes roll. Then she softens her voice: “I know you saw me.” It must’ve been convincing enough because Moreau turns as he approaches a door, giving her a lingering look before opening the door. 

Light spills out from the room. Across the way, a balcony door hangs open, a cool breeze wisping inside. There are about a dozen paintings of various sizes spread around the room, all of them in heavy gold-filigreed frames. These paintings must be hundreds of years old and even though she knows nothing about art, they are undeniably beautiful. She allows a gasp, not entirely fake, and steps into the room. He closes the door behind them with a soft click.

“Oh, these are beautiful,” she says. She tilts her head, approaching the first one in front of her. It’s a seascape with crashing waves, the whitecaps so realistic that she has to resist the urge to reach out and touch them. Moreau stands by her side, a little too close, with his hands clasped behind his back. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“I thought the same.”

She finds him looking at her. Gross. But she feigns a blush, turning away as if to hide her reddening cheeks. “These will be up for auction?”

“This Sunday,” he says, nodding. “You should come.”

“I don’t know if I could afford these,” she says with a self-deprecating laugh.

“Perhaps a generous benefactor can lend a—”

There’s a knock at the door.

Moreau stops mid-word, his mouth hanging open. Casting her a look of confusion, Moreau goes to the door. Right as he opens it, he says, “How may I—” but unfortunately, a fist shoots out and meets his nose. Immediately stunned, Moreau collapses back and hits the ground with a thump that makes [Name] wince.

James steps over Moreau’s body. “Fancy meeting you here,” he tells her.

“You didn’t take long.”

“I was wondering where my darling fiancée had wandered off to.”

James hooks his arms beneath Moreau’s pits and drags the man farther into the room. Moreau is out cold, his mustache practically twitching with his snores. James kicks the door shut as he crouches, digging through Moreau’s pockets.

“I could’ve done all of this,” she reminds him, a hand on her hip.

James glances at her before returning to Moreau. He says nothing.

She smirks at the top of his head. “It would’ve been so easy to—”

“Please stop speaking.”

Another knock. Her brow pinches, ready to panic—their plans never do go well, do they?—when the door opens and Sherlock’s head pops in. “Did you—oh my. So you did.” He slips inside and shuts the door, lazily leant against it. “Well done, [Name]. Anything of note?” he asks James.

James lifts up a wallet. “Just this.” He stands, picking through the sleeves. He pulls a note from the billfold and when [Name] scoffs, he shoots her a wink before pocketing the money. “I’ll use it to get you dinner.”

“How romantic.”

“There,” says Sherlock, pointing at a card buried within the wallet.

James pulls out a stack of business cards. He’s grinning as he picks through them, until finally he says, “Ha!” Between two fingers, he holds a white card with a looping black script. The two men cock their heads as they read the card, slow smiles spreading across their faces. “Good work, folks. We’ve got the bastard.”

[Name] stands on her toes to look. James hands it to her, dropping back down to drag Moreau farther into the room. Sherlock stands before her with his hands on his hips, saying, “This might just be our cleanest heist we’ve ever—”

There’s another knock on the door. James’s head snaps up, still carrying Moreau, whose head lolls drunkenly. Sherlock stops mid-word. [Name]’s eyes widen, her hand coming to cover her mouth. Please be Mycroft.

“‘Ello? Monsieur Moreau?”

Oh, no.

“Sherlock,” hisses James. He nods his head at the body. “Take him.”

“Where?” whispers Sherlock, spreading his hands. There were no secret passageways in their blueprints.

“To the balcony. Hurry.”

The pounding on the door grows louder and more insistent. “Moreau? Moreau!”

As Sherlock drags Moreau away, grumbling to himself, James returns to [Name]. “Mess up my hair,” he tells her. She hesitates for only a heartbeat before she ruffles his hair—soft, so thick between her fingers, good lord—and he takes her face in his hand, cradling her jaw. Her breath ceases in her chest, wondering if he is about to kiss her, the knocking at the door long forgotten. Can he feel her pulse beneath her jaw? But he only smears his thumb across her bottom lip, spreading her lipstick onto her cheek. As he goes to open the door, he undoes a couple of buttons on his suit and rubs his thumb across his own lip.

James opens the door. He stands there with a drunken grin, leaning against the frame and looking rather ravished: his tousled hair and the open suit paired with a look of absolute lovesickness on his face. “Ever heard of privacy, man?”

“What—” The man cranes his neck to look around James. The man is tall and lean, dressed in a nice suit like any other guest. Did Moreau have a guard they didn’t think to keep an eye out for? “I thought I saw—Is there an Algernon Moreau in here?”

“I hope not,” says James, practically pitching forward. “Just me ‘n my girl.”

“Your—?” The man sees [Name] for the first time. He turns away just as quickly, no doubt stunned by the state of the pair. “That’s the woman I just saw with Moreau. Is it not?” he asks James.

“She’s wit’ me, mate,” says James, pointing at his own chest. 

“How did you two get in here?”

[Name] says, “The door was unlocked, sir. We’re very sorry.”

“Get out of here,” snaps the man, finished with them. “There are absolutely no guests allowed in here.” James hooks an arm around [Name]’s waist and follows the man out of the room. The man pulls a key from his jacket pocket and locks the door. He pockets it again, staring them down. “Because you two are so young, I won’t say a word. But you damned lovebirds better find somewhere else to do…whatever the hell you were bloody doing.”

“We will, we will,” says James, miming a drunkard’s slow nod. [Name] has to hide a laugh behind her hand. “C’mon, girl. Let’s leave the man alone.”

James seems to gain his sobriety the moment they hit the stairs, dashing hand in hand down the steps as they both fight to keep their laughter down. [Name] is practically shaking as they return to the party.

James rests his hands on his hips and looks back up the stairs, his teeth glinting as he raises a hand. “Fuckin’ hell, Sherlock is stuck up there,” he says, and hardly finishes the sentence before he bursts out laughing. She tries shushing him, even as she trips over her own hysterics. Has she ever seen anything funnier than a ruffled James Moriarty, her lipstick across his mouth?

Some eyes land on them, shooting curious looks, so she takes his hand and runs again, holding her dress up as they run out of Whitby Manor, pushing past people. “We have to find the balcony,” she says, giggling. She goes from dragging along James to hustling with him alongside her, their shoes crunching on the gravel the moment they step outside. The night air brings shivers, but she can hardly feel them through the heat in her chest.

They find the balcony after a few minutes of searching. “Sherlock,” she calls, and James snorts. She elbows him before daring to shout louder. “Sherlock!”

When his head pops out over the railing, James bursts into laughter again. He stumbles away, a hand on his chest, as she says, “Sherlock, you got locked in!”

“You don’t say!” says Sherlock.

“Is there a way for you to get down?”

Sherlock hits his hands on the railing. “Well, there isn’t a damn ladder!”

James regains himself enough to say, “‘Wherefore art thou—’”

[Name] reels on him, smiling despite herself. “You—”

“James, do you think—” But Sherlock stops, his eyes going wide before retreating from the balcony’s edge.

She’s about to call out his name when James shushes her, a hand on her bare arm. Goosebumps rise at his touch. “Something tells me our dear friend has been found out,” he whispers. “It’s best we find somewhere else to be.” James slips his fingers into hers and they run deeper into the yard, towards the gardens.

————————

Moonlight leads the way. The trees around them seem to shimmer as if painted with silver. The golden glow from the windows beckons to them, but there is something oddly cozy about being on the outside looking in, trapped in their own little world. James doesn’t let go of her hand as they stroll through the garden, accompanied by the occasional hooting owl or yip of a fox deeper in the forest beyond the property.

“Do you think—”

“—Sherlock will be fine? Sure. He’ll give them some story,” answers James flippantly. “He has his brother.” The moon casts shadows across his face, just as it had in the carriage. Was that really all tonight? The carriage ride feels like a thousand years ago. She only knows now, here, with James.

She feels drunk: she hasn’t stopped smiling. She trips over her own feet, stumbling and knocking into James, and his arm comes around her like it belongs there, his own bashful smile so big and bright that her heart swells with warmth: they’re so young and beautiful. James stares into her eyes for a long moment, teetering on the edge—she knows not what’s at the bottom, but she knows she wants to fall. 

“James?”

“Yes.”

“What does mo chroí mean?” After hearing those words in James’s raspy, deep voice, they sound softer in her own mouth, timid and unused to shaping the sounds. 

Has he ever looked so handsome? The moonlight sands down his hard edges. His soft black eyes and his just-as-black hair and his beautiful nose and the tilt of his roguish lips. And the way he looks at her. Has it always been right in front of her? She doesn’t see James look at anyone the way he looks at her.

“My heart,” he breathes. 

Much too enticing.

[Name] kisses him with a desperation like she has been left without air. She holds his cheek—soft, shaved—as she fits her mouth to his, and James meets her with equal enthusiasm, his hands circling around her middle and tucking her in until she knows nothing but the firmness of his body, his touch. Her fingers slip back into his hair, digging in and pulling him in as if he can get any closer. James’s teeth brush her bottom lip, threatening to bite.

When she spreads her lips, the press of James’s tongue is dizzying. She falls against him, her knees weakening. In a hurried, breathless voice, James whispers, “About fuckin’ time, woman.” She laughs against his mouth, her teeth brushing his lip, then his nose. James dives in to press his open mouth against her bared throat, and [Name] stares up at the stars and the moon, praying to be consumed.

————————

James kicks the door to his apartment shut, his hands never leaving her face. He kisses her like she is about to vanish. His feverish hands work at her skirts, shoving them off and out of the way. “Do you have any idea how often I’ve dreamt this?” he whispers against her lips. The excess fabric spills from her waist. Still in her corset and inner skirt, she feels even lighter—and James lifts her into his arms, carrying her to the table.

He lays her down after sweeping everything off of the surface with a sharp clatter. He buries his mouth against her neck, making her shiver with his hot breath. He is a man undone: his ruffled hair, the flush in his cheeks. He can’t keep his hands off of her. His mouth traces down to her heaving chest, her breasts pressing against the corset. His teeth graze against the swell of her breast and she wriggles, begging, “James.”

“Patience is a virtue, mo chroí,” he says with a villainous smile before burying his hands beneath her skirts, drawing them up around her trembling thighs. He kneels at the end of the table and she’s blushing. “Be good,” James warns as he opens her legs, and then his mouth finds her aching, weeping cunt. The first touch of his tongue leaves her lightheaded, her lips falling open as she cries out. He gathers her wetness from bottom to top, licking her up so thoroughly that her hand claps over her mouth, moaning as her fingers find his hair and pull. 

James groans against her cunt, which only makes it better. He blindly reaches up and pulls the hand from her mouth, holding it hostage by her side, burning bruises into her wrist. His nose—that damn nose—rubs so nicely against her clit and her hips move with a mind of their own, chasing the pleasure he provides her. His tongue is relentless, like he’s kissing her all over again. The very thought makes her face burn.

Never has she felt so good. Her fingers have never brought her such joy, nor has anyone else. It feels like James knows every inch of her and can read her every thought, knowing just what to do at just the right time to get her whining and moaning beneath him. 

Without removing his mouth, James releases her wrist and slips free of his jacket, tossing the clothing somewhere in the room. She grinds up against his nose, relentless, as James undoes the buttons of his shirt, the fabric falling open to expose dark chest hair and firm muscle. The sounds of his mouth against her wet core would be humiliating if she didn’t find it so provocative.

“James,” she begs. She needs to be full of him. She has never wanted anything more in her life. A finger, his tongue—anything.

Her fake engagement ring shines with her hand in his hair. 

James kisses her thigh before rising, the sudden loss of his mouth devastating. She gasps, hands reaching up to slip beneath his shirt, desperate for contact. His skin is hot enough to burn, but she pulls him in, greedy for more of him. She worries it’ll never be enough.

He works at unlacing her corset as she pulls on his pants, slipping the button free and drawing the pants down. Her nails trace along his ribs as she loops her arms around him, forcing him nearer. James sheds his shirt. “You’re beautiful,” he’s saying, his voice slurred, and when he kisses her, she tastes herself on his tongue.

[Name] sits up from the table, dizzy. She scoots to the edge of the table and loops an arm around his neck, fingers returning to his hair as they kiss, James slipping his cock from drawers. He falls hot and heavy against her thigh and she’s already shaking, desperately impatient, and James laughs, the sound aching, before he lines himself up and presses into her.

They gasp, their kiss halted by the sudden intrusion. Their lips brush, open-mouthed, as she adjusts to the size of James, steadily pushing deeper and deeper. He’s thick and long, stretching her open until every thought has left her. Her head falls back with a soft, “Fuck.” James buries as deep as he can before stopping, letting them catch their breath. 

Then he moves. 

He rocks out of her before bullying his way back in, leaving her a trembling mess. She clutches his bicep as she meets his every thrust, the next somehow always better than the last. They move in a rhythm that comes naturally, like their bodies have waited an eternity for this. Like a dance.

“Doing so well,” he whispers. He’s groaning at the slide of her. “Just made for me, darling.”

That fucking voice really isn’t helping her regain her sanity. 

With her corset loose around her middle, James’s mouth lowers to her breast, catching a nipple between his lips. She moans, her thighs trembling, hardly able to think. He knows just what to do, how to undo her entirely. He smiles around her nipple, the pleasure blinding. She grinds harder.

James lifts her from the table and she gasps, clutching onto him. His cock stays in her as he carries her to and drops her onto the bed, the mattress creaking beneath their weight. His fingers clasp with hers and hold her hand beside her head as he fucks her harder, whispering in Gaelic the entire time. She flushes at his attention and the thunderous rumble of his voice. When he rubs her clit, urging her to oblivion, it is all too easy.

Her back arches and her nails dig into his back, leaving red marks as she squeezes him tight, moaning and crying out his name. James fucks her through the blinding pleasure, telling her just how good she feels, how beautiful she is. How long he has wanted her. 

Tears slip down the sides of her head as James finishes moments later, a beautiful sound slipping from his mouth as warmth fills her. 

She doesn’t know if she has ever been happier.

They catch their breath for a couple of minutes, recovering. James’s nose brushes against hers as he stares into her eyes, his own half-lidded, pleased and tired. His smile is lazy, and achingly beautiful. “What is it again?” His voice is a wreck. He swallows, clearing his throat. “‘‘To the depth and breadth and height / My soul can reach.’”

She wonders if her smile is just like his: besotted and dazed. “Wait until I tell the world how much of a romantic you are, James Moriarty.”

Then, as fate would have it, Bob got tapped for a special detachment on North Island—your base. And suddenly, years of loving him from afar turned into months of loving him from a now suffocatingly close distance. Because after that detachment, Bob’s new squad—the Dagger Squad—was commissioned as a full-time elite unit under Maverick’s command. 

So here he is, on North Island. And here you are too. Practically living in each other’s pockets, even if you’re not flying on the same team. So what could possibly be stopping you from telling him how you feel? 

Oh, right. Just the tiny, humiliating fact that you’re still way too chickenshit to risk the friendship for something more. 

“Lieutenant,” Maverick says, stepping up beside you and catching you off guard. 

You blink, dragging your eyes away from the squad—his squad—training just outside the hangar up ahead. 

“Captain,” you reply, nodding. 

He smirks. “Thinking of trading in those shiny fifth-gens for something with a little more grit? Or are you just here to watch Hondo torture my pilots?” 

You huff a laugh, adjusting the helmet tucked under your arm. “The Super Hornet’s got plenty of grit, but let’s be honest—she’s no Lightning.” 

Maverick chuckles, nodding slowly. 

“Actually, I was looking for you,” you say. “Cyclone wants me to offer a brief training program on the F-35’s latest software package—maybe even get your team some sim time.” 

His eyebrows lift. “A training program from the Navy’s golden test pilot? Let me guess—does Simpson know how chummy you are with my squad, or was this more of a personal initiative?” 

“It might be a little personal,” you say with s sheepish grin. “But I’ve seen the way you look at my jet. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t kill for a flight.” 

“A joyride?” he asks. “I thought you said simulator time.” 

“For them, yeah.” You nod toward the squad. “But if a decorated captain, such as yourself, wanted to take her for a spin... well, who am I to stand in the way?” 

He laughs again, looking past you at the aircraft you’d just landed. 

“She quick?” he asks. 

“Today? About six hundred knots. But that was a low-level test profile.” You pause, eyes glinting. “Push her right, she’ll break Mach 1 easy. Mach 2 if you’re feeling brave. And willing to eat the paperwork.” 

“Tempting,” he says with a sigh. “But I think I’ve racked up enough disciplinary notes for one career.” 

You smile. “Then fly her like a gentleman.” 

Maverick’s gaze flicks back to the squad as Hondo shouts for twenty more burpees. Then he narrows his eyes at you. “Who put you up to this?” 

You blink. “Sorry?” 

“Phoenix asked me just last week if they’d ever fly anything other than Hornets. Yesterday, Hangman starts asking about Lockheed sim protocols. And now you show up, conveniently volunteering?” 

You press your lips together, wondering how long you might be able to stall—but really, what’s the point? It’s Maverick. He’ll figure it out sooner or later. 

“Okay, fine,” you admit. “They’ve been on my ass about it for weeks. I knew I could get Cyclone on board—and yeah, they said the only way you’d bite was if I offered you stick time.” You smile, just a little. “But to be fair, the F-35’s part of the Navy inventory now. Could be relevant training. And... I wouldn’t mind a few weeks of hanging out with my friends at work. Or their legendary captain, for that matter.” 

Maverick exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “It’s like raising teenagers.” 

“So,” you say, lifting a brow, “that’s a yes?” 

He rolls his eyes, but there’s still a playful spark behind them. “Yeah, fine.” 

You grin. “Excellent. We’ll start Monday. Can’t wait to teach alongside you, Captain.” 

“Don’t make me regret this,” he mutters. 

“Oh, please,” you say. “I know you’re at least a little excited about flying my jet.” 

His gaze flicks back to the F-35 on the flight line, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I better go break the news to the squad.” 

You laugh. “Good luck with that. Fanboy said he’d kiss you if you said yes.” 

Maverick pauses, grimacing. “Fantastic.” 

Then he flashes you that signature smirk, gives a quick nod, and walks off across the tarmac. You watch for a few minutes as he approaches his squad, stepping up beside Hondo first and—quietly—telling the CWO what he just agreed to. Hondo nods before calling the squad in with a bark, and you stay put, watching with amusement as Maverick delivers the news. 

The reaction is immediate—grins, high-fives, celebratory shouting. You see Natasha step forward to ask a question, and when Maverick gestures in your direction, Mickey turns and yells, “I fucking love you, Lucky!” 

You laugh softly, giving them a lazy salute before turning toward your own building. You’re looking forward to it too—not just the flying, or the teaching, or the excuse to hang out with your friends. But the chance to spend a few weeks working a little closer to Bob. 

And maybe—just maybe—you can figure out what the hell you’re going to do about him. 

- 

“I still can’t believe you got Cyclone and Mav to sign off on the training,” Reuben says, shaking his head despite the smile tugging at his lips. 

You lift your beer, shrugging as you sip. “They don’t call me Lucky for nothing.” 

Mickey squints, tilting his head. “Wait, do you have a history of charming your superiors?” 

Natasha snorts into her drink. “No. That’s not how she got her callsign.” 

Your eyes snap to her, brows raised. “Wait—Bob told you?” 

She presses her lips together, rocking her head side to side. “Not exactly. I saw your contact name in his phone and kind of... figured it out.” 

Your cheeks flush instantly. “Oh my God.” 

“Hold on,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “Bob gave you your callsign?” 

You nod. “Yeah. And I gave him his.” 

That’s all it takes for the three of them to dissolve into laughter. 

“Oh, so you’re the creative genius behind Bob,” Mickey teases, leaning back. “Do tell. How long did that brainstorming session take?” 

You roll your eyes and jab an elbow into his ribs. “You’re such an ass.” 

“No, but seriously,” Reuben says, still grinning. “Why is it just... Bob?” 

You shrug, rolling your beer bottle between your palms. “Because he didn’t like any of the others. There were a bunch of nicknames being thrown around—some dumb, some mean. He told me one day he wished people would just call him Bob. So I made sure they did.” 

“Oh,” Mickey mutters. “That’s kind of boring.” 

Natasha shoots him a look across the table. “I think it’s sweet.” 

Reuben gestures toward you. “Okay, fine. Then how’d he come up with Lucky?” 

You hesitate, trying not to squirm under the weight of their attention. “Because I’m his lucky charm.” 

Reuben blinks. “Seriously? It’s that personal?” 

You nod. “Yeah. Back at the FRS, every time we were paired up—sims, training hops, even written exams—he’d ace it. Said he never did that well without me.” You shrug a little, smiling. “Eventually he started joking that I was his lucky charm. Then it got shortened to Lucky, and everyone assumed it was about good fortune or gambling or whatever. But it was always just… him.” 

Natasha huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s fucking adorable.” 

Mickey leans forward, brows drawing together. “Wait… have you guys ever—” 

“Evening, misfits,” Jake drawls, cutting in with impeccable timing. “Lucky, did I hear you landed yourself a job bossing us around?” 

Bradley, Javy, and Bob fall in behind him, all wearing the same mildly pained expression—no doubt from enduring a ten-minute car ride with Weekend Jake. That’s what the squad have started—affectionately—calling him when he’s at his worst, all smug smiles, cocky one-liners, and shameless flirting. Which, of course, tends to happen every weekend. 

“Just part-time,” you say, matching his smirk. “Try to contain your excitement.” 

Jake’s gaze drops, then climbs back up—slow and deliberate. “Oh, I’m containin’ a lot right now. But you in a flight suit, telling me what to do? That might push me over the edge.” 

Mickey and Reuben chuckle while Natasha groans. 

“I need a drink,” Bradley mutters, turning toward the bar. 

You shake your head, trying not to laugh. “Keep talking, Seresin, and I’ll have you running laps around the tarmac.” 

Jake slides into the booth across from you, still grinning. “And I bet you’d love the view.” 

You roll your eyes and glance at Bob, still standing beside Javy. His eyes are locked on Jake—not quite angry, but definitely not amused. 

“Hey, Floyd,” you say, “wanna sit?” 

Bob’s lips twitch as he slides into the booth beside you, dark blue eyes catching yours. “Think you’re ready to be an instructor?” 

“Oh yeah,” you say, ignoring the flutter in your chest as his thigh brushes yours. “I was born for this.” 

He chuckles under his breath. “Born bossy, maybe.” 

“Hey,” you say, bumping your shoulder against his. “Don't be rude.” 

He turns to face you—really looking at you—and for a moment, the noise of the bar fades just a little. 

“You already telling me what to do?” he asks, voice low, playful. 

You narrow your eyes. “What if I am, Lieutenant? You going to listen?” 

Something flickers at the corner of his mouth—teasing, but quiet. “If I don’t?” 

“Jesus Christ, you two,” Jake cuts in, loud and obnoxious. “Save it for the bedroom.” 

Bob startles slightly, the colour in his cheeks deepening as he tears his eyes away from yours. 

“Fuck off, Seresin,” you mutter, shooting him a glare. “You’re just jealous.” 

Jake leans back, smug. “Jealous of what, sweetheart?” 

“That I don’t flirt with you the way I flirt with—” You stop short, the rest of the sentence stuck in your throat, but it doesn’t matter—the implication is obvious enough. 

Jake’s eyes sparkle like he’s just won the goddamn lottery, and everyone else around the table fights to contain their laughter. 

“Go on,” Jake says, far too pleased with himself. “What were you saying?” 

You shoot him a deadly look. “Fuck you is what I was saying.” 

He tips his head back and chuckles, hand over his chest, and that’s all it takes for the rest of the squad to join in. All but Bob, who’s now focused on picking at the corner of a cardboard coaster, cheeks pink and lips curved into the softest smile. 

It isn’t long before Bradley returns with two beers in one hand and a beer and a coke in the other. He sets the drinks down—coke for Bob—and nods at you to scoot over. You shuffle further into the booth, closer to Mickey, and Bob does the same—closer to you. His arm slides closer, brushing yours, and his knee presses deliberately into your leg, inch by inch stealing your space. The scent of him—sharp, familiar, intoxicating—floods your senses, and your pulse spikes before you can stop it. 

God. You think you’d be used to it after all these years. 

“So,” Bradley says, leaning forward, oblivious to the earlier conversation, “we start Monday?” 

You nod. “Yep. Think you’ll be able to handle a big boy jet?” 

Bradley scoffs. “Please. I’m one of the best pilots in the world.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“God, I can’t wait,” Mickey says from your other side. 

“Why are you excited?” Natasha asks, brow furrowed. “There’s no backseat in the F-35, and you’re definitely not flying it.” 

“Well, not the actual jet, but I still get sim time,” Mickey says, turning his big brown eyes on you. “Right?” 

You shrug. “That’s up to Mav.” 

He groans, dropping his head on the table with a thunk. “Being a WSO sucks.” 

“Your career choice, dude,” Reuben chuckles. 

You spend the next hour or so talking about work—because it’s hard not to when you all work together—but eventually Javy wanders off to chat with a woman who hit on him at the bar, and Natasha challenges Bradley to pool. Jake jumps up too, announcing that he’ll play the winner, leaving you and Bob behind with Mickey and Reuben, who are deep in an argument about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher this morning. 

You turn to Bob, brows raised. “Think I’m going to need another drink.” 

He nods, laughing softly as he slides out of the booth. You follow and start heading toward the bar, glancing over your shoulder only when he mumbles something about going to the bathroom. You just nod, then turn back and step up to the bar, flashing Penny a wide grin. 

“The usual?” she asks. 

You nod. “I’ll get a round for the whole squad.” 

She nods once and moves to grab the drinks while you fish in your back pocket for the cash you shoved there before leaving your apartment. You’re just about to drop it on the bar when someone slides up beside you and slaps down a credit card instead. 

“It’s on me,” the man says, his smile too confident to be genuine, “if you’ll tell me your name.” 

You blink, brow furrowing as you wonder where the hell men like this get their audacity. 

“And if I don’t?” you ask, sliding his card back toward him. “You still covering eight drinks?” 

His eyes widen just slightly, his fingers hovering over the card. “Eight? Damn. You must be thirsty.” 

You think about saying something snarky, or telling him simply to piss off—but you don’t. You bite your tongue, turning back to Penny with a quiet thanks as she sets the drinks on a tray and you hand her the cash. 

“You Navy?” the guy asks, undeterred. 

“Does it matter?” 

He shrugs. “Just lets me know what I’m in for.” 

You take a deep breath, choosing not to respond as you reach for the tray of drinks. 

“I got it,” Bob says, appearing beside you, his hands brushing yours as he takes the tray from the bar. 

You turn to him with a cheesy grin—not hard to fake when you’re looking at someone like Bob. “Thanks, babe.” 

He pauses, eyes flicking between you and the stranger. 

“I was starting to worry,” you say, sliding an arm around his waist. “You were gone so long.” 

Thankfully, Bob’s not an idiot—and this isn’t your first time pulling this move. 

“Sorry,” he says, falling into it with ease. “There was a line.” He glances at the guy. “Hey, I’m—uh—her boyfriend. Bob.” His cheeks flush lightly. “And you are?” 

The guy hesitates, his eyes darting between the two of you. Then he steps back. “Got it. No worries. Have a good night.” 

As soon as he’s gone, you drop your arm and step away, breath catching—not from the strange guy, but from the heat still lingering between you and Bob. The weight of his body beside yours. The feel of your fingers pressed into his waist. The clean scent of him, warm skin and sharp cologne. It’s dizzying. And familiar. And still somehow too much. 

“Thanks,” you murmur as you fall into step beside him, following him toward the others crowded around the pool table. 

“No worries,” he mutters, eyes focused on the drinks. 

Once you reach the group, everyone takes their drinks and gets back to their conversations—which mostly consists of trash-talking between Bradley and Jake. You and Bob find two stools nearby to occupy while watching the game play out. 

“Why do you do that?” he asks suddenly, turning to you with a slight frown. 

You glance at him. “Do what?” 

“Shut guys down all the time,” he says. “Tell them I’m your boyfriend.” 

“Oh.” You lean back a little, trying—and failing—to read his expression. “I guess I’m just not interested. And it’s easier to say I’ve got a boyfriend than deal with rejecting them outright. Safer, too. You never know what someone might say or do if they feel slighted. Especially after a few drinks. So... I use you. Does it bother you?” 

He shakes his head. “No. Just curious.” 

You nod, then glance back toward the pool table. “Okay.” 

There’s a short pause before he adds, “But why don’t you give any of them a shot?” 

You frown. “What, like... why don’t I date?” 

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I know you’ve dated before, but I don’t think I’ve seen you go on a single date since I got to North Island.” 

Wow. Shocking insight. Maybe he’s not as observant as you thought. 

You snort softly. “Are you saying I should date more?” 

“I don’t see why not,” he says, eyes dropping to the floor. “You get hit on all the time.” 

You roll your eyes. “I do not get hit on all the—” 

“Yes,” he cuts in, meeting your gaze again. “You do. All the time. You should hear what half these idiots say about you when you’re not around.” 

A smirk tugs at your lips. “All flattering, I hope?” 

He groans and rubs the bridge of his nose, right where his glasses sit. “You really don’t want to know.” 

You laugh into your drink, taking a long swig before glancing over at him. “Alright, Floyd. Since you’re so concerned—who should I date, then?” 

You know he won’t say it. But you want him to. You want him to say me. Right here in the middle of The Hard Deck, with Natasha eavesdropping and Mickey still ranting about how his flight suit is too tight around the biceps. It wouldn’t be romantic, or particularly special—but you don’t care. You’ve waited long enough. You just want to hear him say he’s tired of guys hitting on you. Tired of Jake’s locker room bullshit. That he wants you to date him. That he wants you. 

“I don’t know,” he mutters, cheeks flushing as he looks back toward the pool table. “Rooster, maybe. He seems like your type.” 

Your heart drops, frustration crawling up under your skin. “My type?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “Tall, pretty, a little cocky.” 

You narrow your eyes, watching the side of his face. “You think I go for cocky?” 

He doesn’t answer—just shrugs, eyes locked on the game. 

“You’ve known me this long, and that’s what you think?” 

He cuts you a sidelong glance, brows raised just slightly. “You dated a bunch of assholes at the FRS.” 

You stare at him. “A bunch? What, like... two?” 

He shrugs, eyes flicking to yours. “Maybe it just felt like more. Every second day someone was asking me for your number.” 

You scoff. “Yeah, right.” 

“No, really,” he says, deadpan. “It was ridiculous.” 

You narrow your eyes, fighting a smile. “I don’t believe you, but whatever.” 

Your gaze drifts back to the pool game, watching as Jake leans in for a shot, easily sinking two balls and earning a hard eye-roll from Bradley. 

“Anyway,” you say, glancing back at Bob. “I haven’t exactly seen you dating since you got here.” 

Not that you really want to see him dating. Not unless it’s you. 

He shrugs again. “Wasn’t talking about me. Was talking about you.” 

You roll your eyes. “Okay, fine. You want me to date? I’ll find someone to date.” 

Then you tip back your beer, draining the rest of it in two burning gulps. Bob blinks, the colour in his cheeks deepening as you smack the empty bottle down on a nearby table. You give him a tight smile before turning toward the pool table, stepping up beside Jake and curling your hand around his bicep. 

“Mind if I play next?” 

Jake’s green eyes sparkle as he looks down at you, his gaze devouring every inch of your face now so close to his. 

“Keep touchin’ me like that, darlin’, and I’ll say yes to anything.” 

The rest of the weekend passes in typical fashion. You spend half of it cleaning your apartment and stocking up on groceries for the week, and the other half watching movies with Bob and Natasha. 

Bob doesn’t bring up the whole dating thing again—you’re starting to think he never wanted to bring it up in the first place—and he definitely doesn’t mention how you flirted with Jake for most of Friday night. He does, however, roll his eyes when you laugh at something dumb Jake sends to the group chat. 

By Monday morning, you’re more than ready—and honestly, kind of excited—to start training the squad on F-35s. You even get up extra early, take a little more time with your hair, and spritz on a few extra sprays of perfume. Not for anyone in particular. Definitely not for Bob. 

You’re the first to arrive in the briefing room—of course you are, you’re nearly an hour early—so you start setting up, keeping your hands busy in an attempt to burn off nervous energy. 

Eventually, Maverick and Hondo stroll in, both looking smug with obnoxiously oversized travel mugs full of coffee. 

“Mornin’, Lucky,” Hondo says, dropping into a seat in the front row. 

“Hondo,” you say with a smile. “Mav.” 

“Ready to wrangle a room full of overconfident aviators?” Maverick asks, settling into the chair beside him. 

You take a deep breath and face the room, hands on your hips. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Got any tips?” 

He grins. “Try not to sweat—they can smell fear. Don’t be afraid to pull rank, either. You are technically their superior—Lieutenant Commander.” He pauses, waiting for your reluctant nod, because you do tend to forget that you outrank them. “And don’t look Floyd in the eye, or you’ll get flustered.” 

Your mouth drops open. 

Hondo chuckles. “And that’s not a general rule. That one’s just for you.” 

Your eyes flick to him, heat creeping into your cheeks. 

Maverick laughs. “Uh oh. Maybe we shouldn’t have flustered her right before the children arrive.” 

“Who are you calling children?” Bradley asks, stepping through the doorway with a suspicious frown. 

Maverick and Hondo giggle like schoolkids, clearly thrilled to spend the next few weeks not running the show. 

“Why’s Lucky all red?” Mickey asks, trailing in behind Bradley. 

Reuben’s next, followed by Javy and Jake a few seconds later. 

You shake your head and clear your throat, pretending to shuffle through papers like it’ll somehow erase the mortification of Captain Pete fucking Mitchell knowing about your very inconvenient crush on one of his lieutenants. 

It isn’t long before Natasha and Bob walk through the door, sliding into two front-row seats and making your heartrate ratchet up. But it’s fine. It’s cool. You can easily look past the front row. Just focus on Jake’s stupidly smug face in the second. 

“Alright,” you say as the digital display flickers to life, revealing a clean model of the F-35. “Welcome to your crash course in fifth-gens.” 

Mickey whoops quietly while the others grin and settle in with wide, eager eyes. 

“The F-35s are in the Navy’s rotation now,” you say, gesturing to the display. “And as an elite unit, you never know when you’ll be called to fly one.” You tap your tablet, watching the display zoom into a detailed cockpit layout. “One seat, all teeth, glass cockpit, full stealth. No one’s holding your hand up here—not even your WSO.” 

“Good,” Reuben grins. “Mine’s bossy.” 

Mickey gasps, spinning toward him in mock betrayal. 

“Yours is unemployed,” you reply, laughing under your breath. “These are single-seat jets.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, pouting like a three-year-old who just got told no. 

Your eyes flick instinctively to Bob—to the other WSO in the room who might have cause to be annoyed—but he’s not. He looks... entranced. Calm and focused. Brows pinched slightly, lips parted, eyes locked. Like he’s hanging on your every word. 

You clear your throat and turn back to the screen. “You already know how to fly. I’m just here to make sure you don’t fly this like you fly your Rhinos. The rules are different. The feel is different. And the margin for error is a hell of a lot thinner.” 

You swipe on your tablet and the diagram shifts to a wireframe helmet interface. 

“Helmet display system, full 360º situational awareness. You don’t need to flip switches anymore—you think, and it’s there. Feels like a video game... until it doesn’t. You screw up in here, and the jet doesn’t just let you know—it makes sure you remember.” 

You glance up—and have to fight the smile rising at how focused they all are. Every one of them watching you like you’re briefing them for an op. 

“We’ll run through some ground school and system orientation,” you say, “then you’ll hit the sim. I’ll be in the control room, and Mav will be breathing down my neck.” 

Maverick chuckles. “Only if you mess up.” 

“So I’ll be fine,” you reply smoothly, not even sparing him a glance. 

Laughter bubbles from the squad—oohs and chuckles layered over each other. But it’s Bob’s expression that makes your breath hitch. Wide-eyed. Pink-cheeked. Watching you like he’s trying to commit every second—every last detail—to memory. 

You blink, heat flaring in your neck, and glance toward the back of the room. “Questions? Comments? Unsolicited opinions?” 

“Yeah,” Jake pipes up. “You free after this?” 

Hondo snorts. “Sure. Right after she drops her standards by about ten thousand feet.” 

The room breaks into laughter as Jake rolls his eyes and flips Hondo the bird, sinking back in his seat. 

“Alright,” you say, laughter still lacing your voice as you reset the display. “Let’s start with a systems brief.” 

The squad moves in a slow wave, rising from their seats and shoulder-bumping their way to the tablets at the front of the room. But Bob hesitates, his gaze lingering on you a beat too long—warm, steady, and unblinking. It settles on your skin like a gentle pressure, like a whispered touch. You feel your cheeks flush and the hairs on the back of your neck rise. 

All from a look. 

God. Maybe you should listen to Maverick’s advice a little better. 

By the end of the day, your voice is hoarse and your cheeks are aching from smiling so hard. You shouldn’t be surprised, but they were easier to teach than you expected. Of course they were—they’re not idiots. They’re highly trained, elite naval aviators. And just because they’re your friends doesn’t mean they’d dare give you a hard time. At least, not in front of their CO. 

After Maverick asks a few questions—mostly about your training plan—he claps you on the back and dismisses the room. The squad filters out, calling their thanks as they go and muttering to each other about everything you just showed them. 

Bob stays behind, still planted in his seat, brows furrowed as he scrolls through something on his phone. It’s not unusual—he used to wait for you after class almost every day at the academy and during the FRS—but still, your heart kicks up just a little. 

“How’d I do?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder as you collect your papers. 

He looks up, a soft smile on his lips. “Amazing, actually.” 

You turn toward him, tilting your head. “You sound surprised.” 

“I am,” he admits. “You made all that tech-speak sound so... easy. No one would ever guess you used to stutter on t’s and p’s giving presentations back at the academy.” 

Your cheeks flush, eyes going wide as you let out a soft gasp—half scandalised, half amused. “Robert Floyd. How dare you bring that up.” 

He chuckles quietly, ducking his head. “Sorry. It was too easy.” Then he glances up again, dark blue eyes wide and sincere. “But really, you did great. I’m really p-p-proud of you.” 

“Dude!” you exclaim, staring at him in disbelief as he laughs a little harder. 

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face—especially not with the way Bob is laughing, shoulders curled, cheeks pink, and his smile lighting up his whole face with something stupidly charming. 

“I can’t believe you,” you say, hugging your notebook to your chest. “You’re going to blow my cover as a super cool, incredibly sexy fighter pilot.” 

He shrugs. “You can still be super cool and incredibly sexy with a stutter.” 

Your cheeks burn even hotter, and you quickly turn back to the desk looking for an excuse not to look at him—picking up a pen you’re pretty sure isn't yours. 

“Want to grab dinner?” he asks. 

When you turn back around, he’s standing—tall and adorable in the most infuriatingly delicious way. The kind of way that shouldn’t make your chest ache and your thighs clench... and yet, here you are. 

“Sounds good,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “What’re you thinking?” 

“Pizza?” 

You nod and move toward the door, stepping into the corridor ahead of him and starting down the hall. A brief stretch of quiet follows, broken only by the soft clunk of your boots against the vinyl floor—not awkward, just a little... tense. Or maybe that’s just you. Because for some reason, Bob smells especially good today. He looks especially good too—hair slightly tousled, cheeks pink, and brows drawn as he clearly gets caught up in whatever’s on his mind. 

Then he glances at you. “The other night—Friday night—at the bar...” 

You raise an eyebrow. “What about it?” 

“Did—” He pauses, breath hitching as he looks away. “Did you go home with him?” 

You stop walking. “With who?” 

He hesitates, stopping one step ahead before turning back to face you. “Hangman.” 

Your eyes go wide. “What the fuck? No.” 

“Oh,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “It’s just... Phoenix said—” 

“Phoenix is messing with you,” you cut in, brow furrowed. “Why the hell would I go home with Hangman?” 

He shrugs. “You two looked pretty friendly. I thought maybe—” 

“Okay, give me some credit,” you say flatly. “I do still value my dignity. And for the record—cocky isn’t really my type.” 

He glances at you, eyes curious beneath a gentle frown. “Then... what is your type?” 

You open your mouth, but hesitate. You know what you want to say—that it’s him. It’s always been him. But you can’t. Because you’re too damn chickenshit, even after all these years. Even with him looking at you like that.  

“I—I don’t know,” you mutter, starting to walk again. “But whatever it is, it isn’t Hangman.” 

There’s a short pause—only brief—before he mumbles, “Okay... good.” 

Good? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? 

The word bounces around in your head all evening. When you’re not talking to Bob about pizza toppings, tomorrow’s lesson plan, or whatever bizarre National Geographic doc he’s just watched, you’re thinking about that damn word. 

Good. 

It’s so maddeningly vague it practically echoes off your apartment walls the second you slam the door shut behind you. 

Good? 

Who does he think he is, trying to validate your taste in men? You don’t need his opinion. You don’t need his approval. You don’t need Bob Floyd acting like he gets a say in who you do or don’t go home with. 

Good. 

Seriously? The fucking audacity. Every time you think maybe—just maybe—Bob isn’t like other men, he says something infuriating like that. 

“Ugh,” you groan, throwing yourself face-first onto your bed. “Fucking good.” 

A minute later, your phone pings. You grope blindly across the duvet until your fingers close around it, then roll your head to the side, squinting at two notifications from Bob. 

BOB FLOYD 

📎 [Image attachment] 

‘Look what I found at the bottom of my drawer… those ridiculous Canada moose boxers.’ 

And there he fucking is. 

Standing in front of his bedroom mirror. Shirtless. Hair still damp from the shower. Wearing nothing but a sweet smile and those goddamn novelty boxers you bought him as a joke two Christmases ago—bright red, with tiny maple leaves and cartoon moose that say eh? across the waistband. 

Holy fuck. 

Your mouth goes dry. Your brain short-circuits. You can’t do anything but stare. Not even breathe. 

His body is glorious—which is something you’ve known, but never been intimate with. And holy shit, if you’re not about to get intimate with this fucking photo. 

He looks like some Greek god carved from alabaster. All smooth muscle and obvious strength, like he moonlights as a Michelangelo sculpture. 

It’s obscene. This photo is ridiculous. He has to know what he’s doing. Surely he’s not that naïve. 

And what the fuck are you supposed to reply with? 

You scramble upright, breathing hard, holding your phone so close to your face the screen fogs up and— 

Oh my God. You’ve got your fucking read receipts on. 

You need to do something. Say something—anything—before he realises what a complete creep you’re being just sitting here, staring at this photo. 

With trembling hands, you type the first thing that comes to mind: ‘Aw! Cute!’ 

“…Cute?” you repeat out loud, staring at your phone. 

A little notification pops up beneath your message. 

Read. Immediately. 

“Cute?!” you say again, more outraged now. “What’s fucking cute about that, you idiot?” 

You scroll up and tap the photo again—the one that is anything but cute. 

Your face is burning. Your brain is mush. You need help. Professional help. 

But first… 

You need an hour alone with your vibrator, eyes squeezed shut, and that image burned into the backs of your eyelids. 

- 

Bob doesn’t send you another photo of his moose boxers. 

The next morning, he just texts to ask if you want him to pick you up a coffee on his way into work—and you say yes. You don’t talk about the photo. Or the boxers. At all. 

But you can’t stop thinking about it. 

You can’t even look at him without picturing those ridiculous boxers and that even more ridiculous bulge—which only gets more obvious the more times you go back to check the photo. You’re honestly thinking about just saving it to your camera roll. Because what if you accidentally double-tap and react to it? You should’ve just done that at the start—but no. No, you said ‘Aw! Cute!’ like some proud mother seeing her son in his soccer jersey for the first time. 

And of course, you and Bob talk every day, so the thread just keeps moving on—but you’re not. You have to scroll all the way back up every time. Then he sends something else and it jumps to the bottom, which means you have to start all over again. 

Honestly, it’s getting a bit ridiculous. You were staring at it the other day in the middle of the goddamn mess hall, like some depraved freak. 

Or maybe you’re just deprived. Maybe you just need to get laid so you can stop ogling your best friend like he’s the finest cut of perfectly cooked steak and you haven’t eaten in a week. 

“Lucky?” Hondo says, interrupting your spiralling thoughts with a quirked brow. “You good?” 

You shake your head, blinking until the data feeds in front of you snap back into focus. 

“Shit, sorry,” you mutter, clearing your throat. 

You hit a few buttons and flip the comms switch. 

“Rooster,” you say, eyes on the external visuals of Bradley’s current sim mission. “Radar contacts at three and seven o’clock. Engage with BVR missiles on my mark. Weapons hot?” 

“Weapons hot, Lucky,” he responds. “AIM-120 locked on three o’clock target.” 

Your gaze flicks to the instrument panel and HUD feed—seeing what he’s seeing. 

“And try not to light up the whole sky this time,” Mav cuts in dryly—his professionalism fading as the day drags on. “Last sim, you nearly cooked Hondo’s coffee with that missile launch.” 

Hondo chuckles. “That was a precision strike. Coffee was inferior.” 

“Copy that, Mav,” Rooster replies, grin audible. “Engaging now. Fox-three.” 

Your eyes bounce between the radar, sensor data, and pilot input feedback, tracking his procedure. Then the simulated missile launch sound fills your headset. 

“Target’s going down,” you say. “Good shot, Rooster. Keep it tight—bandits are manoeuvring fast. Radar lock at five o’clock. High-G turn recommended.” 

“Got it. Pulling seven Gs. Lining up for a guns pass.” 

“Hope you’re smoother than your last attempt,” Mav says. “Remember, trigger discipline.” 

Bradley chuckles. “Roger that. I’m a professional… mostly.” 

Maverick laughs too, lounging back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying not being the one in charge. You roll your eyes and refocus on the data feeds, watching as Bradley successfully finishes the sim. 

“All targets neutralised. Nice run, Rooster.” 

“What was my time?” he asks eagerly. 

“You’ll find out in Monday’s debrief,” you reply. 

“Did I beat Hangman?” 

You roll your eyes. “Sim complete. Control out.” 

You cut the comms and turn to Maverick. “Want to call it a day?” 

He sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It is Friday. We could give them a choice.” 

You arch a brow, silently asking him to elaborate. 

“Go home or let the back-seaters have a go in the hot seat.” 

Your lips curl into a smirk. “Oh, I think I know what the answer is going to be.” 

Ten minutes later, after Hondo retrieves the rest of the squad from the debrief room, Mickey is seated in the pilot’s seat and the others are crammed into the control booth behind you. The excitement is palpable—everyone watching the data feeds with a mix of curiosity and anticipation. 

“Alright, Fanboy,” you say through the control mic, flipping a few switches on your console. “You’re up.” 

“What’s the scenario?” he asks, adjusting the straps like they might protect him from what’s coming. 

“Nothing fancy,” you reply. “Just a soft sim. Basic intercept, two bogeys, no weapons fire. You’re just flying the pattern.” 

“So… a baby sim?” 

“Basically. You’ll be fine.” 

There’s a beat of silence. 

“Which one is go?” he asks, pointing vaguely at the throttle quadrant. 

You slap your forehead. “You’re joking, right?” 

“I’m not a pilot,” he says, almost offended. “My job is to press the red button and whisper sweet nothings to the radar.” 

“That explains so much,” you sigh, rolling your eyes. “It’s the throttle. Left side. The big one.” 

“Oh. Sure. Of course. Totally knew that.” 

He moves it gingerly, like it might explode—and the sim lurches forward, making him let out a sound that’s way too close to a yelp. 

From behind you, Reuben cackles. “Dude’s gonna crash before he clears the runway.” 

“Shut up!” Fanboy shouts from inside the cockpit. “I am a majestic flying machine.” 

You snort. “You are a danger to national security.” 

“Luckyyy,” he whines, tipping his head back against the seat. “Help me. I’m in a metal coffin and I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

You sigh—loudly—and get up, grabbing your headset as you move out of the control booth. 

“I’m coming in,” you mutter. 

You swing the cockpit open and climb inside like you’ve done a thousand times before, stepping up beside him. 

“Okay,” you say, leaning forward. “Feet off the pedals. Hands off everything. Just look at what I’m doing.” 

“Yes, sir,” he says with a little salute. “Watching and learning.” 

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “You’re lucky I like you.” 

“I know,” he says, grinning now. 

You flip the right switches, get him levelled, and the sim steadies out. 

He exhales. “Okay. Okay. I’m flying. Right?” 

“You’re flying,” you say. “Barely. But still.” 

He glances up at you. “Am I your worst student ever?” 

“Top three,” you say sweetly. “But I have faith. Now throttle up. We’ve got some baby bogeys to chase.” 

Mickey grips the controls for dear life, knuckles turning white. The sim jerks forward awkwardly as he pushes the throttle, and you can practically hear the panic rising in his voice. “Uh… okay. I think I’m moving? Maybe?” 

You step closer, trying not to crack a smile. “Just keep it steady. You’re flying a jet, not trying to take off in a rocket.” 

He leans forward, squinting at the instruments. “Which one’s the afterburner? The big red button?” 

“Don’t touch the big red button,” you snap, slapping his hand away. “Just keep the nose up. Remember your basic turns—left, right, not a nosedive.” 

The sim bucks suddenly. 

“Oh no! No, no, no!” he exclaims, eyes wide and face pale. 

You bite back a grin, keeping your voice steady. “Relax. You’re doing fine. Just… don’t crash.” 

But it’s too late. 

The simulated alarms start blaring and the screen flashes red: Warning! Critical altitude! 

“Fuck! Uh, do I pull up? Or…” 

“You eject,” you say dryly. 

“Eject?!” Mickey’s voice cracks as he looks frantically across the controls. “How do I do that?” 

You point at the eject handle. “That thing right there. Pull it now before you break the simulator.” 

With a loud mechanical whoosh, the sim jolts violently as Mickey’s ‘ejection’ sequence initiates. 

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Well, that was impressive. The quickest crash I’ve ever seen. But hey—points for dramatic exit.” 

Mickey groans, covering his face with his hands. “Can we try again? But with less dying?” 

You pat his shoulder. “Maybe next week. I think you need a little more ground school.” 

He sighs and stands up, hanging his head as he exits the cockpit. You can only imagine the scene waiting for him in the control booth, a small part of you actually feeling a little sorry for him. Because if these pilots are anything, it’s cocky—and the last thing they need is someone, especially a squadmate, proving that what they do is kind of legendary. 

“Alright, Floyd,” you say into your headset, feeling heat curl behind your ribs. “You’re up.” 

A few minutes later, Bob climbs into the cockpit, adjusting his headset as he awkwardly manoeuvres into the pilot’s seat.  

“Do you want me in or out?” you ask, trying not to sound like you want to stay in the cramped space with him. 

His eyes are wide as they scan the control panel. “Uh, in. Please. If that’s okay.” 

You nod, biting your bottom lip to hide a stupid grin. “Of course.” 

He settles in, straps up, and lets his hands hover hesitantly over the controls. 

“Mav,” you say, “is the sim reset?” 

“Confirming sim reset. You’re good to go,” he replies. 

“Okay, Bobby.” You lean in beside him, ignoring how his warmth wraps around you—his scent filling your nose and making your head spin. “You ready?” 

He nods, jaw tight, eyes locked on the instruments in front of him. 

“Alright, relax. You’ve got this,” you mutter, shifting just a little bit closer. “Feet on the pedals. Throttle up slowly.” 

He moves cautiously, brows drawn, and the sim lurches forward—but not violently—before steadying under his grip. 

“See,” you say with a soft smile. “Already doing better than Fanboy.” 

He chuckles quietly, almost breathless. 

“Now keep her steady.” 

“Trying,” he mutters, eyes flicking between the HUD and display screens like he’s done this a hundred times—except for the white-knuckled grip giving him away. “This is a lot harder in practice.” 

You laugh softly. “This is the fun part.” 

He exhales hard through his nose, adjusting his grip. “Are they supposed to be this sensitive?” 

“They’re not sensitive. You’re just heavy-handed,” you say, nudging his wrist lightly. “Small movements. Gentle.” 

He hums like he’s not sure he believes you, but follows the instruction anyway. 

You lean a little closer, pointing to a flashing radar contact. “You’ve got one on your left—easy turn, then line up a missile lock.” 

Bob squints at the data, then at you. “Define easy.” 

“You know, not what Fanboy did.” 

He huffs another quiet laugh, fingers moving more confidently now as he banks slightly left and steadies his line. 

“There we go,” you say. “See? Not so bad.” 

His eyes flick toward you, only for a second. “Only ‘cause you’re here.” 

You glance at him—but his focus is already back on the screens, tongue caught between his lips in concentration. Your heart thuds a little harder, breath catching as the cockpit suddenly feels a whole lot smaller. 

You’re crouched beside him—arm pressed against his, knee nudging his thigh—and all you can think about is that goddamn image of him in those stupid little boxers and everything it did to your insides. 

If it weren’t for the cameras, live feeds, and multi-million-dollar equipment in here, you might be seriously considering jumping his bones right now. 

“Uh, Lucky,” Bob says, clearing his throat. “Noise.” 

You shake your head, refocusing. “Alright, you’ve got tone. Fire.” 

“Fox three,” he says, flicking the switch—and the target explodes a beat later. 

You grin. “Nice shot.” 

He looks over at you again, eyes wide and shining, cheeks pink, and chest rising a little too quickly. “What’s next?” 

“Bring her around. Evasive manoeuvre. You’ve got a bogey on your six.” 

He shifts quickly, throttle pulling back. 

“Flaps down. Come into a right bank,” you instruct, watching him move a little smoother this time. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says under his breath, completely focused. 

It shouldn’t make your pulse spike. Or have you shifting your weight, pressing your thighs together, suddenly too aware of your own skin. It shouldn’t mean a damn thing. 

Yet those few words, coming out of his mouth, tighten that knot behind your hipbones until it aches. 

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter. 

“What?” he snaps, panic lacing his tone. 

“No—Nothing. Just pull up five degrees, you’re drifting.” 

He does so without hesitation. 

Your eyes flick across the data feeds, checking everything like it’s second nature—because for you, it is. It’s as easy as breathing. 

“I’m impressed, Floyd,” you say, offering a small smile. “With a little more practice, you could probably swap seats with Phoenix.” 

Natasha’s voice crackles in your headset a second later: “No way he’d be flying this well without his lucky charm. So unless you’re planning to ride on his lap, I think I’ll stay on the stick.” 

Bob’s eyes go wide, and the sim shudders as he struggles to maintain control. An alarm blares, but you’re already moving, one hand wrapping around his to keep the sim steady—and avoid another Mickey-style disaster. 

“You told them?” he asks, not angry—just flustered. 

You glance sideways at him, still holding steady, a sheepish smile pulling at your lips. “Phoenix saw my name in your phone. She guessed.” 

He shuts his eyes with a sigh, cheeks flushing. 

“Hey!” you nudge him with your knee. “Pilots don’t get to fly with their eyes closed. Focus.” 

He huffs a breath, straightening in his seat, brow furrowed again. “Right. Sorry. I got it.” 

“You sure?” 

He nods, firm, and you slowly let go, easing back into position beside him. 

The sim levels out, alarms silenced, radar clear—and Bob exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time. 

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s bring her in. Easy descent. Keep your nose up just a touch—perfect. Throttle back.” 

He moves with steady hands now, more confident than when he started, guiding the simulated jet toward the landing zone with practiced care. The wheels touch down on virtual tarmac, and the whole simulator gives a soft jolt before going still. 

The screen flashes: MISSION COMPLETE. 

You blink, a little stunned. “Holy shit.” 

Bob whips off the headset, hair mussed, cheeks flushed. “Did I actually—?” 

“That was amazing,” you say, grinning at him. “You nailed that.” 

He scrambles out of the seat, turning toward you, half-tripping over a strap—and— 

He falls forward. 

You try to dodge, but it’s no use. He crashes down on top of you, sending you flat onto your back on the simulator floor, your head knocking against something on the way down. 

“I—sorry—oh, God—” he stammers, eyes wide. 

He braces a hand on either side of your head, face hovering just inches above yours. 

“Are you okay? Your head—” 

Your giggles cut him off, laughter spilling out as you lay beneath him, one hand rubbing your head and the other caught somewhere on his waist. 

“I—I’m okay,” you manage, breathless and blushing, if slightly concussed. “Guess I’m a good luck charm and a crash mat.” 

He lets out a quiet, unsteady laugh, chest pressed flush to yours, breath ghosting over your cheek. 

“Phoenix is right, you know?” he says, voice soft. “I couldn’t have done it without you here.” 

Your laughter fades, breath catching. 

There’s a beat—just one long, tight heartbeat where he leans in, eyes darting between yours and your lips like he might actually do it. Like he’s about to close that distance. 

And then— 

The sim door yanks open with a loud clang. 

“BOBBY!” Mickey exclaims, his grin upside down from where you’re lying. “Oh, shit, are you two making out?” 

Bob scrambles to his feet, very awkwardly given the severe lack of space. “No! I wasn’t—I didn’t—” 

“Technically, he tackled me,” you say, sitting up and holding out a hand for Bob to help you. 

Once you’re both upright, you climb out of the sim and into the chaos of the squad, all cheering and clapping like he just landed an actual carrier op. 

“Hell yeah, Floyd!” Javy says, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. 

Reuben chuckles. “I thought you were gonna puke, but that was clean as hell!” 

Natasha smirks, arms folded as she steps up. “Guess that lucky charm really works.” 

You roll your eyes, trying to play it cool—but your skin is still humming, your heart still racing. And Bob? 

Bob won’t stop glancing your way. Because the mission might be over, but whatever just happened between you two is still very much mid-flight. 

After everything calms down, Maverick congratulates Bob on not crashing—giving Mickey a very pointed look—and dismisses the squad. They gather their things from the briefing room and file out slowly, leaving you to finish filing the post-sim report. 

“We’ll meet you outside?” Natasha asks, hesitating at the door. 

You nod. “Yep. Won’t be long.” 

“Good. We’re going to the bar to celebrate Bob’s success and Mickey’s disaster.” 

You snort softly, eyes dropping back to the tablet in your hand. “Sounds good.” 

Her footsteps fade down the hall, and you type through the report with quick, practiced fingers. 

Your heart still feels like it’s in your throat, beating too fast and too hard. Your cheeks are hot, your lungs are tight, and you swear you can still feel every inch of where Bob’s body had been pressed against yours. And God—it was a lot. 

If you’re honest, you don’t really want to go to the bar. Not just because you’re there too often already—but because you’d rather go home and get off to that stupid picture of Bob in his moose boxers while thinking about his body on top of yours. 

You shake your head, exhale hard, and tap ‘submit’ on the report. Then you tuck the tablet into your bag, throw it over your shoulder, and flick the lights off on your way out. 

The corridor is dim, lit only by the glow of late-evening sun spilling through the high windows, washing the vinyl floor in hazy orange. You can hear chatter up ahead—probably the squad, waiting—and you pick up your pace. 

But then you hear your name. Not your callsign—your name. 

“As in Lucky?” a voice says, incredulous. “She flies F-35s now?” 

“Yeah,” Bob replies, his voice unmistakable. “She’s really good. A great teacher, too. She—” 

“She’s fucking hot,” the other guy interrupts. 

You frown, slowing your steps as you edge closer to the wall. The voice is familiar—but you just can’t place it. 

“I was always jealous of you, man,” the guy says. “Back in flight school you and her were close. And at the FRS. Don’t tell me nothing ever happened.” 

“No,” Bob says quickly. “We’re just friends.” 

“Shame. Still hot though, right?” 

“Um... I guess.” Bob’s voice tightens—strained and uncomfortable. 

“C’mon, man, relax. She’s a smoke show.” 

There’s a brief pause. Then Bob clears his throat. 

“I don’t really like talking about people that way. Especially not her.” 

“What, you’re not into her?” 

“She’s my friend,” Bob says, like that answers everything. 

“Not what I asked,” the guy chuckles. “You into her or not? Because I’m not stepping on your toes, but if she’s fair game—” 

Your heart thuds, heavy and fast, caught high in your throat. 

“No,” Bob says. “I’m not into her. She’s a friend. I wouldn’t go there.” 

That stings—but what comes next carves the breath right out of your lungs. 

“She’s too intense,” he says, a sharp edge to his voice. “She’s reckless, and she can be selfish. She—She's not worth the trouble. There’s too much baggage.” 

Your stomach drops. Hard. 

Each word hits you square in the chest, knocking you breathless. Your head swims. Your vision blurs—not just from tears, but from that unmoored, disoriented rush that hits when the floor drops out from under you. 

“Who cares about baggage?” the guy asks with a low laugh. “As long as she’s not selfish in bed—” 

You turn fast, bracing a hand against the wall to steady yourself. You can’t listen anymore. 

Tears fall freely now, and you don’t even care. You walk—back the other way, toward the far door, away from the voices. Away from him. You’ll take the long way around base if you have to. It doesn’t matter. You just need to get home. 

Your ears ring. Your skin prickles. The sting in your eyes sharpens into something meaner, hotter—like your tears are trying to scald their way out. 

His voice replays in your head, cold and clinical, like you’re a job hazard or some inconvenient mess he has to manage. Not worth the trouble? Too intense? Baggage? 

Fuck. That. 

Your hands are fists before you even realise it, nails biting your palms, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. He doesn’t get to talk about you like that. Not after everything. Not like you’re just some reckless, selfish… thing. 

Not when he knows you. Not when he was just hovering over you, whispering soft words, looking at you like maybe you meant something. 

The heat builds behind your ribs, under your skin, in the back of your throat. You want to yell. To throw something. To go back and make him say it to your face. But you don’t. 

You wipe your cheeks with the heel of your hand, set your shoulders, and walk faster—like you’re chasing down a storm, or maybe just trying to outrun it. 

- 

That night, your phone doesn’t stop. Messages pour in from the squad—asking where you are, if you’re okay, when you’re coming to the bar. Bob even calls. Four times. But you don’t answer. Instead, you send a single text to the group chat saying you felt sick and had to go home. Technically, not a lie. 

You barely sleep. You toss and turn for hours, drafting messages you’ll never send and crying into your pillow until you’re too exhausted to cry anymore. By four a.m., you give up. You pull on your gym clothes, lace up your sneakers, and run to the beach like you’re trying to outrun years of friendship. 

You spend the whole weekend in self-imposed exile, licking your wounds like a cornered animal. No music. No TV. No calls. You just want to sit in it—the heartbreak, the fury, the raw, awful ache of it all—because for once, you don’t want to get over it. 

Because it was Bob. 

Bob Floyd, who’s been sweet and steady and quietly wonderful since the day you first met him—always looking at you like you’re the only thing that really matters. He knows you, sometimes even better than you know yourself. 

Or at least, you thought he did. And maybe that’s what hurts the most. 

Because you’ve loved him, in one way or another, for a long time. And now he’s the one who broke your heart. 

Sweet, considerate, doe-eyed Bob Floyd. 

Fuck that guy. 

By Monday morning, you’re feeling a lot less dramatic and a lot more focused on work. You just want to get this little program done, get the squad up to date with fifth-gens, and then you can go about avoiding Bob Floyd until one of you inevitably gets restationed. But until then, you have to at least be civil. You don’t have a choice. 

The squad is already half-settled when you walk into the briefing room, just a couple of minutes late—intentionally. If you arrived any earlier, someone might’ve tried to talk to you. Joke around. Ask where you’ve been. And you’re not really in the mood for chit-chat. 

So you walk in with a neutral expression, eyes trained forward, coffee in one hand and tablet in the other. 

From the corner of your eye, you can see Bob sitting in his usual spot at the front, hands folded tight in his lap. He glances up the second the door opens—and breathes. It’s so visible it’s almost a shudder, like he’s been holding it in all weekend. 

“Oh, she’s alive,” Jake says, elbowing Javy beside him. 

You don’t answer. You just keep walking until you reach the desk, setting your coffee down before turning to face the room. 

“Let’s talk about Friday,” you say, tapping your tablet to wake it up. “Three out of five of you got tagged within the first five minutes of simulated contact. That’s a problem.” 

There’s a long beat of silence. A few glances are exchanged, but no one calls attention to the fact that you’re clearly skipping over the usual ‘good morning’ or any of the soft lead-ins you normally give. No one dares. 

Bob’s eyes stay locked on you, his brow drawn in quiet worry. He doesn’t look away all morning. Not once. 

And you don’t look at him at all. 

After going through BVR refresh and radar discipline, you give Maverick a nod and he calls lunch. You keep your head down, eyes on your tablet, fussing with it as the soft shuffle of feet out the door fills the room. 

Maverick walks up to you, says something about a meeting he’s being forced to attend this afternoon, and you give him a nod. Then he walks out and the room goes quiet. Until— 

“Hey,” Bob mutters, still sitting in his seat. 

You turn your back on him, placing your tablet on the desk and picking up your phone. “Hi.” 

“That thing work?” he asks. 

“What thing?” 

“Your phone.” 

“Oh,” you say flatly. “Funny.” 

Silence stretches between you—thick and heavy—full of words left unsaid, and a few that never should’ve been heard. 

“So,” he finally says, pushing to stand, “you feeling okay?” 

“Yeah,” you mutter, opening your email like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “Just an upset stomach. I’m fine now.” 

“Really?” he presses, stepping closer. 

You sigh heavily and look up—not at him, just at the back of the room. “Really, Bob. I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t answer your calls, I felt like shit. Just wanted to sleep and watch movies.” 

“What’d you watch?” 

“Back to the Future,” you say—too quickly, without thinking. 

And shit. Why would you admit to spending the whole weekend watching one of his favourite movies? 

“Without me?” he asks, full of mock-offense. 

Your lips twitch, and you hate that they do. So you take a deep, steadying breath and turn to face him—eyes locking with his, your expression dangerously neutral. 

“Do you need something?” 

He frowns. “What do you—” 

“Like do you have a question about what we just debriefed or...?” 

“Oh.” He blinks. “Um, no.” 

You nod. “Okay, good. Then you should go to lunch.” 

He stares at you for a moment, eyes darting across your face, trying to decode what you’re very carefully hiding. But he can’t, because you’ve been perfecting this cool, practiced nonchalance for the past forty-eight hours and you know you have it down pat. 

“Okay,” he mutters. “Lunch. Are—Are you coming too?” 

You shake your head and turn back to the desk. “No, sorry. I’m going to be selfish and spend my break reviewing the sim footage I didn’t get to over the weekend.” 

“That’s not—” he hesitates, clearly confused. “That’s not selfish.” 

You whip back around, brows raised. “Isn’t it?” 

There’s another beat—just a brief pause where he looks at you like you’re suddenly some complete stranger. 

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice soft. 

You nod once. “Yep.” 

Then you turn around, step behind the desk, and drop into the chair, opening your tablet. He stands there for a moment longer, watching you with a furrowed brow, eyes narrowed. But you don’t look at him. You just start pulling up the footage and flipping open your notebook. 

Eventually, he leaves, but not without casting one last glance over his shoulder—looking like a damn kicked puppy. 

You sit in the briefing room trying to focus on sim footage until ten minutes before the end of lunch. Then you sigh, stretch out your limbs, and start packing up your things for the afternoon’s training. You’re halfway to the sim building when your phone buzzes with a text from Maverick: 

‘Hondo got pulled into this meeting. Use the WSOs in the booth.’ 

Great. More time with Bob. And this time, the room’s even smaller. 

With another heavy sigh, you continue making your way toward the building—dragging your feet through hallways and up the stairs until you reach the tech staff for the usual system readiness checks. Once everything’s good to go, you sign on as controller and head into the prep room where the squad is waiting. 

“No time to waste,” you say, skipping any kind of greeting. “Hangman, you’re up first. Bob, Fanboy—you’re in the booth with me. Let’s move. 

Then you turn and walk out, the only sign they’re following you the quiet shuffle of boots behind you. 

You get Jake set up in the sim, then slip into the control booth, taking the farthest seat and pulling your headset on without a word. Mickey settles hesitantly beside you, and Bob takes the last seat—now one person too far away to read whatever expression is on your face. 

“I’ll handle comms,” you say without looking up. “Monitor the readouts, call out any anomalies. Stay focused, watch what I do, and you can run one of the later sessions.” 

“Copy,” Mickey replies. 

“Copy,” Bob mutters. 

You can feel his eyes on you, boring into the side of your face. He’s leaning forward—very unsubtly—watching you with a creased brow as Mickey pretends not to notice the suffocating tension in the booth. 

“Hangman, you ready?” 

“When you are, boss.” 

You tap the screen, starting the sequence. “Simulation beginning. Weapons hot in thirty seconds.” 

Your eyes stay locked on the data feeds, one hand adjusting the sim’s tracking overlay, the other scribbling notes into your tablet. Everything is running clean—Jake’s flying sharp, you’re locked in, and for a moment, it almost feels easy. Peaceful. 

But still, you feel Bob’s gaze. Heavy. Relentless. You don’t look at him, but you know he’s watching—trying to read between your words, between your silences, between the way you didn’t so much as glance in his direction when you walked in. 

“Hangman, confirm radar lock,” you say, fingers flying over the controls with practiced ease. 

“Confirmed. Two-band lock at forty-five miles. Tracking steady.” 

“Maintain altitude for another thirty seconds, then begin a slow descent to angels eighteen. Push to intercept on bandit two.” 

“Copy that. Repositioning.” 

A beat later, Mickey pipes up, “Hey, I’m seeing a drift on the right bank—check pitch trim, two percent off.” 

“Good catch,” you say, glancing at the readout to confirm. “Hangman, adjust pitch trim two percent to port. You’re drifting wide.” 

“On it. Thanks, Fanboy.” 

You glance over at Mickey, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Nice eyes.” 

He throws you a cheeky wink before turning back to the screen. You try not to look at Bob—but you can’t help it. His cheeks are redder now, his eyes wider, and he looks… indignant. 

After Jake, Javy jumps in the sim, then Bradley, then Reuben—and for him, you have Mickey run the comms. They work well together, and you only have to jump in once or twice to adjust an instruction. 

Then finally, it’s Natasha’s turn. 

“Bob, comms are yours,” you say. “Mickey, stay on readouts.” 

Bob hesitates just a fraction too long before replying, “Copy.” 

Once Natasha is strapped in and the system’s reloaded, you settle back in your chair beside Mickey. Bob shifts awkwardly two seats down, headset on, posture a little too tight to be comfortable. 

“Pilot ready?” you ask. 

He glances at his monitor. “Ready.” 

You nod. “Run it.” 

The sim lights up again, and Natasha’s voice crackles through the speakers—calm and clipped as she begins her sequence. 

You fold your arms across your chest, eyes on the screen—eyes on Bob. He’s steady at first, brow furrowed in concentration, tongue caught between his lips as he tries to remember the training. But you can feel it—the edge in him. Every call he makes lands a half-second late. Every glance your way lingers too long. 

He’s nervous. And you almost feel bad. Almost. 

But then those words ring through your head—and if he’s going to call you intense like it’s a bad thing, then fine. You’ll stare at him—intensely—until he either screws up or helps Natasha fly this sim clean. 

Your gaze flicks to a warning light, brow furrowing as you sit up straighter. 

“She’s pulling too hard,” Bob says. “She should dump speed before—” 

“That’s not going to cut it in the F-35,” you cut in. “You’ve got to lead the roll differently. Weight’s distributed rearward—she floats differently.” Then you glance at him, eyes narrowed. “You know… all that baggage.” 

There’s a beat of silence. Bob shifts. His eyes flick between you and the screen, nerves creeping higher. 

“We’ll adjust the parameters,” you say, turning back to the screen. 

Your hands move across the controls as you focus on Natasha, reassuring her that she’s flying fine. Bob tries to refocus too—to keep his eyes on the feed and talk her through the next manoeuvre. 

But he can’t. His gaze keeps drifting—toward you, confusion drawn tight across his brow. 

You can see the frustration rising. He doesn’t get it. 

But he knows something’s wrong. 

- Bob - 

After Natasha’s successful sim, you give the squad a quick debrief before mumbling something about catching Maverick before he heads home. Bob wants to stop you—to say something, anything, just to get you to talk to him—but you don’t give him the chance. You slip out while he’s stuck in conversation with Reuben and Mickey, too polite to cut them off. 

Eventually, everyone leaves the debrief room and starts walking across base—to their cars, the barracks, or in Javy’s case, the pharmacy, because he’s now convinced he got mono from the girl he hooked up with over the weekend. 

“Coyote, if you go to medical one more time this month, they’re going to assign you your own parking spot,” Natasha says, watching him split away from the group. 

“My lymph nodes are, like, throbbing, dude,” Javy replies. “It’s definitely mono.” 

Jake snorts. “Or maybe it’s rabies and you’re on the countdown clock. We’ve got—what—forty-eight hours till you start foaming at the mouth?” 

“My bet’s on mono,” Reuben says. “That girl was way too hot to have rabies.” 

“Exactly!” Javy calls, now walking backwards. “And I’m exhausted. It’s definitely mono.” 

“You’re always exhausted,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes. 

“That’s ‘cause his standards are low and his stamina’s even lower,” Natasha mutters with a smirk. 

“What was that, Phoenix?” Javy asks, already halfway down the path. 

“Nothing!” she calls back. “Good luck! Maybe you’ll finally get that cute receptionist’s number!” 

The group laughs, because everyone knows Javy has been trying—and failing—for months to get her number. 

“Doubt it,” Jake says, veering off toward the parking lot. “Dude’s got no game.” 

One by one, they all drop off—until it’s just Bob and Natasha. The two of them walk in silence for a few minutes. An easy, companionable kind of quiet while Bob loses himself in his own gnawing thoughts. 

“Okay,” Natasha says, stopping suddenly. “What’s wrong? You look like someone just cancelled Christmas.” 

Bob glances up. “Hm?” 

“Don’t hm me,” she says, propping a hand on her hip. “You’ve been weird all day. What’s going on?” 

“I don’t know, I just—” 

“Is this about Lucky?” 

His stomach drops, nausea creeping up his throat until he’s pretty sure he can taste what he ate for lunch. He hesitates, meeting Natasha’s stare—keen eyes narrowed, brows raised. She’s not letting up anytime soon, so he might as well spill. 

He sighs. “Yeah. Don’t you think she’s acting… off?” 

Nat shrugs. “Maybe. A little. But everyone’s allowed to have a bad day. What makes you think it’s personal?” 

“She ignored me all weekend, and she hasn’t smiled at me once today.” 

Natasha rolls her eyes. “So? She doesn’t owe you a smile every day, Floyd. And she said she was sick. Maybe something happened that you don’t know about.” 

“But she tells me everything,” he mutters. 

“Oh my God,” Natasha groans. “You sound so entitled right now. Just because you’ve been friends forever doesn’t mean she owes you constant access. If she’s having a hard time, maybe stop thinking about yourself and just give her some space.” 

Bob knows she’s right—at least partly. But he also knows you, and whatever this is, it isn’t just a bad day. 

“Fine,” he mumbles. “Space. Got it.” 

“Good.” She nods. “And then when things go back to normal, you two can go back to pretending you’re not stupidly in love with each other.” 

Bob’s breath hitches. His heart kicks in his chest, stuttering into an uneven rhythm as he looks at her, eyes wide. 

She meets his gaze, unflinching—smug and all too knowing. 

“Please,” she says with a laugh. “It’s so obvious. Don’t even try to deny it.” 

He doesn’t. He can’t. His thoughts are spiralling too fast to land anywhere solid. 

He’s not stupid—he knows he’s in love with you. But the idea of you being in love with him? That feels impossible. 

You’re so passionate, so driven—maybe a little intense, but that’s what makes people follow you. It’s why he trusts you with his life. And, sure, you’re reckless sometimes, but never thoughtless. You lead with your whole heart, and Bob wouldn’t be who he is today without you. 

He knows you—your stories, your scars. He’s kept your secrets, walked with you through fire. Everything you carry—all the history, the experience, the baggage—you’ve never carried it alone. 

He’s been carrying it too. Willingly. 

Because you’ve always been the brightest thing in his life. And that’s exactly why he can’t imagine a world where someone like you could ever love someone like him. 

“Have you stopped breathing?” Natasha asks, brows drawn. 

Bob clears his throat, blinking until his vision refocuses. “Yeah—um, no. I’m okay.” 

She narrows her eyes. “You sure? You look pale.” 

“I am pale,” he says dryly, eyes dropping to his boots. 

She snorts softly as they keep walking, heading in the general direction of the base’s front offices. 

“You coming this weekend?” she asks after a beat. 

Bob frowns. “Where?” 

“Hangman’s birthday.” 

Right. Jake’s birthday party. At a club. Not exactly Bob’s scene. 

“I don’t know, it—” 

“You can’t bail just because you hate clubbing,” she cuts in. “It’s not just another weekend—it’s his birthday. You don’t have to drink, just show up for a couple hours.” 

Bob sighs, still watching his boots move with each step. He knows he’s going. He hates it, but he’ll go. He’s too polite, too well-raised—and Jake is his friend. 

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll come for a bit.” 

“Great,” Nat grins. “Then at least I’ll have you, if Lucky’s still in her mood.” She pauses, tipping her head thoughtfully. “That’s if she even comes.” 

After swinging by base office to pick up the squad mail—since Maverick was too busy today—Natasha drives Bob home. The car ride is quieter than usual, and Nat knows Bob is still trapped in his own head, but she doesn’t press. 

Once home, Bob goes through the usual motions. He strips off his uniform, showers, changes into sweats, and starts making himself dinner. The only step missing is the one where he usually gets off with your name on his lips. 

God, he knows it’s depraved, but he can’t help it. Especially now that you’re stationed on the same damn base. 

Well, except today. Today he can help it, because the guilt weighs heavier than usual. He knows something’s wrong—and he has a sinking feeling it’s something he did. He just can’t figure out what. 

His first thought was that stupid photo he sent—the one with him in moose boxers. He wishes he could say he had no clue what he was thinking, but God, he did. He was thinking that maybe you wouldn’t realise he was sending a damn thirst trap if it carried some other meaning. Some nostalgic, almost innocent meaning. Maybe you’d see it as a joke but still catch the way he was tensing—so fucking hard—in the mirror. Maybe there’d be a moment where he wasn’t just your best friend, but someone you could want for something more. 

“Fuck,” Bob mutters, pressing his forehead against the cold fridge door. “What is wrong with me?” 

Embarrassed doesn’t even begin to cover it. That photo was a lapse in judgment—a desperate Hangman move to get you to look at him differently. And God, did it backfire. 

Cute? You called him cute. 

He shakes his head. Sure, the boxers weren’t exactly sexy, but cute?! 

He wishes he could rewind and stop himself before he became that much of an idiot. But that’s just what you do to him. You make him stupid. That’s been the story since the day he first met you. 

Back at the academy, he was smitten—instantly, though shy at first, a little guarded. Until you wore him down. It didn’t take long before he was snorting at your stupid jokes, grinning like an idiot every time you caught his eye, and spending countless nights in the study hall with you and your secret snacks, sharing headphones. 

Then came flight school. Different tracks—him training as an NFO, you training to be a pilot—meant less time together. But still, you stayed close. You found ways to sneak off, to steal moments, naïvely planning futures that felt just within reach. 

Almost everyone assumed you were a thing, but whenever Bob corrected them, it turned into a whole different game. 

He got so sick of being asked for your number that he started making up ridiculous excuses. 

‘Sorry, she doesn’t have a phone.’ 

‘She only uses Morse code.’ 

‘Do you have any carrier pigeons?’ 

When you both deployed after the FRS, he felt almost relieved. Almost. Until he realised that with him halfway across the world, there was nothing but the relentless demands of military life standing between you and finding a boyfriend—or worse, a husband. 

But as fate would have it—or perhaps dumb luck—you both ended up stationed on North Island together. Single. Very single, as you’d told Jake before shutting him down completely. 

And God, Bob wants nothing more than to make you very un-single, very fucking attached to him. But he just can’t find the guts to do it—not when it might blow up in his face and ruin years of friendship, a bond so precious he’d do anything to protect it. 

If there’s even a bond left to protect. Because right now, Bob Floyd is pretty damn sure you hate him. For something he can’t even remember doing. 

The chime of the oven timer startles him out of his thoughts. He spins around, turns off the heat, grabs a dish towel, and carefully pulls the tray of lasagna out. He lets it cool while cueing up the next Nat Geo doc he’s been wanting to watch, making a little nest of pillows on the couch before settling in with the lasagna in his lap. 

He eats quickly, eyes flicking between the screen, his dinner, and his phone buzzing incessantly on the coffee table. He can tell it’s the group chat, but the messages are popping up too fast to follow. From what he can gather, you’re all talking about Jake’s birthday party. 

When he’s finished eating, he takes his plate to the kitchen, rinses it half-heartedly, and returns to the lounge. He grabs his phone off the table and flops forward onto the cushions, sprawled across the couch, propped up on his elbows as he scrolls through the chat. 

It’s mostly Jake and Javy arguing about their big birthday plans, broken up by Mickey and Reuben’s commentary, Natasha’s sharp little quips, and Bradley just reacting to every second message like he’s not even reading. 

And then... there’s you. 

It started when Nat made some snarky remark about Jake wearing a sparkly suit so no one forgets it’s his birthday. You replied with an innocent comment about not knowing what to wear, and Natasha—naturally—told you to send options. 

So you did. 

The first photo is a mirror selfie in a deep red satin slip dress that barely hits mid-thigh. The fabric clings to your hips and gapes at the chest—like it was designed to slip off a shoulder. One hand holds your phone, the other casually throwing up a peace sign, as if you’re not standing there wrapped in something that could pass for a napkin. 

Bob’s mouth goes dry. His eyes go wide. And he stares for just a little too long. 

The second photo isn’t a selfie—it’s been taken by someone else. Probably on the night you last wore the glittery silver dress. The flash is on and the image is a little blurry, catching you from behind, turning with a smile thrown over your shoulder. There’s a glimpse of thigh, the bare slope of your back, and a glint in your eye that knocks the air out of him. 

He exhales so hard it turns into a groan. With a slight wince, he shifts and adjusts his sweatpants, already regretting every choice that’s led him to this moment. 

The next one is back in the mirror. You’re leaning against your dresser—just out of frame, but Bob knows exactly what your room looks like. The dress is little, black, and absolutely criminal. It fits like sin and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. 

If Bob were standing, he’d need to sit down. But he’s already on the couch, lying down with his now painfully hard dick pressed into the cushions. How the hell do you do this to him with just a few photos? 

The last one is a close-up selfie in your bathroom mirror. The flash is on and you’re standing close, angling the camera low to catch the way the fabric dips between your breasts and hugs your waist like a secret. There’s hardly any of your face in frame—just the hint of a smirk. 

“God,” Bob growls, dropping his head—and his phone—as his hips begin to grind into the cushions. 

This is insane. You are dangerous. Surely you know what you’re doing. You can’t be that naïve. 

He almost hates that the whole squad is watching too—seeing you like this, picturing you in the ways Bob has been picturing you for years. 

With another low groan, he shifts onto his back and stares at the ceiling. After a moment, he shuts his eyes—and instead of pushing them away, he lets every perverted thought he’s ever had of you wash over him. 

Your body draped in that silky red dress. Your lips curled into that sinful little smirk. Your legs, on full display in those ridiculously short skirts. 

He pictures you as he slips his hand beneath his sweats, fingers wrapping around his painfully hard, leaking length—stroking once, then twice. His breath stutters. His free hand grips the cushion beside him, trying to ground himself as his hips lift ever so slightly, chasing more friction. 

He imagines you climbing into his lap, all warm skin and wicked intent, whispering some teasing little comment that sends blood rushing so hard through his body he thinks he might actually lose it. 

His cheeks burn and his heart races, desire and need building in his chest until it’s almost too hard to breathe. 

His breath catches when he pictures you arching into him—skin slick with sweat, hands tangled in his hair, whispering his name like a prayer. 

He ruts up into his hand again, faster this time, lips parted and eyes still shut tight. 

His movements grow faster. Rougher. Desperate. 

God, he knows he shouldn’t—he knows even now—but he can’t stop. 

He pictures your body beneath his—soft gasps filling the air, lips parted, eyes fluttering closed. His hands on your tits, your hips, your ass—anywhere he can reach. Everywhere. Branding you like you’re his to keep. And— 

His body seizes, muscles going tight as pleasure crashes over him in hot, dizzying waves. He spills into his sweats, hips still moving, rutting up and down, chasing the fading heat until all that’s left is a breathless ache. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, collapsing onto the cushions, skin flushed, heart hammering. 

He lies there for a few minutes—sticky and spent—as guilt creeps in... but so does a sharp, undeniable hunger for more. 

Eventually, the insistent buzzing of his phone cuts through the post-orgasm haze, and he reaches for it with his free hand, grabbing it from where it fell beside him on the couch. 

The group chat is still alive with a flood of inappropriate comments and ridiculous emojis from Mickey—all thanks to your photos. Everyone’s got an opinion on which dress you should wear, most leaning toward the last one with the low neckline. 

Then, at the bottom of the thread, Natasha’s name pops up again: ‘Bob, your opinion?’ 

Bob huffs a small, humourless laugh. Yeah. His opinion is painted on the inside of his fucking sweatpants. 

- You - 

You only agreed to go to Jake’s birthday because you were pretty sure Bob wouldn’t. 

Okay, that’s not the only reason—Jake’s your friend, and you’re not about to bail on his birthday just because you’re emotionally fragile. But knowing Bob probably wouldn’t show? Yeah, that made it a lot easier to say yes. 

Bob’s never enjoyed clubbing—not that you can blame him—but on top of that, it’s been a weird week. You’ve softened a little, but not much. You stopped shooting him scathing looks or cutting him off mid-sentence, but you’ve still been avoiding him 

You remembered how to laugh with the others—how to joke around—because the squad didn’t do anything wrong. They didn’t deserve to suffer just because Bob said the wrong thing and you’re too hurt to deal with it. 

But Bob? You refuse to be left alone with him. You don’t speak to him unless you absolutely have to. You don’t ask him questions. You don’t meet his gaze—no matter how many times he tries to catch yours. 

Not that he’s trying all that hard anymore. If anything, he seems… quiet. Sad. Distant in a way that twists something sharp in your chest. Like he’s pulling back. Giving you space. Like he’s trying not to upset you. 

And maybe that should make you feel better. Or worse. You’re not sure. 

Either way, you know it’s childish. The guilt’s been gnawing at you all week. But every time you start to feel too bad, you remember what he said. How he really sees you. The way he talked about you like you were a problem. Like you were too much. And then the guilt dies out. 

Because why should you feel bad when he’s the one who decided you were too intense? Too reckless? Just… baggage? 

He doesn’t care about you—not the way you care about him. He doesn’t even like you. Not really. 

You’re not even sure why he’s sulking so much. If he never really liked you, why does it matter? 

“Holy shit, Lucky,” Jake drawls the second you step out of the cab. “All this for me?” 

The dress you settled on isn’t tight, but it moves like liquid when you walk—clinging here, skimming there, draping in all the right places. It’s black, sleek, and cut low at the front, dipping between your breasts just enough to make anyone looking forget what they were saying. 

The fabric is soft and slinky, catching the light in subtle waves as it shifts around your body. The hem flirts with the tops of your thighs—high enough to turn heads, low enough to play innocent if you really wanted to. There’s a slit up one side, just enough to show off a teasing flash of leg when you walk—or more, if you’re not careful. Paired with your favourite boots and a gold choker around your neck, the whole look whispers danger and dares someone to ask what you’re doing later. 

“Not just for you, Seresin,” you smirk. “But since it’s your birthday, I’ll let you look all you want.” 

You step up and give him a hug, mumbling ‘Happy Birthday’ against his chest as his hand drops just a little lower than it should. 

“You look fucking hot,” Nat says when you turn to her. 

“All for you, baby.” 

She grins. “I knew you’d be mine tonight. Wanna get out of here?” 

“Show me the way.” 

You both start giggling, linking hands as you make your way down the little footpath toward the club’s front entrance. 

“Wait, nobody move,” Mickey calls from behind. “If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.” 

There’s a soft thump, followed by a little whine—probably Reuben or Bradley smacking him over the head. 

“We couldn’t all fit in the cab,” Nat says. “So Bob’s picking up Coyote. Might be a little late, though.” 

Your heart stutters. “Bob—Bob’s coming?” 

She nods, brow furrowing. “Of course. It’s Hangman's birthday.” 

“Oh.” You swallow hard, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of skin—which is a lot—on display. “Cool. Cool. That’s cool.” 

“Is it?” she asks, laughter creeping into her voice. 

You give her a tight smile and nod a little too quickly—not at all panicked. 

“Oh, boy,” she sighs, slowing to a stop in front of the club doors. “This is going to be a fun night.” 

The club is busy, but not overcrowded. There are two bars and two dancefloors, one on either side of an open-roof courtyard scattered with tall bar tables and several large booths along the back wall. Out here, the music isn’t too loud—which must be the point. 

Javy has managed to reserve one of the booths for the squad, while the rest of Jake’s friends—who make up most of the bar crowd—hover around the high tables, some already drifting onto the dancefloors. It’s not early, but it’s not quite late either. The DJs—one for each floor—haven’t started dropping bangers yet, but from the vibe so far, it’s clear this place gets wild. 

“My first birthday request,” Jake says as you all settle into the booth, “is a round of shots. No pussies.” 

There’s a round of laughter, a groan from Natasha, and a cheer from Mickey. You, meanwhile, are more than happy to get some liquid courage into your system as soon as possible. Ideally, you’ll be halfway to shit-faced by the time Bob shows up—just enough to shut your goddamn nerves up. 

A few minutes later, Jake returns with a tray of tiny glasses, each filled with that golden liquid you know is going to burn. Jake Seresin and his fucking Fireball. 

“To Bagman,” Natasha says, raising her shot. 

Everyone follows. “To Bagman!” 

You wince as the cinnamon heat scorches down your throat, hitting your empty stomach like a lick of flame. Jake slams his glass down with a grin, Mickey gags, Reuben grimaces, and Bradley and Natasha sink their liquor with concerningly straight faces. 

Bradley disappears then to get the first round of proper drinks while Jake launches into a story about his wild thirtieth—offering more detail than anyone asked for, and definitely more than anyone needed. 

You laugh along with the others, chiming in here and there, but your eyes keep drifting to the door. Every time it swings open, your heart gives a stupid little jolt—only to sink again when it’s not him. 

You try not to let it show. Try stay present, sipping your drink and throwing in the occasional sarcastic comment, but your thoughts keep circling. 

Is he still coming? Did he change his mind because of you? What’s he going to think of this ridiculous little dress? 

You shake off the spiralling questions, turning your attention back to the table just as Mickey launches into a story about his own latest birthday—which involved more tequila, less pants, and at least one stolen golf cart. 

After finishing your first drink, you excuse yourself to the bathroom—partly because you sculled a litre of water before coming, and partly because you want to check yourself before Bob arrives. It’s dumb, but you don’t care. You might be mad at him, but you still want to make his jaw drop. 

And if this dress does anything right, it’s making jaws hit the floor. 

You walk down the short hall, passing one of the dancefloors. There are two large doors marked as accessible toilets, then the men’s, and finally the women’s. You slip inside, duck into a stall, pee quickly, and wash your hands. 

The mirrors in the women’s room, though, are annoyingly small and set far too high. You can barely see below your collarbones—even when you jump, which is definitely not recommended in this dress. With a frustrated huff, you step back out and slip into one of the accessible toilets—surely that’ll have a mirror a little lower? 

The accessible bathroom is spacious and way nicer than the regular stalls. There’s a black marble vanity bathed in soft, glowing light, plenty of grab rails lining the walls, and—best of all—a full-length mirror stretching from floor to ceiling, perfect for a proper once-over. 

You check your dress, adjusting how it sits on your shoulders and hips, then give a little twirl. You push your boobs up just a touch, swipe beneath your eye for any smudged mascara, and slip back out into the club. 

You weave your way through the crowd, the bass humming beneath your feet. There are more people now—hovering near the bars, drifting between dancefloors. You try to ignore the looks you’re getting, but a little shiver still rattles down your spine. You feel seen. Too seen. 

Maybe this dress wasn’t the best idea. 

You step into the courtyard and glance up, spotting the booth where your friends are and— 

Bob. 

He’s standing just in front of it, half-turned away, arms folded as he talks to someone inside the booth. And thank God for the distraction, because holy shit—you can’t stop staring. 

He looks... different. You’ve seen him in civilian clothes plenty of times before, but tonight? Tonight, those dark blue jeans cling just right to his long legs and criminally good ass. And that black long-sleeve button-up—jet black, just like your dress—looks like it’s seconds from bursting at the seams across his shoulders and arms. It’s sharp, clean, and a devastating contrast to the flight suit you’re so used to seeing him in. 

And then there are those dorky cowboy boots. Always the boots. Somehow they just make it worse. Make him more him. And that makes your thighs clench. 

Then, slowly, he turns. It’s casual at first… until he sees you. 

His jaw drops. Literally. His eyes go wide. 

He looks like a deer in headlights. No—worse. He looks like someone just hit him in the chest with a defibrillator. You’re not even sure he’s breathing. 

It takes everything in you to keep your pace steady, your expression neutral—to walk across the courtyard like your knees aren’t about to give out. 

Not that he’s looking at your face. Not until you’re standing right in front of him. 

“Bob,” you say, voice tight, before turning sharply toward Javy. “Coyote!” 

Javy’s eyes go wide as he takes you in—then flick toward poor, frozen, shell-shocked Bob—before his mouth splits into a hesitant grin. 

“Lucky,” he says, wrapping an arm around you. “You look—I mean, that dress—” 

“Save it, big fella,” you laugh. “I’m sure Hangman will make up for it with a dozen inappropriate comments once he’s had a few more drinks.” 

Javy chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m sure he will.” 

You slip into the booth and settle beside Natasha, taking a sip from the straw of the drink she slides your way. 

Bob is still standing there. He hasn’t said a word. You’re still not sure he’s breathing. He’s just staring—eyes wide, dark, and so full of something you can practically feel them dragging over your skin. 

Okay—maybe this dress was a good idea. 

After another round of drinks—and another of shots—everyone’s feeling a lot looser. Except Bob. 

He’s nursing his coke with a tight jaw, his eyes flicking between you and whoever’s currently taking their turn staring at your boobs. It’s usually Jake. 

And as much as you’d love to enjoy making him suffer, you’re not entirely sure what’s going on with him. You can’t tell if he’s pissed that you’ve been cold all week or feeling—undeservingly—protective because you’re wearing more birthday suit than dress. Either way, the way he’s looking at you is… unnerving. Almost feral. 

His attention makes your skin prickle, your pulse jump. Because behind his eyes is something dark. Something dangerous. Something you’re not used to seeing in Bob. 

So, like any emotionally well-adjusted person, you do the obvious thing and suggest another round of shots. 

You’ve just swallowed your third nip of Fireball when you hear a frighteningly familiar voice rise over the thrum of music. 

“Hangman!” he exclaims. “Happy birthday, bro!” 

Your stomach drops. It’s him. The guy Bob was talking to that night. 

Your eyes snap up, wide, landing on a familiar face you’ve known since flight school. 

Bob’s eyes are wide too—but not with surprise. No, his are flat, dark, brimming with something else entirely. Something heavy. Tense. Possessive. 

Something that doesn’t look like Bob at all. 

“Harvard!” Jake grins, standing and leaning across the table to shake the guy’s hand. 

They greet each other with loud enthusiasm before Brigham turns to the rest of the group—saying hello, smiling, working his way around. 

He saves you for last. And you’re not nearly naïve enough to pretend you don’t know why. 

“Lucky,” he says, drawing out the last syllable as his gaze drops straight to your chest. “Lookin’ good, darlin’.” 

“Thanks,” you reply, plastering on your sweetest smile. “Wanna sit?” 

Brigham has the choice of sitting beside either you or Bob, and with the way Bob’s trying to telepathically murder him—and the way your tits are sitting—it’s no surprise he chooses you. 

“You know,” he says as he settles in, “I was just talking to Bobby about you the other day.” 

Your heart lurches, but you keep your expression steady. 

“Really?” you ask, voice thick with faux shock. “Bobby didn’t tell me that.” 

Brigham chuckles. “Yeah, I bet. I think Bob’s been tryin’ to keep you all to himself.” 

Bob’s scowl falters, a flicker of something—maybe worry—flashing across his face. Your heart stutters again. But then those words echo in your head, and with a sly smile, you shift a little closer to Brigham. 

Okay, sure, you’re not attracted to the man—like, at all. In fact, you’re not attracted to anyone whose name doesn’t start with Robert, end in Floyd, and come with a pair of wide, dark blue eyes in the middle. But if it’s going to get under Bob’s skin? A little flirting can’t hurt. 

After all, he’s the one who called you reckless. 

“Well, Harvard,” you say, leaning in. “Fortunately for you, I don’t belong to anyone. And if you’re feelin’ lucky… maybe later I’ll let you feel real lucky.” 

Javy, sitting across from you, chokes on his drink—coughing and spluttering into his hand as everyone turns toward him with confused eyes. 

Except Bob. Bob’s stare doesn’t move from where your hand rests on Brigham’s arm. 

You spend the next hour pressed against Brigham, nodding along as he talks about his latest deployment. Apparently, he’s just returned to North Island. After the special detachment—the one with the Dagger Squad—he was sent back to his original squadron, then reassigned here and there before finally landing back in San Diego. 

You couldn’t repeat a single detail if your life depended on it. Because all you’ve been able to focus on is Bob. 

The way he keeps glancing over, the way his posture shifts every time Brigham leans closer, the sharp tick in his jaw. His knuckles are white around a lukewarm bottle of coke, and he hasn’t said more than a few words since Brigham sat down. 

The more you drink, the bolder you feel. You start meeting Bob’s gaze when you catch it—at least, when it’s not locked on Brigham—and every time you do, your pulse jumps. And with each slow, alcohol-fuelled beat, the urge to confront him grows. To finally ask what the hell he meant that night. To find out if your friendship actually means anything to him—if it ever meant anything at all. 

But just as you part your lips to speak, Jake jumps up and declares it’s time to hit the dancefloor. 

You cling to that interruption like a lifeline. 

Because as you slide out of the booth and watch Bob disappear into the crowd—heading toward the bathrooms, not the dancefloor—you realise confronting him now, like this, is only going to end badly. 

The music shifts as you step onto the dancefloor—heavier bass, deeper tempo, something slow enough to roll your hips to and fast enough to forget why you’re here. Lights flicker overhead, casting streaks of colour as you melt into the crowd. Brigham finds you in the haze, hands landing low on your hips like it’s second nature, and you don’t bother correcting him. Even if it feels… wrong. 

You sway with the rhythm, arms draped loosely around his shoulders, fingertips grazing the hair at his nape. You laugh at something he says—not that you heard it—but the sound slips easily enough from your lips. 

For a moment, it’s easy to pretend—until you see him. 

Bob. 

He’s leaning against the far wall just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, half-turned toward Bradley like he’s part of the conversation—but he’s not. His posture’s easy, arms folded, one boot crossed over the other. But even from across the room, he doesn’t quite fit. 

Sweet, awkward Bob. All long limbs and stormy eyes in a neon-drenched club that makes no sense around him. His body’s turned toward his friend, but his eyes? 

They’re on you. Locked. Unmoving. 

There’s something electric in his stare. Not soft, not sweet—hungry. It holds you there, stills your breath, makes the air around you feel thicker. He’s not blinking. He’s not smiling. He’s just watching, like you’re the only thing in the room. 

And you feel it. 

The heat rising up your neck. The low, tight pull in your belly. That wild, reckless urge that’s been coiled in your chest since he walked in. 

So you play it up. You let your head tip back, let your body roll with the bass, just a little slower, a little deeper. You lean closer to Brigham, letting your fingers trail down the front of his chest like you’re having fun—like you’re not thinking about Bob at all. 

But you can still feel that stare. Like it’s touching you. Burning through you. 

When your eyes find his again, he still hasn’t moved. 

The beat throbs under your heels. Brigham’s hands stay loose on your hips. The lights flash, the alcohol hums in your blood—but none of it matters. One song blends into the next. Bob never looks away. 

You try not to keep looking. But you do. Because the longer you stay on that dancefloor with a man you don’t care about, the longer Bob stares. 

Still against the wall. Still pretending to talk. Still watching you. 

So—after three boring songs—you smile, tilt your head, and let your hand trail down Brigham’s chest again, moving slower, closer. 

You catch a flicker of movement in your periphery. And when you glance over again, Bob is gone. Your heart skips, but before you can even fully turn, fingers wrap around your wrist—warm, firm, unrelenting. 

Then he’s there. Beside you. 

He moves quickly, taking you with him as he strides across the dancefloor with dark eyes and a clenched jaw, weaving through the crowd like it isn’t there. He looks out of place—so out of place—but he doesn’t care. Not now. Not with purpose in every step and his hand on you like he’s never letting go. 

He doesn’t say a word. Just pulls. 

Past dancing strangers, through the heavy heat of the club, and into the dim hallway outside the bathrooms—where the music dulls just enough, the air shifts, and suddenly there’s only the two of you. 

He lets go of your wrist like it burns him. “What the hell are you doing?” 

You blink. “Excuse me?” 

Bob’s chest rises and falls, his eyes wild. “What—What are you doing?” 

“What’s your problem?” you bite back. 

“My—? My problem?!” His voice pitches up as he drags a hand through his hair. He laughs once—dry and disbelieving. “I—I don’t know. I wish I knew. But you’ve iced me out all week, and now you’re doing this?” 

“Doing what?” you demand. 

“This! This isn’t you! This is—it’s—I don’t know, it’s—” 

“Reckless?” you cut in. “Intense? Oh—sorry. Is my baggage showing?” 

He flinches. You see it—clear as day. Like the words punched him in the gut. 

You’ve never seen Bob like this—so worked up, so flustered, like he’s been holding something back for too long and it’s finally starting to slip. His jaw is tight, his cheeks are flushed, and there’s a fire in his eyes that doesn’t quite fit the Bob you know. 

He looks tense. Frustrated. On edge. Not at all like someone who doesn’t care. 

And that’s the most confusing part.  

“Why would you say that?” he asks, voice dropping, shoulders sagging. 

“I didn’t,” you reply. “You did. Last week.” 

He takes a deep breath and tips his head back, realisation settling heavy and hard. “God. Lucky,” he sighs. “I didn’t—” 

“Save it, Floyd,” you cut in, voice rising over the music. “I don’t want excuses. Or lies. If that’s how you really felt about me, you should have just said so. I wouldn’t have burdened you with my friendship all these years.” 

He shakes his head. “No. That’s not how I really feel. I—I didn’t mean those things, I just—” 

“Then why would you say it?” 

He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Why didn’t you tell me you overheard?” 

You huff, disbelieving, throwing your hands up. “Seriously? What would you have done if you heard me talking shit about you?” 

“I—” His breath catches, his eyes dropping to your chest, just for a second, before snapping back to your face. “I don’t know. But you should have said something. God. Lucky, you don’t understand.” 

You fold your arms—very aware of what that does to your breasts. “Understand what?” 

“That I’m in love with you,” he blurts out, each word sharp and undeniable. “I’ve been in love with you for years. Since the first day I met you. And I said those things because—because that’s what I do. I keep you to myself. I tell guys you don’t have a phone. Or that you’re gay. Or—or that you only communicate with fucking carrier pigeons.” 

Your breath catches sharp in your throat. Emotion rises in your chest, wild and fierce. The world feels unsteady, like you’re caught in a dream—sounds blur, lights twist and shimmer at the edges of your vision—and Bob fucking Floyd just told you he loves you.  

“I’m sorry I said those things,” he says, stepping forward, voice lower now. “But I’m also sorry I’ve lied to you for years. Because I love you more than you know. And—and I’ve cockblocked you more times than you know too.” 

His lips twitch into a nervous, watery smile—half proud, half terrified. His eyes are still wide, still a little dark, but now so full of hesitation it makes your heart ache. 

He’s never told you because he doesn’t think you love him back. Even now, he’s bracing for the blow. Waiting for the laugh, or the ‘let’s just be friends’ speech. 

God. He looks so sweet. So nervous. So heartbreakingly Bob Floyd—even in the middle of this stupid club with its stupid lights and its stupid music. 

Without a word, you grab his wrist and shove open the door to one of the accessible bathrooms. You step inside, drag him in after you, and let the door fall shut—sliding the lock into place with a sharp click that echoes like a gunshot. 

“What are you doing?” Bob asks, voice low, unsteady. 

He’s backed up near the vanity, caught in the soft overhead light. It sharpens the lines of his jaw, glints off his glasses, and makes his eyes look lighter—more exposed. He looks completely out of place here. Nervous. Overwhelmed. Already unravelling. 

“Making sure you can hear me,” you say, your voice softer now as you take a slow step forward. 

The room doesn’t feel nearly as spacious as it did earlier. The air is thick—charged and humming with everything unspoken, everything the two of you have been holding in. 

Bob nods. Barely. His hands twitch at his sides, his eyes glued to the floor—like he’s bracing for impact, waiting for the moment you let him down gently, tell him he’s just your friend and nothing more. 

You close the distance, lift a hand to his jaw, and tilt his face up—until he has no choice but to look at you. 

“I want you to hear me when I tell you that I’m in love with you too, Bob Floyd.” 

His eyes go wide. A breath escapes him in a soft, stunned gasp, his cheeks flushing even deeper. “You what?” 

“I love you,” you say, steadier now, lips curving into a soft, slow smile. “I always have. I don’t know how we both got so stupid, but God… I was wrecked when I heard you say those things. I love you so much I was ready to ask for reassignment just to get away. I love you so much I haven’t even thought about loving anyone else since the day I met you.” 

He blinks hard. His chest rises and falls like he’s forgotten how to breathe. 

“You love me?” 

“Yes, you idiot,” you say, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. “Now fucking kiss me.” 

You pull him down—and he doesn’t hesitate. 

One hand grabs your waist, the other tangles in your hair as he crashes into you, mouth on yours like he’s been holding back for years. It’s not gentle. Not careful. It’s messy and breathless and full of all the things he never said. His lips are hot, desperate, a little clumsy at first—but God, he learns fast. 

You gasp against him, and he takes it like a reward, deepening the kiss as he walks you backward until your tailbone bumps the edge of the vanity. Then he’s lifting you—strong hands beneath your thighs, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll vanish—until you’re perched on the counter, legs parting to pull him in. 

The marble is cold beneath your bare skin, but his body is warm between your thighs. 

He kisses like he means it. Like he’s starved. Like he’s been on fire from the moment he saw you in that dress and now he’s finally letting himself burn. His hands are everywhere—your hips, your waist, your jaw. His mouth barely leaves yours, just enough to breathe before he’s right there again, hungrier this time. 

You twist your fingers in his hair and pull, and he groans—deep and low, like the sound was dragged straight from his chest. His glasses slip crookedly down his nose, but he doesn’t bother fixing them. You catch the way his eyes darken even further behind the askew lenses, wild and hungry. 

“This stupid dress,” he breathes against your lips, voice thick with want. 

His hands roam possessively beneath the fabric, fingers digging into your waist as he grinds his cock against you with a needy roll of his hips. You feel the thick, hard press of him right where you need it, and the heat between you sharpens—filthy, hungry, and impossible to ignore. 

“God, Lucky...” he rasps, voice rough as gravel, lips nipping at your neck. 

Your fingers find the collar of his shirt, fumbling with the buttons as his wet mouth trails along your collarbone. When he finally looks up, his glasses catch the light—glinting at a wild, crooked angle. 

“You look ridiculous,” you tease with a smirk. 

He flushes, just the slightest hint of insecurity flickering through his fierce gaze. 

“Ridiculously fucking sexy,” you whisper, leaning in, lips brushing his jaw. 

His hands explore with increasing urgency, and you arch into him, breathless and burning. 

“Lucky...” he growls, voice low and ragged. “I need you.” 

You pull him closer, heart pounding. “Then take me.” 

That’s all it takes. His hands are moving instantly, pushing your dress down over your shoulders in one fluid motion. Your bra follows—tugged down and discarded with zero ceremony—because he’s not wasting a second. 

Then he’s on you. Everywhere. 

His mouth is hot and open against your skin, dragging across your chest in feverish, reverent kisses. He palms your breasts like he’s dreamt about this—like he’s memorised them in his sleep—and he’s not shy about it either. His thumbs roll over your nipples, teasing until they’re tight and aching, and when you gasp, he hums like he’s pleased with himself. 

He nips your collarbone, teeth just shy of cruel, then licks away the sting as he trails lower—lips, tongue, breath—until he closes his mouth over your left nipple. 

Your hips jerk. You don’t mean to, but you can’t help it. Desperation coils hot and deep in your core, tightening with every flick of his tongue. 

His hand finds your other breast again, rougher now, pinching lightly at your nipple as he sucks, and you can feel his smirk even as his mouth stays latched to your skin 

“Bob—fuck,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut. “Your mouth—” 

He pulls back just enough to blow cool air over your wet nipple, and your back arches, involuntary, like he’s got a string tied to your spine. 

“What was that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “You wanna fuck my mouth?” 

You groan again—louder, needier—as he shifts to your right breast and sucks hard, deep, slow, like he’s trying to ruin you one perfect kiss at a time. Your thighs clamp tight around his hips, grounding yourself against the pressure of his body, the friction of his jeans against your bare legs, the delicious hardness pressing between them. 

He moans into your skin, and the sound vibrates straight through you. 

“Bob—” you gasp, voice thin, shaky. “N-Need you. Now.” 

He finishes with a soft bite to your nipple that makes you jolt, then drags his mouth back up to yours—kissing you hard, deep, claiming. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, rougher than you mean to. He groans again, like he likes the sting. 

Then he grinds against you. 

His hips roll forward, dragging the full, thick length of him right against your soaked core, and you gasp into his mouth. There’s too much friction, too much heat, not nearly enough relief. Your thighs twitch around him, clenching on instinct. 

“Bob,” you say again—this time low, warning, wrecked. 

“‘S okay,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “I got you.” 

His hands slide down your body, slow and possessive, until they find your hips. He squeezes, hard—fingers digging in like he’s trying to anchor himself—and then pushes your dress up, bunching the soft fabric around your waist. And now there’s almost nothing between you. 

His breath catches. He pulls back just enough to look—and groans, deep and guttural. 

“You’re perfect,” he says, reverent and hungry all at once. Then his mouth is back on yours, more desperate this time, like he’s seconds from losing control. 

Your hands fumble at his shirt, yanking buttons through holes until you reach his belt. Your fingers work quickly, sliding the leather free, popping the button, lowering the zip. His hips buck forward when your hand brushes against him, thick and hot beneath his boxers. 

“Are you sure?” he rasps, voice barely holding together. 

You nod, breathless. “I’m sure.” 

His lips crash back to yours, and then his hands leave you for just a second—long enough to shove his jeans and briefs down past his hips—before they’re back, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the vanity. 

His thumbs dig into your skin, like he needs to feel you everywhere. And God, the bruises are going to kill you tomorrow—but you want every single one. 

You reach between your bodies, sliding your hand into the space between his low-slung jeans and your bare thighs. He jerks at the first touch—his breath catching, hips stuttering forward. 

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice ragged. His forehead drops to yours, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. 

You wrap your fingers around him—hard, hot, thick—and stroke once, slow and firm. 

He groans, deep and broken. “Jesus, Lucky—don’t… don’t tease.” 

You bite back a grin, stroking again just to feel him twitch in your hand. “Then hurry up and fuck me.” 

That shatters whatever was left of his restraint. His hand finds the thin scrap of fabric between your legs and pushes it aside, fingers grazing through the wetness there. His breath hitches again. 

“You’re already—” He swallows hard. “God, you’re so wet.” 

He grips your hip, braces his other hand behind you on the counter, and meets your eyes—searching, asking—before he thrusts forward. 

Slow at first. Deliberate. Like he wants to feel every second of you stretching around him. 

You gasp, spine arching, mouth falling open. He’s thick, the stretch almost too much, but your body gives way like it’s been waiting for this. For him. 

“Holy shit,” he groans, jaw slack as he sinks into you. “You feel—fuck. So good. So good.” 

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in, and he starts to move—deep, rolling thrusts that drag moans from your throat before you can stop them. His glasses are still askew, fogging with heat, and you’re obsessed with how he looks like this—wrecked, gorgeous, utterly undone. 

His hands find your waist again, yanking you flush as he grinds into you with a frantic, desperate rhythm that makes your knees tremble. One hand drags up your side, fingertips blazing a slow path over your ribs before curling over the swell of your breast. 

He palms it—rough, reverent—thumb circling your nipple, making your back arch and pulling a gasp from your throat that turns into a whimper. 

“I love you,” he growls, voice low and wrecked, like the words are being dragged out of him. “So fucking much.” 

Your chest clenches, aching with it, echoing the coil twisting tighter and tighter low in your belly. 

“I love you,” you breathe, broken and shaky. 

He groans deep in his chest and starts moving faster, hips snapping into yours with relentless force. Each thrust drags a ragged moan from your lips, each one pulling you closer to the edge. The air is thick with sweat and sex and everything you’ve both kept buried for years. 

His glasses slip lower down his nose, his hair damp with sweat, his face flushed and wild—completely wrecked. He looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he’s never going to let you go. 

You tilt your head back and moan—loud, shameless—the sound echoing through the bathroom with the obscene slap of skin on skin. Then your eyes lock again, and it’s too much—too hot, too filthy, too intimate. You're cock-drunk and completely gone for him, mouth parted, breath hitching as you fall apart in real time. 

He crashes his mouth to yours again, slower now—deeper—like he wants to kiss you into the fucking walls. One hand still works your breast, kneading, tugging, pinching, while the other dips low, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, messy circles that have you shuddering. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, choking on the word. “Bob—I’m gonna—” 

“Yeah?” he pants, voice ragged. “You—you gonna cum? I’ve got you.” 

His thrusts grow harder, deeper, rougher—like he’s pounding the words into you, like he wants you to feel them everywhere. You’re soaked and stretched and it’s so good you almost sob. 

The noises are filthy—wet and desperate, breathless moans and frantic grunts—and neither of you care. Not here. Not now. Not when this is everything you’ve both been craving for years. 

“Oh God,” he groans, breath hot against your throat. “You feel so fucking good. You’re gonna ruin me.” 

You’re both panting, chasing the edge, clinging to each other like you’ll fall apart without it. He pulls back just enough to see your face, and that look—wrecked, awe-struck, completely fucking gone—undoes you. 

Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through your spine, your vision going white, your legs locking around him as your whole body shakes. 

Bob’s right behind you—one, two more thrusts—and then he’s groaning low, spilling inside you as he buries his face in your neck, thrusting through it, riding the high with you. You're both shaking, bodies slick, hearts pounding, still grinding, still desperate, still needing to be closer. 

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You just breathe—ragged, uneven, hot against each other’s skin. 

His arms are locked around you, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go. You’re wrapped around him just as tight, hands curled into the back of his shirt, legs still trembling around his waist. The air is thick with sweat and heat and the fading pulse of music beyond the walls. 

He lifts his head just enough to press his forehead to yours, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed. You brush damp hair from his face and lean in to kiss him—slow this time, warm and open and sweet. He kisses you back like it’s all he’s ever known. 

“I love you,” you whisper again, holding him like you mean it. Because you do. God, you do. 

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw. Slower now. Softer. Like he’s memorising you. 

Eventually, you both start to move—reluctantly, lazily—helping each other straighten up, clean up. His hands are gentle as he eases your dress back down over your hips, as he finds your bra and helps you put it back on. You button his shirt for him, laughing quietly at the wrinkled fabric and the way his belt is still half-undone. 

It’s domestic. Intimate. Something about it makes your chest ache. 

You smooth your palms over his chest. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. And even though you’re dressed again, neither of you can stop touching—little brushes, lingering hands, kisses that start slow and deepen fast. 

You’re trying to leave when his back hits the bathroom door with a soft thud, and you lean into him, mouth pressed to his. It’s messy again—smiling, hungry, all teeth and tongue and breathless sounds you wouldn’t dare make for anyone else. 

He laughs into your mouth. “If we don’t leave now,” he murmurs, “we’re never leaving.” 

You kiss the corner of his smile. “Fine by me.” 

But then—he stills. Just slightly. And he looks at you like he’s falling all over again. 

His chest rises against yours, breathless still, and then— 

“Marry me,” he says. Low. Unfiltered. Like he couldn’t hold it in if he tried. 

Your heart stumbles. Your breath catches. 

You pull back just far enough to look at him—really look at him. He doesn’t look nervous this time. Just… open. Sure. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to ask. 

“Bob…” 

“I’m serious,” he says, cupping your jaw. “Marry me.” 

You blink, the world slowly tilting off-axis. 

“I want you—no, fuck that,” he leans closer, voice rough with feeling, “I need you. Forever. And if we can’t have forever, then just give me this lifetime. I want to marry you. I want everyone to know that you’re mine, and I’m yours.” 

He’s so honest, so sure, that for a second you forget how to breathe. You’ve never felt this much love in your life. You didn’t even know this much love existed. And the craziest part is... it doesn’t even feel that crazy. You’ve known Bob for so long that the only missing piece of the puzzle was this. Now you’re whole. You’re perfect—together. It's always been Bob, and it always will be. 

So what’s the point in waiting? What’s the point in dragging it out? You already know him. You need him. You… want to marry him too. 

You step in closer, holding his face between your hands. “I am yours, Bob Floyd. In this lifetime and every lifetime.” 

He swallows, hard. “Is—is that—?” 

“That’s a yes,” you say, grinning, before pushing up onto your toes and crashing your mouth against his. 

He kisses you back with wild, joyful fervour, his arms locking around your waist as he lifts you clean off the ground, making you yelp into his mouth. If this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up. Not ever. Because in this moment, you have everything—everything—you’ve ever wanted. Everything you’ll ever need. 

When he finally sets you down, you pull back just enough to catch your breath—both of you panting, grinning like idiots, completely wrecked and radiant. 

“Can’t believe you just proposed to me in a club bathroom,” you say, smirking. 

Bob rolls his eyes, bashful smile tugging at his lips. “Can’t believe you just said yes.” 

You’re just about to kiss him again when— 

Bang, bang, bang. 

“Bob!” Jake’s voice cuts through the door. “Lucky! Are you two in there?” 

Bob freezes. His smile drops. His cheeks flush a deep, immediate red. “Oh no.” 

“We heard… noises,” Javy adds, barely holding back a laugh. “Are you okay?” 

Your eyes go wide, mortified and gleeful all at once, your hand already moving to the lock. 

“What are you doing?” Bob hisses, catching your wrist. 

You glance at him, lips twitching. “What are we supposed to do? Live in here now?” 

“Yes?” he says, eyes wide. “Or wait at least twenty more minutes?” 

You snort, then gently pry his hand from yours and lace your fingers through his. “Relax, Bob,” you murmur. “At least now they’ll know what a woman sounds like when she’s getting properly fucked.” 

Bob makes a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a gasp, his face flushing bright crimson. And with that, you unlock the door and swing it open to reveal the entire squad loitering just outside, trying very badly to look casual and not like they’ve been eavesdropping at all. 

Jake’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes sparkling. “Well, damn. Guess that answers that.” 

Bradley whistles low, laughter threading through it. Natasha raises a single eyebrow. Javy coughs awkwardly into his hand. Mickey and Reuben just stare, jaws practically on the floor. 

Bob inches behind you, as if hiding could protect him from the coming torrent of teasing. 

You just smile sweetly and squeeze his fingers. “Hey, pervs. Get a good show?” 

Jake chuckles. “Only caught the second act, unfortunately. But damn, Bobby, didn’t know you had it in you to make a woman moan like that.” 

Bob closes his eyes, breathing deep as his free hand squeezes your waist. 

“What was all that murmuring before you opened the door?” Javy asks, brow furrowed. “We couldn’t make it out.” 

You lift a brow. “Oh, you didn’t have a cup pressed to the door?” 

Mickey chuckles sheepishly, holding up an empty glass. 

“God,” you gasp, laughing softly. “Do any of you know the meaning of boundaries?” 

“Lucky, you just fucked Floyd in a club bathroom,” Reuben says, smirking. “And you’re going to lecture us about boundaries?” 

Your cheeks flush, heart pounding hard against your throat. “Actually, I just got engaged to Floyd in a club bathroom. And it was very romantic. Including the sex. So, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to go home and let this man properly ruin me until I can’t remember how to fly a goddamn jet.” 

You hear Bob choke behind you—on nothing but air—and you don’t even have to look to know his whole face is flaming red. 

But it works. The squad goes quiet, all of them staring—wide-eyed, slack-jawed, somewhere between stunned and delighted. 

You give them one last cheeky grin before pulling Bob away. 

“But it’s my birthday!” Jake calls after you, smirk audible in his voice. “I was supposed to get fucked in the bathroom!” 

Instead of your alarm, you wake up to a call from Carole. It’s 7:29, and when you raise the phone to your ear, your voice is gruff and achy with sleep.

“Hello?”

It feels just like yesterday. Yesterday, that comes flooding back to you in a barrage of awful memories. All that’s changed is the bed you’re in; you’re still alone. You almost miss Carole’s response because you’re slowly taking in everything that hits you like an anvil from above, but you catch the last word and can discern her meaning.

“-visit?”

“Yeah,” You rub your eyes, feeling tears already gathered there; a great way to start your morning.

“Yeah, I’ll visit,” You confirm, and your alarm buzzes against your head. You hastily shut it off and yawn, only inducing more tears and sighing as you speak again, “I’m gonna run to the store real quick, get some stuff for cookies. He convinced me to sneak them in.”

“That boy,” Carole huffs, and even half-asleep, you hear her voice laced with fondness for her son, “Alright honey. How y’doin’?”

“Um,” You ponder, truly unsure as your fingers pick at a stray thread on the blanket; you’d been meaning to replace it for months. “Okay. Not okay, but not- not as bad as yesterday. I think-” You swallow, throat convulsing, “I think I love lying to him if it means I have him back.”

She’s silent for a moment, letting your words sink into your own brain. You feel guilty for them, just like you feel guilty for leading Bradley on, pretending nothing is wrong when your entire lives have fallen apart. But she eventually responds with all of the kindness and love she has inside of her, which is a lot.

“I know, baby. And it’s okay, it’ll get better. It’ll turn out right.”

“I hope so,” You breathe shakily, wishing either her or your boyfriend (pretend boyfriend? Ex-boyfriend?) were there to rub soothing circles into your back. 

“I know so.” She promises, and she’s never promised something she couldn’t guarantee. You hope this isn’t her first strike, because her never-ending optimism miraculously lifts your dreary spirits until your chest doesn’t ache with a sob begging to break free. “Alright, baby doll, I’ll let’cha get to baking. I’m gonna see if they’ll let me sneak in early, I- Oh! Nurse,” She calls away from the phone, and you hear her move on the other end, no doubt chasing down a poor nurse that doesn’t want to get fired for letting her in before visiting hours. You hang up the call with a snort, fond of how her fierce love for those around her hasn’t faded in all the time you’ve known her.

Pulling yourself out of bed is hard, but you do it for Bradley. You’re sluggish as you traipse to the bathroom, using deodorant in place of a shower and brushing your hair back into a ponytail. Showers are for people who have the luxury of time, you need to bake fast, and get over there to see if Bradley wakes up remembering anything new- er, old. You hope that he doesn’t, and then you hope that doesn’t make you a bad person.

One of the things you love about the place you’d shared with Bradley is that it’s close to a shopping center with a grocery store. It means that you walk to the supermarket, sandals on your feet and ratty, day-old clothes still on. No one seems to mind when you grab a basket looking like you’ve risen from the dead, and you collect the ingredients for Bradley’s favorite cookies with a skillful, experienced hand. You haven’t paid for anything by card in a while, you’d used emergency cash for the motel, and you wonder if you’ve been locked out of your joint bank account. Probably not; if the state of Bradley’s place had been any indication, he wants you back. But you’re cautious using the card anyways, in case a big red screen comes to life on the monitor in front of you and tells you you’re a terrible girlfriend. Almost a terrible wife.

You’re glad that you don’t run into any of your neighbors on the walk back home, because you don’t want to explain why you look the way you do, nor do you want to burst into tears when they ask where Bradley and his car are. You keep your head down and avoid the trike on the front walkway, ducking back into the house without being spotted. 

Firing up the oven feels heavenly, maybe because you’ve been eating scraps of motel food for two weeks. It reminds you of all the times you’ve baked with Bradley, or, more like the times you’ve baked while Bradley steals pinches of sugar from the bowl or tries to lick the beater when there’s raw egg in the mixture, resulting in more batter in his mustache than in his mouth while you try wrestling the spatula out of his grip.

You go through the oatmeal raisin motions absentmindedly; a master at your craft. It frees up brainpower to reminisce, and you sort through a mental file cabinet to find your favorite memory of baking with Bradley.

--

“I want to try the vanilla,” Bradley reaches for the teaspoon in your hands, and you jerk it away, thankful that it isn’t full of the brown liquid yet.

“Absolutely not,” You laugh, “Brad, it’s gross by itself. It’s like eating straight cocoa powder, it’s meant to be mixed in with something.”

He pouts, he actually pouts, a man of 36. The expression has his mustache hanging over his lower lip and you can’t help but giggle at it, leaning in to kiss the prickly hair on his face.

“You’ll have a cookie to eat soon,” You promise him, dumping a teaspoon of vanilla extract into the mixing bowl. He plays satisfied with your answer, but when you turn your back to fold the mixture in on itself with a spatula, you hear rustling behind you, then the click of a cap, and a muffled gag.

“I told you,” Your voice is sing-song-y, and you turn amusedly to watch Bradley duck under the sink’s faucet, rinsing his mouth out of the bitter taste. He’s scowling when he comes back up for air, water dripping from his mustache as he crosses his arms.

“I thought it would be good.” He mutters, and you nod, humming as a bit of batter smears over your thumb from the spatula.

“That’s because you didn’t listen to me,” You lament, “I know everything, Brad. You should just listen to me, always.”

“Oh yeah? Alright, share some wisdom with me, Almighty One,” He teases, pushing off of the counter to join you at your own, “What should I do?”

He moves with his arms crossed, standing just close enough that you know the only answer you can give.

“Mm,” You pretend to deliberate, really leaning into it with a few contemplative taps at your chin, “Kiss me.”

He gasps dramatically, which is the way that he does most things, “Excellent idea. You really do know everything.”

“Mhm,” You nod, craning your neck up as Bradley leans down to kiss you, “I told you. Listen to me all the time.”

“I will,” He promises, “Quick, tell me we should have sex.”

“Bradley!” You gawp, an incredulous laugh oozing out from your chest, leaving behind a snail trail of joy, “You’re insatiable! We’ve already gone twice today.”

“Mm, can’t help it,” He tsks, backing you into the counter and kissing you once more. His lips press firmly to yours, his hands at your waist caging you into his embrace, “Honey, you taste much sweeter than that vanilla shit.”

--

When you come to, you’re putting the cookies in the oven. You’re alarmed at how zoned out you’d been, but evidently you hadn’t burned the place down, and you shut the oven door, setting a timer on the microwave. You tackle the dishes next, using the time that the cookies bake to tidy up your work station. The dough comes easily off of the mixing bowl and the melted butter drips over your fingers before you scrub it away, still slightly warm from the microwave. There’s only a few plates in the sink that you hadn’t dirtied, and you wonder if Bradley had washed and dried dishes while you were away. Or maybe this was it, four plates of food in two weeks. You’d been treating yourself that way, but it’s heartbreaking to know Bradley had, too.

You try warding off your incoming bout of sniffles by retreating back to your bedroom, choosing a new outfit to wear to the hospital. If you show up in the same thing, Bradley might worry about you, and you don’t want him thinking you were too sluggish to pull yourself together for him. You’re hurt, wounded and scarred with lashes over your heart, but he’s the one with the broken ribs and the lost memories, so you need to play the part of the strong one; the uninjured one.

He can’t know you’re hurting in case he asks why.

Your shower is quick, and you try not to think about Bradley in case you succumb to the urge to cry. Of course, it’s impossible to chase the thoughts from your head, and the feeling of your fingers scratching shampoo through your scalp turns into the feeling of Bradley’s. The hand that slides down your side suddenly isn’t your own anymore, it’s a memory of his. A ghost of him, a whisper against your skin of ‘I promise, baby. You won't lose me’.

You hope more than anything that promise stays true.

You get yourself ready to go with more zeal than you’ve felt in the past two weeks. You’re taking the bus today, to cut down on gas money, and you’re sure you’ll spend the whole time worrying. You’re nervous about seeing Bradley, but it’s a few minutes past eight-thirty and you’re sure if he’d regained his memories, Carole would have notified you. Beyond the nerves you’re almost excited to pretend to be his girlfriend again, excited to live in the fantasy life you’ve created to preserve his peace of mind. You never thought you’d love to lie to him.

You’re much more put together today when you greet the receptionist, and you're not sure you could forget the way to his room if you tried. There’s a bag of the oatmeal raisin cookies hidden in your purse and you slip into the room just as a doctor leans over him to take his temperature.

You adore the way Bradley smiles at you. His eyes meet yours as you stand in the doorway, previously cautious and now elated that he seems to like you still. His face lights up and he calls, ‘Baby,’ alerting the nurse to your presence.

“Miss Mitchell!” The woman greets you, the one who’d brought Bradley’s dinner last night. 

“Hi,” You gush, a laugh bubbling up in your chest that’s made of pure elation. It’s a sickly sweet sound, one that you thought you’d never be able to make again after leaving Bradley. You rush to kiss him when the nurse leans away, scribbling down his temperature on his chart.

He lifts his hand to cup your cheek when you kiss him and the tears that line your eyes are happy ones; there’s still time. There’s still time to soak in his love before he remembers, there’s still time to lose yourself in this fantasy.

You take a moment to breathe after the kiss, doing so against his lips. He does the same, and you bask in each other’s presence, noses brushing and foreheads pressed together. Skin-on-skin, love-on-love.

“His heartbeat really did speed up,” Carole marvels, and you scramble to greet her, guilty that she’d slipped your mind in the rush of emotions you felt.

“Hi! Hi, sorry,” You stammer, wrapping her in a hug while she waves away your apologies.

“No worries, baby!” She squeezes your shoulders, beaming at you. You’re sure she’s thrilled you showed up, and you know Bradley is too from the way he grabs for your hand when you sit by his bed. He’s always been a touchy guy, his hands are never idle, but he’s never been quite this clingy before. It’s good, it helps ground you, and it’s what you need after a two-week bender in a motel.

“Brad,” You coo, unable to resist kissing him again when he turns his head to face you in the bed. He looks more comfortable today than he had yesterday, no more breathing tube or pale skin. There’s dark circles under his eyes, but you’re sure he’s still shaken up from the crash, and you’ll make sure he gets to sleep nice and early tonight.

If you’re able to.

Once you’ve kissed him you dot smaller ones across his face, heart soaring at the gentle laughter that spills from his lips as you do so. You kiss his nose, his cheeks, his chin, the space beside his eyes that’s wrinkled from years of laughter, and when his pretty brown eyes flutter shut, you go for the eyelids, too. You savor each one because you know it could be your last, and when he strokes the back of his hand along your cheek, you lean into the touch.

“Pretty girl,” He hums, and you feel your cheeks get hot. Newly showered, you felt more put-together than you’d been before, but you’d spent the past two weeks in a pigsty of your own creation, so the compliment means more than he knows.

Apparently, he feels your cheeks grow hot, too. His fingers pick up on the warmth and he laughs again, this time only a normal amount of raspiness clinging to the sound., He’s hyper-affectionate, taking his chance to dot kisses over your features for a change. The giddiness in your chest as his lips press to your skin, mustache prickling it, makes it feel like your heart will burst. You feel undeserving as he showers you with the affection you’ve missed so much, but you’re greedy so you take it anyways, and you wouldn’t be surprised if Carole was taking pictures of you in secret.

“I have some good news,” The nurse reports, and you turn at her voice. She’s angled towards Carole, obviously having meant to leave you and Bradley be in your couple’s reverie, but when she notices that she has your attention too, she speaks to the group.

“Nothing abnormal was documented during your stay here,” She reads off of her chart, “It’s just the concussion and the broken ribs, which is remarkable for the accident you were in. You’re very lucky, Mr. Bradshaw. There was some smoke inhalation from the crash site but that’s not a major issue anymore, and if everything remains stable until dinnertime, you can go home tonight.”

“Oh!” Carole squeals, clapping delicately with her hands in her lap, “That’s fantastic!’

Bradley seems equally pleased, smiling wide, and it takes a lot of willpower to mirror his expression. He knocks his nose into your cheek and you feel his grin against your jaw, so you bring a hand up to scrub through the hair at the back of his neck.

“That’s great,” You conclude weakly, blaming the lull in your voice on being so close to Bradley and not wanting to talk too loud. Carole eyes you nervously, though, trying to mask the worry in her eyes with a smile.

“You should still rest,” The nurse advises, “Those ribs won’t be healed for close to a month, maybe more. And you can sleep through most of the concussion, too. What’s good about going home is it’ll be familiar to you, and it might help trigger those memories you’ve lost. They’re still not back?”

“Nope,” Bradley shakes his head, keeping it pressed to yours, “I got nothin’.”

“Alright,” The nurse hums sympathetically, tucking the chart into a cubby by the door, “We’ll bring lunch at around one, Mr. Bradshaw.”

“Thank you!” Carole calls after the nurse as she leaves, then she stands in her flowy skirt, wrapping her cardigan tighter around her shoulders.

“Miss Y/N,” She beams, “Bradley’s already had his breakfast. Have you eaten?”

“Uh, no,” You shake your head, “Not yet. Are you going to get something?”

“I am,” She nods, shouldering her purse, “Would you like some hospital pancakes, baby doll?”

“Here,” You stand, but Bradley grabs your hand, keeping you close to his bedside, “I can-”

“You can sit down,” Carole narrows her eyes at you, teasingly menacing, “Sit your butt back in that chair and be with your boyfriend, honey! I can manage two to-go boxes.”

“Thank you,” You gush, settling back into your seat and squeezing Bradley’s hand. He doesn’t let up on his heavy grip until you’re planted in your seat, and even when he does loosen his fingers he still holds you. Carole winks at you when you leave, and Bradley’s attention is solely on you the second the door shuts.

“Y/N,” He murmurs, and sometimes you forget your name isn’t baby or honey around him. You turn, now a little more nervous to be there now that your buffer is gone.

His big brown eyes are oozing their signature sweetness, a golden glint in them under the lights of the hospital room. He looks healthier now, even though you know his ribs hurt, and you’re oh-so-happy to have your Bradley back.

“I missed you,” You confess, and his face breaks into a grin. He nods, leaning up to kiss you, and you close the gap so that he doesn’t have to strain his probably sore muscles.

“I missed you, too,” He breathes, and you kiss him over and over and over again until you think you might be stealing the breath from his lungs. You let up, if only to keep him healthy, otherwise you’d never stop.

“I wasn’t sure when you were coming,” His lips close momentarily around your lower one while yours frame his top in a sweet peck.

“The cookies needed time to bake,” You lament, your mouth slightly dewy from his kiss, “Sorry, babe. I would have come faster, I- I should have gotten up earlier, but-”

“You’re here now,” He cuts off your worries, the heated skin of his face pressing against yours like he’s trying to stick to you, “That’s all that matters.”

“Yeah?” You hum dazedly, drunk on his love, “What about the cookies, do those matter?”

His eyes widen in consideration and he tilts his head to the side, mouth scrunching in a thoughtful frown, “Yeah, those matter too. Oatmeal raisin?”

“Oatmeal raisin,” You promise, digging through your purse, “Are you still on the hospital diet?”

“Honey,” He declares, sounding like his father's son as pride prickles his mustache, “I’d eat your cookies even if they killed me. Lay one on me, sugar.”

You snort at his cocky drawl, withdrawing a cookie from the bag in your purse. You break a piece off, hand-feeding him like his arms are still weak.

“Speaking of sugar,” You muse, stealing a bite of the treat for yourself and speaking with it pinched between your teeth, “I was thinking about baking together earlier. It was awful being alone, there was no one to eat the sugar out of the bowl.”

“Or drink the vanilla extract,” He cracks, and you laugh with glee.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking of!” You gush, taking his hand once more and squeezing it, “You gagged.”

“I don’t know! I just thought it’d taste good! I love vanilla,” He laments, only fuelling more laughter from you. 

“Yeah, well you got a lot of it,” You chuckle, “Anyways, it was weird not having you there. I had to do the dishes all by myself.”

“Poor baby,” He croons, half sincere and half teasing. He strokes a hand down your cheek that you yearn to kiss, but it goes by too fast, “How’d you manage?”

“I thought about you,” You confess, and some of that amusement in his eyes dims, giving way to complete and total admiration.

“Yeah?” He breathes, incredulous like he's twelve and he can’t believe his crush actually likes him. He’s always had that sort of puppyish aura about him, like you’re not just his girlfriend, you’re his best friend, and he’s always happy you’re along for the ride. It’s probably why he holds your hand so frequently, like he is now.

“Yeah,” You nod, flipping his palm in yours and tracing over the lines etched into it, “It’s not home there without you, Brad.”

“We go back tonight,” He smiles, keeping his voice low so that it doesn’t shatter the serenity around you, “Together.” You notice a sheen of tears over his eyes and you fall in love with him all over again, unable to hold yourself back from admiring how much he loves you. You really, really don’t know how you fucked this up.

“Yeah,” You croak, smiling weakly down at his hand instead of into his eyes, “Together.”

“Breakfast,” Carole sings, propping the door open with her foot as she steps inside. Your heads turn in sync, and you see her holding two plates, both covered with plastic lids. “Miss Y/N, three pancakes for you, and there’s syrup for days.”

“Thank you,” You rush to help her, and some piece of your heart stays in Bradley’s palm when you drop it. You suspect you won’t get it back unless he forgives you eventually, or maybe he’ll keep it even if he does. You trust him with it, he’ll take care of it.

You wish you'd offered him and his heart the same courtesy.

Carole hands you your breakfast and takes a seat on Bradley’s opposite side, caging him in between his two girls.

“You want some, baby?” Carole croons at Bradley, but he shakes his head.

“No thanks, ma,” He clears his throat, turning to face you with a puppy-eyed look that he’s had mastered since age three, “But I would love another bite of cookie?”

“Oh, take it,” You grumble, handing over the baked good for Bradley to devour, “But if your blood sugar rises, or something, it’s not my fault.”

“Won’t tell a soul,” Bradley promises, a mouthful of oatmeal raisin already impairing his speech, “Thanks, honey.”

“Mm-hm,” You nod, your mouth similarly stuffed with food. The pancakes are good, considering they came from a cafeteria that also serves tuna and jell-o.

“Y/N, baby,” Carole calls just as much sugar in her voice as is in her breakfast, “Pass me that syrup?”

She’s asking for a container you’ve got in your hand, half-empty. She doesn’t want to open a new one and waste the contents, so you pass it over, but a drizzle drips off of the side and lands on Bradley’s chin. 

He rears his head back as it falls, but he can’t burrow far enough into the pillow to dodge it. You squeal through your mouthful, swallowing quickly and painfully to rush out an apology you’re sure he doesn’t care about receiving.

“Sorry, Brad.” You curse your clumsiness, grabbing for a napkin but getting a better idea instead. You stand and lean over him to kiss the syrup off of his chin, feeling his face split into a grin while your lips are still attached to it. You can't keep a smile off of your face either, licking your lips clean of the stickiness.

“Cuties!” Carole giggles, just as giddy of a grin on her face as is on yours and Bradley’s. You’re sure she’s ecstatic to see you getting along so well, glad to know your acting isn’t just that.

“I was telling Bradley earlier,” You speak disjointedly through a mouthful of syrupy pancakes, “When I was baking his cookies, I was thinking about the times we’ve baked together. Wanna tell’er what you did, Brad?”

“Oh,” He groans, “No. Not fair, baby, I’m bed-ridden. I’m dying,” He sticks a protective hand over his ribs, now magically unable to lift his head from the pillow, “You can’t tell embarrassing stories of me to my mom.”

“I didn’t! I offered you the chance to tell it,” You roll your eyes, wary as you hear a nurse pass by the door. Bradley’s cookie is in plain sight, and he stuffs it into his mouth for safekeeping as the footsteps pass. No one comes in, though, and he struggles to finish his mouthful.

“Oh,” Carol gushes, “Somebody tell me! I wanna know, y’know I love teasin’ you, Brad.”

“Mom!’ He gawps through a mouthful of oatmeal, “Rude!”

“What’s rude is talkin’ with your mouth full,” Carole scolds, swatting him on the shoulder, “Swallow first, mister.”

“He ate-” You start, but Bradley lunges for you with impressive agility, twisting his torso to the side to clamp a hand over your mouth. You laugh, long and loud and brash while Bradley tries to muffle it. In his haste to silence you he tries saying ‘No!’ but he’s still got a mouthful of cookie, and the crumbs that don’t get caught in his mustache rain over your legs.

You’re still laughing. It’s messy, it’s gross, there’s half-chewed cookie on your lap, but Bradley’s holding you close, his strong arms around your head while he keeps a tight grip on your mouth. He’s laughing too, chest shaking as he tries powering through the mouthful of food that he’s got. Finally he swallows, but he doesn’t let go, only blows fruitlessly at the crumbs littering your pants.

“I’m sorry,” He pants, short of breath from chuckling, “If you hadn’t been so hellbent on embarrassing me, I wouldn’t have spewed raisins into your pancakes.”

“Gross! Okay!” You laugh uncontrollably into his palm between giggles, kissing at the skin there, “Okay. You win.”

He lets up only when you stop struggling, letting yourself sink into his embrace no matter how uncomfortable. A thought prods at the back of your mind like a lightning rod, sending a jolt of pain down your spine when it reminds you that this isn’t real. But you push it away, you don’t let it paralyze you, and your smile never falls.

“I’m sorry,” You hum to Bradley, while Carole watches you with amusement dancing in her pretty eyes, as well as in her movie star smile, “I just thought your mom would have liked to hear. That’s all.”

“She would,” Bradley nods, leaning back in his bed, finally at ease, “That’s why you can’t tell her.”

“You’re no fun,” She groans, and you finish up the last of your pancakes, gathering all of the trash (and cookie crumbs) to put them in the can. You have to let go of Bradley’s hand to make it across the room but when you’re by the door you stay there, your boyfriend’s eyes trained on you like a hawk.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” You reach for the doorknob, then, while he can't reach you, “Carole, he ate vanilla extract.”

The nurse down the hall gives you a strange look as you rush to shut the door on both Bradley’s indignant shout and Carole’s gleeful giggles.

“Does he need help?” He looks at you skeptically, and you shake your head.

“We’re teasing him,” You brush the nurse’s concerns away, “Where’s the gift shop?”

True to your word, you stop by the bathroom, but your real destination is the gift shop. There’s a stuffed bear inside with fur the exact caramel shade of Bradley’s hair, and you only wish it had a mustache. Otherwise, it’s identical, flight gear on and aviators over its eyes. 

“Hi,” You greet the cashier at the counter, handing over the bear and a book you plan on reading to him in your downtime, “Just these.”

While she rings up your purchase you hear the sliding doors behind you open, and you turn to see your dad and Nick enter. Their faces light up at the sight of you, and when the cashier gives you back the bear, you show it off to them.

“Just gotta get it a mustache,” Nick tugs softly on one of the bear’s ears, “Now that’s a good lookin’ bear!”

“I was gonna get’im a movie to watch,” Your dad beelines for the DVDs, but you pull him back.

“Dad,” You murmur, walking him and Nick towards the door, “He can just use his phone. Everything here is way too expensive.” You throw a kind smile at the cashier like you hadn’t just insulted her trade, “Thank you!”, and lead the way back to Bradley’s room.

The elevator ride almost goes sour when Nick tries pushing all of the buttons at once. You’re not sure how Carole has survived living with him for this long, but you swat his hands away with an incredulous shout.

“Don’t! I wanna get these back to him,” You beg, bear and book in hand, “I’ll bet he’s so bored.”

“You seen him already?” Your dad raises a brow, and you nod.

“Carole’s there, too,” You hum, “We just finished breakfast.”

“Does he ‘member anything new?” Goose asks, and that little lightning rod comes back, tazing your brain, burning one word into the matter there; liar, liar, liar. All of a sudden the elevator is too small, and you’d rather be anywhere but.

“Nope,” You shake your head, turning to face the doors of the elevator that ding, “Nothing.”

“Bradley!” Nick cheers, seeing his son alive and well, “Made it through the night?”

“Barely. Spent more time on my phone than I did asleep,” Bradley scoffs, and your heart skips a beat, not in a good way. Again you wonder if he’s found mystifying evidence of your breakup, an unfollow on instagram or a deletion of date nights from the calendar.

You’re sure he would have brought something up if he was confused, but you’re sneaking around, and it makes you paranoid enough to believe everything will fall apart at a moment’s notice. You have no peace, not when Bradley isn’t holding you.

“Well you’re going home tonight,” Carole reminds him, stroking over his cheek fondly, “You’ll get some good rest there, Brad.”

“Hey, alright!” Your dad whoops, “They’re cuttin’ you loose?”

“After dinner,” Bradley nods, “They said if nothing weird happens I can leave.”

“Congrats, Brad.” Nick claps him on the shoulder, standing in front of the seat you’d abandoned to go get his gifts.

His gifts!

You fumble with the bag in your hands, pulling the bear out first and passing it over.

“Oh, baby,” Bradley laughs, admiring its miniscule flight gear, “Bear’s almost as handsome as me.”

“Nah, a little more.” Pete squints at it, “It doesn't have that ugly mustache.”

“Hey!”, Father and son rage in unison, and Nick slaps your dad’s arm hard enough for Bradley, too.

“Uh, Carole,” You murmur, but the soft sound catches Bradley’s attention anyways. He’s drawn to you like a fly to honey, stuck in every last drop of your sweetness.

“I need to ask your mom a favor,” You smile down at Bradley, brushing hair away from his eyes, “Can we slip out?”

“Okay,” He hums skeptically, “What is it?”

“It’s a surprise,” You drag your voice out dramatically, leaning down to peck at his forehead. His skin is warm to the touch, and feels comforting against your lips.

“We’ll keep’im busy,” Nick declares, taking the book that you hand him, “Want me to read to you, Brad?”

“No.”

“Too bad! Ooh, Little Women. Wanna do voices with me, Mav?”

You and Carole step out before Nick or your dad could pull out any high-pitched giggles, and Bradley’s mom looks at you worriedly.

“What is it, baby doll?”

“I need help,” You confess, “If Bradley’s coming home tonight, he’s gonna notice a hell of a lot of stuff missing from our place. I just took everything I could grab and I ran,” You recall, dry swallowing at the thought of the boxes piled into your motel room, “I can’t put everything back by myself, and I- I don’t want to force you to help, but my dad and NIck can’t know, and-”

“Slow down, sugar,” She hums, reaching out to rub a soothing hand up and down your arm, “I’ll help you. What do we got, clothes and shoes?”

“And books, and toiletries, and... puzzles.” You concede drearily.

“Baby,” Carole arches a brow, looking almost sympathetically at you, “You brought puzzles with you?”

“I thought I’d be bored!” You reason, shoulders stiff to your ears, “But I haven’t had much of an appetite for puzzling.”

“Alright, I’ll help you,” She promises, “How long are we gonna need, honey?”

“A few hours,” You shrug, “We can carpool to base, I’ll pick up his Bronco, and we can head to the motel I’ve been at to get my stuff. We’ll need the extra space in the back of his car.”

“Okay! Okay,” Carole gushes, and you think she’s almost a little exhilarated by this spy operative, “Let’s stay for lunch, then we’ll go. We’ll say- uh, the house needs cleaning!”

‘Perfect,” You rub at your temples, “Thanks, Carole. And- and we’ll buy party decorations,” You snap your fingers, “I told him we were out here talking about a surprise, so we’ll throw a little welcome home thing tomorrow, have cake or something. That’s our alibi.”

“Got it! I’m off to the bathroom,” She heads down the hallway, “Get back in there!”

“-told you, I’m Jo!” Your dad is standing squared to Nick, eyes narrowed and shoulders tight, “It’s not fair that you get to be everyone!”

“Well if you did the voices right, I wouldn’t have to take over everything,” Nick huffs, “Tell’im Brad, that was a shitty Beth impression!”

“Both of you suck,” Bradley drawls, his eyes tracking you intently as you slip back into the room, “Baby, you okay?”

You shake off any residual nerves from your scheming with Carole, nodding as light-heartedly as you can, “Yeah! Yeah, Brad,” You take your seat beside him, grabbing his hand and squeezing it tight, “I’m okay.”

He doesn’t look like he believes you. He's always good at reading you, and everything about you right now is a lie. You smile at him, leaning in to kiss his cheek, but he doesn’t react like you want him to, he still doesn’t believe you. He studies you when you pull away, and you laugh in defeat, “I promise, I’m just exhausted from all of this. But that shouldn’t matter, I wasn’t the one whose jet crashed! As soon as we get you home I’ll be fine.”

That seems to work, clearing away the worry swirling in Bradley’s honey-colored eyes. He nods, smiling softly, “Yeah, me too.”

He takes your hand, and you’re starting to wonder how you’d ever survived without holding his. You hadn’t held hands this frequently even when you’d been together, not that Bradley knows there’s a difference. Your heart aches for the man beside you, how shaken up he must be to cling to you like a lost puppy.

While Nick and Pete argue you feel Bradley’s fingers slip from yours, and it’s such an unexpected motion that you turn to watch him. He’s looking intently at your hand, though there's an absent-minded air about him, and your stomach drops when he ghosts his rough thumb gently over your ring finger. 

“Brad?” You murmur, trying to keep from choking up, “‘Love you.”

He smiles, eyes trained back on yours and full of tenderness, “Love you too, sweetheart. Where’s my mom?”

“Bathroom,” You drop your eyes down to his hands, studying his own bare ring finger. You hope you get to see it decorated one day.

“Do you want me to read to you?” You look back up at him, your nose nearly bumping his cheek. Nick has left the book on the side table near the foot of Bradley’s bed in order to gesture with both hands, and you’re sure they wouldn’t notice if you lit it on fire where it sat.

“I’d love for you to read to me,” Bradley laughs breathily, “I haven’t been hearing your voice much lately. Not like I used to.”

“I know,” You lament, hoping your voice doesn’t tremble. You know he means unobscured, private, without beeping in the background and the ever-present threat of a nurse coming in to kick you out, but you hadn’t heard Bradley’s voice in weeks, so you understand the internal yearning.

“Come here,” Bradley suggests when you fetch the book, offering up the right side of his bed. It’s small, nothing you wouldn’t attempt at home but something you don’t want to risk in the hospital.

“No, it’s okay, Brad.” You shake your head, trying to pat the blankets down around him but he doesn’t let you, reaching for your thigh.

“No, I don’t wanna hurt you!” You insist, standing when he tries dragging you into the bed with him, “It’s okay, Brad, let’s just sit. We can be closer when we’re home, but for now I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

He looks crushed. Really, truly crushed, his brown eyes holding such a vulnerable look in them that you feel like you’ve just punted a puppy across a football field.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” You repeat, swallowing thickly as tears prick at your eyes. You lean down to kiss his forehead, “I’m scared, Bradley.”

You’re scared about more than just that. You haven’t held him in weeks, nor has he held you. You’re afraid that you might never recover from this, but if he wraps his arms around you, buries his face in your hair and holds you close, you know you never will. You’ll spend the rest of your days living in regret, and your self-preservation instinct is kicking in again.

“Don’t be afraid,” Bradley murmurs, though he doesn’t need to be quiet now that Nick and your dad have stopped bickering. They’re stealing sneaky glances at the two of you, acting like their sunglasses stop them from being noticed even though their heads are turned towards you.

His words strike something within you that he didn’t mean for them to. He’s spoken unknowingly to your outstanding promise with yourself, that you won’t run away because something is scary. And your promise to Carole, as well, that you’ll make her son feel loved before he remembers that love wasn’t enough to make you stay.

“Bradley,” You breathe, book in one hand as you use the other to stroke through his hair. You’re standing at his bedside and he takes advantage of your proximity, sitting up and off of his pillows to lean his head against your stomach. 

You’re glad he can’t see your face, because tears rush from your eyes in seconds. He’s a sweet man whose brain operates on love first, and thought second, so when he hooks his arms around your waist and nestles his face into your tummy, you know it’s his instinct to hold you. 

At the sight of your tears the other men in the room decide to take their leave, smiling sadly at you while you comb your fingers through Bradley’s hair. 

“We’ll give you some time,” Your dad whispers, but Bradley can hear just fine, “Bye, honey.”

You aren’t able to offer them a wave in response, but they know you appreciate it. 

Once more the sterile hospital room is inhabited by only you and Bradley. Souls intertwined, tangled in some places and parallel in others, you hold him, stroking through his hair and praying he never picks his face up out of your stomach. There’s snot threatening to run down your lip but you don’t dare sniffle at the thought of ruining the moment, keeping your chest deathly still where it yearns to shake with sobs.

“I love you,” You whimper, dropping the book to cage his head to your belly, “I love you, Bradley, I- I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.” He speaks into your stomach, and the sound vibrates through your body, warming you with a tingly sensation like the one you’d gotten from your very first kiss with Bradley.

You’re sure he knows you’re crying now, now that your voice drips with tears and your hands shake in his scalp. He doesn't break away, though, only tugs you closer, keeping his face nestled to your body as he pulls you into a sitting position on his lap. You’re mindful of his broken ribs, but there’s nothing wrong with his thighs, so when you land on top of them, you let yourself rest there. 

Bradley’s wormed his nose against your cheek, no longer snug in your stomach but flush to your face instead. He holds you like he used to, before you spooked and ran, before he fell out of the sky in a blaze of flames, before anything in your life was complicated. He holds you like he held you when you were just Y/N and Bradley, cradling your face to his chest and tucking his chin over your head.

“You’re hurting, too,” He murmurs, rocking you ever-so-slightly back and forth as you sit sideways on his lap. He keeps you tucked to his chest, smooths your hair with one hand and holds your waist with the other. 

“I’m the one that went down but you’re the one who got that phone call,” He moves his hand from your hair to your back, scratching aimlessly there, “You’re allowed to be upset over that. You don’t have to pretend like nothing is wrong just because I’m in the hospital. I don’t want you to pretend to be strong if it’s only gonna make you weaker. Talk to me, honey, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I can’t!” You wail, clutching his hospital gown and praying you aren’t hurting his ribs, “Bradley, I- I can’t tell you. I can’t do that to you, not here, not now. I’m scared,” You weep, “I’m really scared, Bradley.”

“Don’t be. You’re okay,” He promises, pecking a soft kiss against the crown of your head, “Baby, you’re safe with me. You don’t have to be scared of anything. Of talking, or feeling, or hurting. That’s what I’m here for, angel, to talk with you, to feel with you, to hurt with you. That’s what love is, honey, and I love you, you know I do.”

His voice wobbles slightly on the last fragment of his sentence, and you don’t think you can handle seeing him cry. You’re terrified out of your mind, but determined just the same not to run, and it’s stuck you in this awful paralyzed state. All you can do is hold Bradley, all you can do is let him hold you, and hope that his memories never return.

“I don’t want to stress you out,” You mourn, picking your head up from his chest to press it to his face instead. You want to fuse yourself to him, so that he couldn’t cast you away if he tried.

“I’m stressed about whatever you’re not telling me,” He laughs sadly, a soft huff of air from his chest, “Baby, it makes me stressed knowing you’re shutting yourself in like this. Knowing there’s stuff going on up here that you don’t want to talk to me about.” 

He taps your head, then smooths his hand down the nape of your neck to rub at your back.

“Tell me,” He begs, voice raw with despair, “Please, angel, tell me what you’re feeling.”

You owe him the truth. Concealing the truth was one thing. Sneaking around, covering up behind his back so that he didn’t notice anything peculiar was a preventative measure. But now he’s asked for your honesty, now it’ll be lying if you don’t tell him. Now you’ll be lying to him, really and truly lying to him, and you can’t bring yourself to do it. You choose honor this time, sniffling hard and bracing your hand on his chest so that you can look him in the eyes if you feel brave enough.

“Bradley,” Your words roll off of your tongue with the weight of steel, and you have to force them out of your throat to get them to go at all, “I want to be honest with you. But I’m scared-” Your face crumples, and you fight to right it, “But- but that’s not fair to you. It’s not fair for me to shut you out, You’re right, you-” You falter, the pitch of your voice wobbly as you take a deep breath, “You love me. And I know I can be honest with you.”

“You can,” Bradley promises, stroking his knuckles over your cheek. He stares into your eyes, and you stare into his only to get a last glimpse of their sweet honey-like hue.

“You should know,” You drop your eyes, unable to confess while looking into his, “I love you, Bradley. I always have, and I always will.”

“I love you, too,” He promises, “Now what’s the matter, honey?”

“It’s-”

“Mr. Bradshaw?” A nurse steps into the room, and instantly the moment is shattered. There’s no picking up the pieces, no glue in the world strong enough to repair the bravery you’d mustered up to be honest with Bradley. 

He looks annoyed at her interruption, something you know he wouldn’t normally feel towards anyone doing their job, but he refrains from snapping at her.

“Yes?”

“We need to run some vital tests. Blood sugar, heart rate, breathing, the like. After they’re cleared, we’ll know if you can return home or not.”

From his hold on you, you gather that there’s nothing Bradley would rather do less in the world than let you go, and there’s nothing you’d rather do less than let him, but you peel away from him reluctantly, standing where you’d been tucked into his lap. He settles back against his pillows that you’re sure are cold now, and you tuck the blanket beneath his thigh to keep him warm.

He ducks his gaze and you see tears lining his eyes that you want to wipe away, but he grabs for your hand again, and you hope that’s enough for him.

The nurse pokes and prods at him, reads machines and scribbles their information down, and the door opens once again before she’s done conducting her tests. Carole, Nick, and Pete step back through the doors, smiling sheepishly at you. You have a sneaking suspicion that Nick and your dad had held Carole off from coming back to the room while you spoke, which you’re grateful for. You just wish you'd had a little more time.

“Alright,” The nurse claps, smiling cheerily like she hadn’t just shattered your moment, “You are in good shape, Mr. Bradshaw. Your blood sugar is a little high,” She notes with a furrowed brow, and you shoot a knowing glance at Bradley, “But everything else seems right. Your ribs should heal within a few weeks time, and once you get back home and see familiar surroundings, your memories should return. All you need to do is rest, once I get these processed and signed off by the doctor, you’ll be good to go!”

“Thank you,” Carole gushes, while Bradley just nods with a tight smile on his face, jaw tight in irritation at the four unwanted parties in the room.

“Goin’ home, big guy.” Nick grins at Bradley as the nurse makes her leave. He claps his son on the leg and this time Carole doesn’t intervene, “What’s the first thing you’re gonna do?”

“Shower,” Bradley rasps, “There’s ash in my hair.”

“Not anymore,” You showcase your hands, dust and ash clinging to the spaces between your fingers from when you’d run them through Bradley’s hair. 

He laughs at the sight, “Still. The second thing on my list is sleep, and I don’t want to get anything on the sheets.”

“Good plan,” Carole beams at her son, hooking her arm around yours, “Baby, we should head out. We’ve got lots to do for this surprise of yours,” She gloats at Bradley, then turns back to you, “But you should wash your hands first, honey.”

“Okay,” You nod, eager to get out of a situation you’d been so courageous in only minutes before, “I’ll- um, get my stuff.”

You bend towards your purse, taking the bag of cookies out, “If your blood sugar rises and lands you in here for another night,” You warn, “I’m never making these again.”

“Yes ma’am,” Bradley nods, but your dad is the one to take the bag, not him.

“Don’t steal them,” You narrow your eyes at your dad and Nick, “And don’t get caught feeding him any. Understand?”

“Yes ma’am!” They echo Bradley, standing at attention. You scoff, turning back to Bradley and leaning down to meet him where he lays back on his pillows.

“I love you,” You hum, and he’s already reaching out for you before you can touch him. He sits upright, grabbing for your hands and tilting his face upwards to beg for a kiss.

“I love you, too,” He mumbles, speaking lowly against your lips as you kiss him. When you pull away he wants more, keeping your hands firmly in his grip when you try to leave.

“Bradley,” You let out a soft laugh, but you kiss him again anyways, knowing he’s still reeling from being a second away from finding out the truth, the extent of which he’s not prepared for.

“It’s okay,” You whisper against his lips, pressing your forehead to his, “We’ll talk later.”

”Yeah,” He nods, arching up into your embrace even though he knows he has to let you leave.

He calls out again before you leave, “Love you!” And you repeat it with a sad smile on your face, letting Carole take your hand while Nick and your dad sit at Bradley’s bedside. The last you see of him is his fading grin as you wave goodbye before the door shuts, and you’re in the hallway.

“Something happened in there,” She gushes, misplaced excitement shining from her eyes like a sunbeam, “I just know it! He was all lovey-dovey when you left, even moreso than usual. He really didn’t want you to go, angel.”

“I almost told him,” You mutter as Carole leads you to the elevator, nerves churning your stomach.

“What?” Her smile drops in surprise, and she stomps to a halt on the tiled floor. She presses the button, and when the elevator dings she ushers you inside.

“He asked me to be honest with him,” You recall, sick at the thought of how close you’d been to losing him, “And- and he was holding me, Carole, like he used to. And I couldn’t help it, I just- I wanted to tell him everything, I couldn’t stand lying to him and pretending nothing was wrong. But I- I don’t know if I can do that again. I don’t know if I can tell him the truth. I tried, and we got interrupted, I mean- isn’t that a sigh? Some sort of clue left by the universe to tell me to wait a little longer?”

“Baby I don’t think the universe is sendin’ you clues,” Carole looks sympathetically at you, “I think you’re lookin’ for reasons to run away again. I know I’m the one that told you to pretend, but that boy can read you like a book, and if he’s catchin’ on, maybe you ‘oughta give it up. I saw him in there, honey.” The door dings and slides open, and she takes your hand to lead you outside, “There’s nothin’ he wouldn’t forgive you for. He was clinging onto you like a leech, and I think he’d understand you were scared. Might not like it, but he’d understand.”

“He keeps saying that I’ll never lose him, or- or that he loves me, or that I can tell him what’s bothering me,” You gesture with your free hand as you walk to the parking lot, “And- and it feels so perfect! Like he knows exactly what I need to hear. Like I could tell him and nothing would change. But everything would change, and- and I don’t want that,” You suppress a sob as you reach Nick and Carole’s car, pulling open the door to the passenger’s side. 

She stashes her purse by your feet, stuffing the key into the ignition, “Baby, everything’s already changed. He just doesn’t know that. But he will soon, and once he does, he’s gonna realize why you’ve been acting so weird. If you were pullin’ it off, I’d say keep going. If he wasn’t asking questions, you could keep this up, ‘cause you’d be doing him a favor. That was the whole point, baby, to let him down nice and easy, give him a bit of time to adjust to the crash before confessing about the breakup. But I should’ve known he’d realize you were lyin' to him,” She scoffs, checking her mirrors, “That boy would notice you’d changed your haircut from just your voice on the phone. He knows you too well, honey, and if he’s askin’ all the right questions and you’re giving him all the wrong answers, that’s gonna stress him out. And that’s doing the opposite of what we want. If this is just gonna make things worse, I say tell him. But-” She backs out of the spot, en route to base to fetch his car, “Not yet. Wait until you’re home. Then he’s in a familiar environment, you can kneel by the bedside and grovel if you want,” She waves a hand in the air, “Just be honest with him baby, if it’s what he’s askin’ for.”

She barely lets you mull her words over before she starts again, “I think it’s a good time. You told me that when you left, you wish you hadn’t. And you’ve spent the last two days showing that to him, even if he doesn’t know that’s what you’re doing. He knows you love him, and I think he’ll forgive you if you confess that you were just scared of losing him. ‘Cause you can’t fake love like that, honey.” She eyes you through the mirror, “You can pretend y’all never broke up, but the way you love him, that’s not pretend, and he knows that.”

“I’ll tell him tomorrow,” You sniffle, “If he doesn’t know by then. I- I know I have to, even if it’s scary.”

“Atta girl,” She gushes, nearly flooring it at a green light in her excitement, “I’m proud of you, baby.”

“Don’t be,” You grumble, ‘Not yet. Not until I do it.”

“I know you will,” She decides, “You’ve never lied to me before.”

“Actually,” You gnaw on the inside of your cheek, “I have, once.”

She narrows her eyes, gives you a sideways glance as she makes a turn, “Oh, really? And when was that?”

“Uh, when we were in high school, I told you Bradley and I were staying at my place while my dad was gone,” Your face twists into an involuntary smile at the memory, “We went to Vegas.”

“What?” She shrieks, almost stomping on the breaks, “Vegas?”

“It was just for a night! And we didn’t gamble,” You scoff, “They wouldn’t let us into any casinos.”

“Ooh, you two,” She seethes, but it’s happened so long ago that she can’t be mad, not really, “Surprised y’all didn’t get married down there.”

“Actually,” You laugh, “We tried. But you weren’t there to sign off on it, and we were only 17.”

She shares a laugh with you at the memory, pulling into the security checkpoint outside of the naval base. You have to pass your ID over her, and you explain that you’re just picking up your partner’s car. They let you in, but you don’t think they like your presence very much, so you get the car and go as quickly as you can.

“It’s the motel just off the freeway,” You gesture in the direction of the place you’ve been staying, “We’ll load up the Bronco and meet back at our place.”

“See you there, babydoll,” Carole grins, already headed for the exit.

You roll up your window just as your phone buzzes, and you put the call on speaker while your phone balances on the cupholder.

“Hello?”

“Y/N,” Bradley’s voice bleeds through the crackly speakers. Then, like an attached toddler their first night away from mom, “I miss you.”

It’s just what you need to hear after your gut-wrenching conversation with Carole, and you croon while waving to the security officers on the way out, “I miss you too, Brad. I picked up your car. Didn’t want her sitting all alone on base.”

“Thanks, babe,” You can hear the grin in his voice, “Is my mom still with you?”

“No, she’s driving herself,” You merge lanes, brain on autopilot as you head for the motel, “And don’t ask what we’re doing, it’s a surprise.”

He scoffs; you’ve caught him, “Fine. They gave me lunch. It’s the same as yesterday.”

“Poor baby,” You coo, feeling more at home in Bradley’s Bronco than you had in your half-empty house, “I’ll make you something good for breakfast tomorrow, baby. Eggs, pancakes, waffles, sausage, bacon, fruit, whatever you want to eat.”

He takes a pause, then, “I have something inappropriate to say. But your dad’s still here, so I can’t.”

You let out a bark of bewildered laughter, especially when you can hear your dad’s voice in the background as he groans.

“I get the idea,” You promise him, and you hear Bradley huff a soft laugh into the speaker. You almost want to record the call, just to keep the sound forever.

“When are you guys coming back?”

“I don’t know, Brad,” You lament, tailing Carole as she heads for the freeway exit, “Hopefully before dinner. But if not, I’ll definitely be there when you get discharged, and I can drive you home.”

“And we can shower,” Bradley adds on to your sentence, eliciting another disgruntled sound from your dad, “And sleep.”

“And we can shower and sleep,” You promise, chest feeling light at the night’s plan. You’re pulling into the motel parking lot now, the dingy sign colored more in spiderwebs than in neon.

“I’ve gotta go, Brad.” You put the car in park, grabbing your phone and switching speaker off, “I love you. I’ll see you later, okay?”

He’s hesitant to answer, and you wish you didn’t have to hang up. You know he’s still uneasy about the way that your talk ended earlier, but he finally speaks up, “Alright. Love you, too.”

“So much,” You hum, “Love you so much.”

“So much,” He agrees, more of that audible grin in his voice, “See you later, angel.”

“See ‘ya,” You hum, and it doesn’t hurt as much as you thought it would to hang up, not after that.

Carole’s standing ready at the strip of doors, and you pull the small, rusty key out of your pocket. There’s nearly ten boxes stacked in your room, and you prop the door open with one as you gather anything that isn’t packed away.

You haven’t changed clothes much since being there, nor have you been keeping up with your hygiene as well as you should be, so the clean-up process feels like a day's worth, not two week’s worth. But you’re thankful for the easy pickup as you load it into a half-empty box, hauling it out the door and to the Bronco.

Packing the boxes goes fast when you work with Carole. It had been much more of a struggle to cart two at a time from your place to the motel room, but with a little maneuvering, all nine boxes fit snugly between her car and yours.

“Alright,” You dust off your hands, picking at the edge of your nail, “You ready?”

“Actually, you go home,” She decides, “And I’ll go to the party supply store. I’ll pick up some ‘Welcome Home’ stuff, and when I get back I’ll help you with the rest of the boxes, and we can set up together.”

“Perfect,” You heave a sigh of relief, “Thanks, Carole.”

“Of course, baby!” She seems to have a never-ending supply of optimism, one that you’re thankful for because you seem to harbor the opposite.

Hauling your boxes back into the house is unexpectedly the easy part. What’s harder is putting everything back, filling in the gaps in the bookshelf with your own volumes, stuffing the dresser with the clothes you’d chosen to take with you.

When Carole gets back you’re dragging your thumb over the shirt you’d taken off of your pillow, ready to fold it and destroy the evidence of its association with your two-week disappearance. She peeks into the bedroom, expecting to find you hard at work organizing your novels, and instead sees you sitting on the bed looking like you’re going to puke.

“Baby,” She hums, “What’s the matter?”

“He put this over my pillow,” You sniffle, staring down forlornly at the object that had offered comfort to Bradley when you hadn’t, “He slept with it.”

“Oh, baby,” Carole whispers, standing behind you and rubbing your shoulders, “He loves you. Isn’t that a good thing? Don’t you think it means everything’ll turn out okay?”

“What if he doesn’t want me back?”

For the first time, you say it out loud. You’ve insinuated it, sure, thought about it, but you’ve never said it yet. Not out loud. You voice the fear that’s been bouncing around like a balloon in your head, popping it and feeling the aftershocks flow through you. 

She’s quiet for a moment, not knowing what to say any more than you do. But she bends down, wraps her arms around your shoulders and hums, “He will, baby. He’s been sleepin’ with your shirt this whole time, he wouldn’t do that if he didn’t miss you.”

“But even if he misses me, I still hurt him,” You sniffle, “I- I left, is missing me enough for him to want me back in his life? What if I went too far? What if we can’t come back from this? What if I lose him forever, Carole?”

“He kept my ring.” She murmurs, her voice the calm to your storm. 

“What?”

“He kept it. Even though it wasn’t on your finger, he didn’t give it back to me. And he wouldn’t dare give that to anyone else, Y/N. It’s your ring, he knows it. That’s why he kept it, ‘cause he still wanted you to have it. He loves you even if you did hurt him, baby,” She sniffles, and you feel bad that you’ve made her cry, “That’s what love is. Sometimes you hurt each other, but if it’s love you find your way back. And what you’ve got is the strongest love I’ve ever seen.”

Your silence is enough of a reply, and you’re glad because it’s all you can muster. You can’t find the words to thank her, to tell her you hope she’s right, to beg to whatever deity exists for mercy. All you can say is, “I don’t wanna take it off,” As you stroke a finger down the shirt over your pillow.

“Wear it,” She suggests, pulling at the sweatshirt you’re wearing, “Put that on underneath it, baby. He won’t notice, and you can have it on you as a reminder that he misses you. Maybe it’ll give you the courage to tell him.”

“Okay,” You sniff, a stray tear drying sticky on your cheek as you stand. She turns you around and pulls you into a real hug, and you let her squeeze you before going to the bathroom to change.

The shirt smells like Bradley now that he’s slept with it for two weeks. You’re sure you’re just immune to your own scent, and that he could still find traces of it to lull him to sleep at night, but wearing it now feels just as comforting as you bet it felt for him to sleep with it.

When you wander out of the bedroom you find Carole in the living room. She’s standing on your coffee table with her right leg, and her left is on the arm of the couch. She’s pinning a banner to the wall, ‘Welcome Home Bradley!’.

“Hey honey!” She beams at the sight of you in your shirt, you’d forgone the jacket to not overheat while moving things around. 

“Do you need help?” You watch her drive a pin into the wall with her thumb, and she shakes her head as she reaches down for another one, “No, I’ve got this. You just take care of your boxes, I can handle the party.”

“Yeah, you get the fun part,” You tease, and she laughs.

“Darlin’, I wasn’t the one to take my puzzles and run. Now go put ‘em back, I’m sure they’re the first things Brad’ll notice are missing when he gets home.”

You head back into the bedroom without any complaints. It’s hard to put everything back. No, it’s nice to put everything back. What’s hard is pretending it was never gone in the first place; what’s hard is lying.

You slide a lone book into its place on the shelf, one last spot left beside a photo album. Your fingers brush over a gemstone on the cover and you tug at the hefty spine, catching the jam-packed book before it can fall.

“Wow,” You breathe, barely aware that you’re speaking out loud. The cover showcases Bradley pressed up against the hospital’s nursery glass, peering in on a very sleepy baby you snoozing in her bassinet with Carole holding him up. You’d been born shortly after Bradley, not even a year, and he’d been very excited to meet his new best friend at the hospital.

A flip to the first page finds you in your dad’s old apartment, sleeping in your crib while Bradley’s hand wraps around the bars he’d pulled himself up on. Then the next page showcases a photo of him in the crib, curled up in the space by your feet while you sleep peacefully in your own spot.

You take the photo out of its sleeve, flipping it over to read the inscription you know by heart on the back: Bradley’s attached to Y/N at the hip. Won’t sleep anywhere else.

The next photos are more of the same. Bradley holding you on the couch, a gummy grin on his face at the baby in his arms. His hands barely bigger than yours, handing you a toy fighter jet. Tummy time on a play mat, where he’s holding a rattle just out of reach to get you to crawl like he’d seen your parents do. A shot of you tugging on his wispy hair, then a shot of Nick dragging a crying Bradley into his lap while your dad holds your previously clenched fist open. They tell their own story.

You’d been fated best friends from the start, but as you age in the photos, your relationship changes. All of a sudden there’s puppy love in your gaze when you reach your tween years, braces in your mouth and hearts in your eyes. There’s a picture of Bradley teaching you how to skateboard, and you're holding his hands for dear life. You distinctly remember a fiery flush to your cheeks in that moment, and you’re glad the camera hadn’t captured it. There’s New Year’s Eve in your matching pajamas, you cradled in Bradley’s arms like they’d make you pose every year since you’d come into the world. It was cute when you were kids, then it was embarrassing when you were teenagers, and now it’s cute again. In the photo you’re looking at you can’t be more than fourteen, and you know the second the shutter clicked on the camera, you’d scrambled out of his arms like they were burning you. 

You flip through more pages, watching your relationship blossom from friends into lovers. All of a sudden you’re holding hands, you’re matching outfits, and you’re kissing when you think no one is looking. Then there’s the famous picture of Bradley on his 18th birthday, glaring at the camera with a box of condoms in his hands, courtesy of his dad. Funnily enough, your dad shares Bradley’s expression in the background. The inscription on the back of that one reads: Just making sure he’s safe! Don’t want any grandkids, not while I’m still in my glory days - Goose.

That New Year’s Eve photo is special. It’s you still cradled in Bradley’s arms like always, but you’ve leaned up to kiss him, and he’s leaned down to kiss you. You distinctly remember it being the first time you’d willingly kissed on camera in front of your parents, and the giddy smiles you’d forced into makeshift puckers are clear as day in the photo. 

The matching pajama sets you’ve outgrown together are all stored in a box marked ‘sentimental’, not one that you’d taken with you when you’d left. You have a current pair, red and black buffalo print bottoms with fuzzy black tops, and you plan on asking Bradley to wear them tonight.

You haven’t noticed, but a smile has grown on your face, etching itself into your features as you relive your love story. You flip through family vacations, holidays, birthdays, sports games, barbecues, a million family events that Bradley joined you at. There’s never any of you apart, even though he’d been moved around for his career, because no one has ever thought to take a picture of one of you without the other. There’s no Y/N in this book, there’s no Bradley, there’s only Y/N and Bradley, and that’s what you want to be for the rest of your life. You want to fill out the rest of this book with aging photos, clearer in quality while the old ones yellow. You want to stuff this book until the bindings rip, you want to look back through it one day in a rocking chair beside one of Bradley’s own, faces wrinkled and hair grayed. Your story can’t end here.

Your phone buzzes on the bed, and you drop the photo album there while you check your message. No surprise, it’s from Bradley.

- The doctor signed off, I can go home after dinner, which shouldn’t be too much longer. How’s it going over there?

That’s great! You type back, biting a smile off of your face as you respond. It’s residual from looking through the photos, but you have to remember, you’re not there yet. It’s going good. Your mom is scary agile.

- What’s she doing?

Can’t tell you ;)

- Damn! Thought I had you there. Your dad’s eating one of my cookies :(

Tell him I said to leave you alone!

- He says you’re not the boss of him.

Tell him your mom said to leave you alone.

- He says she’s not the boss of him.

Tell your dad to tell him to leave you alone. She’s his boss.

- My dad’s eating one too :( 

Those assholes! I’ll make you more, baby ❤

- I love you best. ❤

I love you too baby ❤

The lingering fear of a breakup - a real one this time, one that doesn't rewind itself amidst burning jet fuel - is stuck in the back of your mind, and you suspect it will be until you finally confess. But the photo album and Bradley’s messages have combined to lift your spirits, and filing your shoes back into their places doesn’t weigh you down as much as you suspected it would. You try to make them look haphazard, jumbling them with Bradley’s and turning a few of them upside down. You two are notorious for having out of control shoe collections, Bradley’s sneakers and your own shoes constantly tumbling out of the closet like a cartoon.

 By the time the sun starts setting early on your California dream you’re nearly done, there’s just a few last garments to slip into your closet. You do so while wrestling with the clothes that are already in there, a hefty collection that leaves little room for the dress you’re trying to wedge inside. Nevertheless, a too-full closet is better than a half-empty one.

“Sugar?” Carole calls from down the hallway, hopefully not precariously balanced on any furniture this time, “Nick says they’re just serving Brad his dinner.”

You finally manage to set the clothes right on their hangers, panting slightly as you withdraw from the closet, “Okay! I’m almost done. We have a lot of clothes.”

She laughs, “Yes you do! You should eat somethin’ before we leave.”

“There’s no food here,” You sigh, “The fridge is empty. I’ll have to go shopping later. I’ll just stop for fast food on the way.”

“Party’s all set up,” Carole nods, jerking her head back towards the hallway, “If you keep the lights off in the living room tonight, he won’t see it until tomorrow.”

“Okay. Are you coming over to celebrate?”

“Yeah, I was thinkin’ for breakfast,” Carole nods, “We can bring food?”

You laugh huffily, “I wasn’t kidding about there being nothing in the fridge. Anything’s appreciated, thanks, Carole.”

“Anytime, baby,” She beams, but reconsiders with a slightly furrowed brow, “Although, I hope this is the only time.”

“Me too,” You scoff, “Alright, let’s head back.”

True to your word, you pull through a fast-food drive-thru on the way back to the hospital. Carole knows Nick’s order, and you know your dad’s, hopeful that they’ll be tired of hospital cuisine and yearning for a burger instead.

However, when you get there, they’re waiting in the lobby, Bradley sat between them. You hadn’t realized how early they were letting him out, and Carole takes the bag of food from you so that you can properly hug Bradley. He stands the moment he sees you, eyes pooling with such urgency as he tries to respect the no-running rule of the hospital. You struggle just the same, and the moment you’re within arms reach of each other, tears start flowing. Bradley yanks you into his chest, almost tipping you forwards and himself backwards with the momentum of his hug. His chin nestles straight over your shoulder, as does yours to his, and it’s the kind of hug you get from him after a long deployment, maybe even more desperate now. His breathing is ragged beside your ear, but not from his medical conditions, from the desperation clogging his lungs. His fist is tight in the back of your sweatshirt but the fabric is loose on you, and it’s not a tight enough hold for him. His fingers scrabble for the shirt beneath the hoodie, gripping onto both garments and keeping you closer than you ever thought you could be with Bradley. Your hands immediately encircle his shoulders, and your fingers find purchase against the baby hairs at the back of his neck. You scratch through the ones at his nape, hearing him sniffle sharply where his chin rests on your shoulder. The hand that isn’t fisted in your clothes is tight to your hip, gripping you so hard that you can feel his nails through the jeans you’re wearing. It’s not painful, it’s just firm, and its strength is reassuring. It’s grounding to hug Bradley again, unobscured by breathing tubes, hospital beds, or prying nurses.

You hear someone’s phone camera sound off, but you’re far from discouraging it. In fact, you’re going to ask whoever it was to send you the photo later. The hug turns into an embrace, one where you sway lightly from side to side, anything that isn’t you or Bradley fading into the background. Your eyes are screwed shut but tears still cascade down your cheeks, melancholy waterfalls that drip off of the curve of your chin and stain Bradley’s t-shirt. He’s dressed in what he’d been wearing beneath his flight suit, the material thankfully not ripped or burnt thanks to the coveralls. You take the lead, pulling back, but he keeps the same level of contact with you. When your chin slips from his shoulder he grabs your face instead, using it to keep you pressed tight to his body. His eyes are teary themselves, streaks of the shimmery stuff down his cheeks and probably in his mustache, too.

“Hi,” You croak, smiling giddily through your tears. 

He smiles, though the chubbing of his cheeks nudges a few more tears out of his eyes, “Hi.”

You smear them away with the palm of your hand, and use your thumb to rid him of the ones clinging to his undereyes. His hands are on your cheeks, too, and he tries mirroring your ministrations, but his thumbs are too shaky to do so. For fear of poking your eyes out, he clamps his hands over your cheeks again, content with holding you while your tears run over the hills and valleys of his fingers.

“You’re standing,” You marvel, ‘I thought you’d be in a wheelchair.”

“It hurts a little bit,” Bradley admits with a slight grimace, and you back away like you’ve been struck. He doesn’t let you get far at all, dropping your face to tug you back by your waist, “-but I’d rather break another rib than let you go.”

“Sap,” You accuse, and Bradley laughs.

His lips twist into a sheepish smile, “Maybe. You can be my tree. I’m stuck on you.”

You sniffle, brow furrowing, “Huh? ‘Cause of the sap thing?”

“Yeah,” He laughs, “Isn’t that what it means? Sticky and sweet like tree sap?”

“I don’t know,” You breathe bashfully, your voice rife with part confusion and part sheepishness, “I guess that makes sense. But I’ve never been called a tree before.”

“I’ll work on my flirting,” He promises, stroking his thumbs up and down your sides in soft, soothing motions, “Can we go home now?”

You nod, “You should hug your mom first.” Only then does Bradley remember that you’re not the only other person in the room, turning in your grip to see your mini crowd of adoring onlookers.

He chuckles, “Sorry. Hi, mom.”

“Hi baby,” She gushes, letting him squeeze her in a hug. He’s much more gentle with her, out of longing for you, not disrespect.

Nick reaches over to ruffle his hair and your dad nudges you sideways, “Happy to have him back?”

“Yeah,” You gush, a breathless whisper, “Nervous, though,” You admit, “What if he slips in the shower, or something? Or- or some freak accident happens and he doesn’t wake up?”

“He will,” Your dad slings an arm around your shoulders, squeezing you close by your shoulders, “He’ll be alright, kid. And hopefully by tomorrow he’ll remember everything, maybe look at some pictures tonight to jog his memory. Show him stuff you took of these past few weeks, the places you went or the food you ate.”

You don’t have any pictures of your pitiful motel room, nor the candy bars you’d raided the minifridge for, but you wouldn’t show them to Bradley if you did.

You nod, breaking away when Bradley searches for you after his hug with Carole, “Thanks, dad.”

“You gonna be okay getting settled tonight, Brad?” Nick asks, already bringing a french fry to his mouth from the bag in his hand. Your dad has your food as well as his own, and you take your bag back from him as Bradley nods.

“Yeah, we’ll be fine. Thanks, guys.”

Everyone says their hasty goodbyes, and your hug with Carole lasts a second longer than you hope anyone notices.

“Tell him.” She whispers against your ear, the words a feather light breath, “He loves you.”

“I’ll feed you in the car,” Bradley grabs the bag of food from your hand when you nudge him towards the exit, “Can I have fries?”

“You’ve been on a diet of chicken and potatoes for two days,” You take the hand that he offers you, curling your fingers around his, “You can have the whole burger if you want, Brad.”

Bradley stops short in front of the bronco when he sees it, “There she is!”

“She’s here,” You laugh, “Perfect condition. The air freshener’s still good.”

“Poor baby,” He heads for the passenger’s seat, swiping a hand over the hood of the car on his way, “She probably thought we forgot about her.”

He settles comfortably in the passenger’s seat, though you’re sure it feels awkward to be there in his own car. He throws his head back against the seat and sighs, long and loud, a noise he would have made fun of his dad for making mere years ago.

“Comfy?” You glance sideways at him, your food in his lap while he rests against the seat. He nods, reaching for the bag as you start up the engine.

“Here baby,” He calls, popping two fries in front of your mouth just before you turn out of the parking lot, “Fries.”

You carefully bite them out of his hand, tipping your head back to get them fully into your mouth. You mumble ‘thanks’ through them, and you’re not sure if he can make out what you’re saying, but you hope it’s obvious.

“I can’t wait to get in bed,” He groans, “I know it’s only been a few days, but I can’t remember being there for three weeks.”

“It’s cold without you,” You hum forlornly, checking your blind spot before merging, your hands stiff on the wheel. Your words leave more of an aftertaste on your tongue than the fries do, and it’s an unpleasant one. They mean more than you let on, and your brain is clouded thick with the worry of sleeping in a cold bed for the rest of your life. 

There’s a moment of silence that Bradley lets follow your words, then he promises, “I’ll be there tonight. And every night after that.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Burger?”

He laughs, leaning in his seat when you turn, “Burger.”

He holds the food up to your mouth, letting you take a bite that smears sauce over your mouth. He takes a napkin, cleaning up after you and dabbing all of the mess away. You’re absolutely certain that if you weren’t on the road, he would have kissed it off. You make a mental note to eat just as messily when you get home, for experimental purposes.

“Can I have a bite?” He asks tentatively, and you turn at a red light to smile and nod.

“‘Course, Brad. I meant it, if you want it you can have the whole thing.”

“I don’t want you to go hungry,” He hums, taking a chunk to the left of your bite mark, “Thanks, babe. Fuck, that's good.”

“Did they finish your cookies?” You exit the freeway, muscle memory guiding you home.

Bradley speaks through a mouthful of burger, unpleasant to hear but somehow endearingly domestic, like he’s not worried about looking handsome for you. “Yeah. I got one more, but they mowed through the rest.”

“Those bitches,” You hiss, and he laughs, “Okay, we’ll bake tomorrow. But I’m keeping the vanilla away from you.”

He scoffs, “Always with the vanilla. I drank it one time!”

“One time is enough for a lifetime ban!” You insist, turning onto your street, “Okay, you shower and I’ll eat, then we can get into bed.”

“Sounds good,” He drawls, stuffing your food back into its bag and swapping it to you for the keys, “I’ll be quick in the shower.”

“No rush,” You croon, holding the hand that he offers you as you take on the front walkway together, “Don’t hurt yourself because you’re too eager to get into bed. It’ll be there even if you take your time.”

You’re bound for the kitchen and Bradley the bedroom, but you remember you have to keep the lights off so that he doesn’t see your decorations. You send him off with a kiss at the hallway, intent on watching him leave before setting up at the table.

“Goodbye,” You hum, standing with your lips puckered in the doorway of the hall, “If you need help, just yell for me.”

“Will do,” He nods, puckering his own lips and pressing them to yours with a cartoonish smack! You watch his ginger walk towards the bedroom, his hips off balance as his ribs ache in his chest.

Once you’re in the clear you flick the kitchen light on, choosing to stand at the counter instead of dirty the table. You busy yourself with your phone, tapping on an impatient text from Carole: ‘Have you told him yet?’

Not yet. You write back, munching on a french fry, Not in the car. He didn’t ask, either.

- Don’t lose your nerve, you can almost hear the critical tone of her voice just by reading her message, The longer you lie, the more he’ll worry about you.

I know. I’ll tell him.

- ❤️

“Babe?” You hear Bradley call over the stream of the shower, “Babe!”

You abandon the last few fries in the container, stuffing your phone into your pocket to rush to his aide. Horror flashes through your mind, visions of Bradley bleeding down the drain or hunched over in pain.

All you see when you burst into the bathroom is him looking like a puppy in the rain, a pitiful pout on his face as water runs down his face and through his mustache.

“I can’t wash my hair,” He laments, “It hurts.”

You can’t help but coo, “Oh, baby. Lemme help you.”

“Thanks,” He mumbles, “I already have the shampoo.”

True to his word, there’s shampoo smeared over his hands. Apparently he’d tried his best, but couldn’t move well enough with his broken ribs. You try not to laugh at his misfortune, especially because he’s in pain, but he’s just too cute to ignore. You try to muscle down the thought that this might be the last time you ever shower with Bradley, even if you’re not really in the water with him. You wet your hands, then wipe the shampoo off of his palms, reaching for his scalp.

“I’m sorry I’m making you stand in front of me naked and we’re not having sex,” Bradley huffs, “Believe me, if I thought I could, I’d be jumping you right about now.”

“It’s okay,” You chuckle, muffling the sound into Bradley’s forehead that you kiss chastely, “We should hold off on sex, at least until your ribs are healed.

Or until you know the truth.

“They don’t hurt too bad now,” Bradley muses, “But when I raised my arms to shampoo, it was really bad.”

“I’ll reach for things for you,” You promise, scrubbing shampoo into his scalp. It knocks loose leftover ash from his accident, and it flows down the drain in a swirl of gray bubbles.

“Oh, fuck,” For not having sex, Bradley’s making some awfully pornographic sounds, “That feels good.”

“I’ll bet,” you hum, “Can’t imagine having ash in my hair for that long.”

“It’s not pleasant. Oh god, babe,” He groans, “Hurry up and rinse it out, I’m gonna fall asleep standing up.”

“Okay! Okay,” You laugh, scrubbing in one last circle at the nape of his neck then reaching for the showerhead, “Have you washed your body already?”

“Yeah,” He murmurs, letting the water flow through his hair and rinse the shampoo out, “Oh my god, this is what heaven feels like.”

“Come on,” You smile, reaching for a towel, “Do you need help drying off?”

“You just wanna feel up my thighs,” Bradley accuses, and you laugh good-naturedly.

“Nope. Ass.” You admit, “But if you can do it yourself, then go ahead.”

“No!” He catches you as you stuff the towel to his chest, pulling you back towards the shower, “Uh, I need help. I think you should wipe down my very toned chest and my tight butt.”

“Oh, really? That’s what you’re having trouble with?” You snicker, and Bradley nods proudly.

“Yep. Can’t get my hands over my shredded back either, such a shame.”

“Alright, you flirt,” You scoff, “Turn around.”

You start on his back, and of course, it’s very fit. It’s nothing you haven’t touched before, in fact, you’re surprised there’s no scars there from your fingernails, but this is more intimate, more romantic, more sweet. This is love, not lust. You scrub the towel over his skin, wiping the water droplets away and rubbing into his tight muscles. You take extra care to dry off the small of his back, smoothing the towel down over his ass, too. Despite his earlier cheekiness, he doesn’t make any comments while you’re working. You wrap the towel around his thighs, pressing a kiss to his hip as you bend down to dry his calves off. He stands still to let you get his ankles dry, and you tap his foot to turn him around.

Now he’s looking down at you as you towel off his calves again, getting any splotches of water you may have missed before. You dry out the soft tuft of hair at his groin and move to his chest before you can tempt yourself, not wanting your first sexual encounter after a life-threatening plane crash to be a blowjob up against the shower wall. Especially not before you tell him the truth.

Now that you’re on your feet you’re face-to-face, though yours is bent slightly to track any water droplets you might have missed on his shoulders. You towel off his underarms carefully, making sure not to aggravate his muscles that are already bleeding pain through his gut. You swipe the towel over his neck, and in doing so, you’ve set your hand just below his chin. It’s as natural as breathing to slide it up his jaw, and he’s already staring at you, breath shaky as you return his gaze.

He moves first, but you take his cue right away. He leans in to kiss you and you’re happy to press your mouth to his own, not caring that there’s a drop of water leftover between his fingers that transfers to your skin when he cups your face.

“Baby,” He whimpers, desperate and longing, “I- I missed you.”

There’s tears beading at the corners of his eyes, and you manage a sad smile when you wipe them away, “Why, silly? I was only gone for a few hours.”

“I know. I just- I’m real shaken up,” He admits, “I- I don’t even remember the crash and that’s the scary part. I almost died and I’ve got no clue what happened. I feel lost, like- like I’m still stalling or something, just waiting to crash.”

“I’m so sorry,” You croon through your own tears, “Brad, that must be so scary, I- I can’t even imagine.”

“I just need you,” He breathes, clutching at your shoulders like they’ll recover his plane, “Just don’t leave, please.”

“Sweetheart,” You coo, equally endeared and saddened by his sudden panic, “We're not at the hospital anymore, there's no visiting hours. Why would I leave? We're home, we’re gonna get changed, and then we’re gonna go to sleep. You’re safe now, okay?”

“Okay,” He nods, voice a mere whisper, “Okay, let’s sleep.”

“Clothes first,” You remind him through a cheeky grin, and the expression scrunches your tear-stained cheeks, cracking the stiffened substance, “We’re sleeping.”

“Alright, alright,” He laughs as you poke at his bare chest, “Will you help me? I managed to bend over and slide my t-shirt off but I don’t think putting something on will be as easy.”

“Mhm. I was hoping,” You reach for the sets of matching pajamas, holding them up enticingly, “You’d match with me?”

He laughs, the sound thick and genuine in his bruised chest, “Of course. I won’t look as good as you, though.”

“Yeah, my mustache is better,” You sigh, scratching a nail over your upper lip that’s morphing into a grin. You whirl on him with his shirt, helping ease his arms into the fabric and stretching the neck hole over his head so that he doesn’t have to bend down. All in all, it works, even if the neckline is a little stretched. He doesn’t need help with his pants, but you feel compelled to do it anyways, sliding his boxers and then the soft material up his legs and tying it tight at the waistband.

“Thanks, honey.” He murmurs, bending at the waist and sitting on his side of the bed, “Fuck, that’s nice.”

“Lay down,” You push against his chest, helping him recline against his pillows, “I’ll be right back, B.”

You change quickly, too eager to crawl into bed beside Bradley to care that you’ve left one bite of burger and a few lone fries on the counter. Ants be damned, you’ll clean up tomorrow. When you emerge from the closet you wriggle happily beneath the covers next to Bradley, flicking the light by the doorway off so that all that’s left is your bedside lamp.

When you settle on your pillow he’s already looking at you, and the tip of his nose bumps your own. You melt into a girlish giggle, something that a teenager would produce after a particularly bad pickup line and a single red rose.

“Hi,” You gush, overjoyed to have him so close again. You kiss his nose in your fervent enthusiasm, and he smiles sleepily against his pillow.

“Hi,” He hums, reaching for your waist and pulling you close, “C’mere.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” You stiffen, but he molds your body to his anyways, “Brad, be careful.”

“I will be! I said it before, you can’t break me. Just let me hold you.”

You croon a sad sound as he wraps you in his arms, a sound of longing, of adoration, of grief. He clocks it as sweetness, though, and holds you close. Your face is buried in his chest and you feel his lips move against your scalp when he speaks.

“Y/N,” He starts, and your heart rate spikes at just your name, “About earlier-”

“Tomorrow.” You blurt, anguish rising in your chest, “Brad, can we- can we talk tomorrow? I’m not trying to hide from you,” You promise, but you’re nestled into his chest and muffling your voice, “I trust you with the way that I'm feeling, I just- I just want to sleep. I want to breathe for a minute. And we can talk tomorrow, is that okay?”

He takes a moment to deliberate, really, truly thinking about it. While he does so, your hands tighten in his shirt, desperately clinging to him. But eventually he nods, disjointedly so into the crown of your head, “Okay.” His hands tighten around your waist as he speaks, and you melt into his embrace, scooting impossibly closer. “Okay, honey, we’ll talk tomorrow. Let’s just sleep.”

Settling into his embrace has never been so easy. Since the moment you'd been in them for the first time only hours old in the hospital, you’d known his arms were made for holding you. They’ve been yours for as long as you can remember, even longer than that according to the photo album you’d skimmed through earlier. Bradley had been the third person to hold you, second only to your parents. Sure, he couldn’t remember it either, and Nick and Carole were probably doing most of the work keeping you balanced in his little lap, but the point is, he was made for holding you, and you were made for being held by him. Your face tucks so naturally under the curve of his chin and your lips press even easier to his throat, kissing at his voice that you love so much. It comes out to thank you for the adoration in a gentle hum, one that thrums against your lips. 

His hands revel in their access to the extent of your back, brushing and roving and stroking over every inch of the space he’s granted. It’s ticklish but you don’t dare squirm, letting his fingers send miniscule bolts of electricity through your skin.

“I love you,” He reminds you as he holds you close, the sleepiness fogging his brain clear as day in his voice, “I really, really do.”

“I love you too, Bradley.” You promise, kissing up his chin to his lips. The pecks you plant there are short, sweet, and chaste, but when you’re done laying them over his face you decide that you want to fall asleep facing him, not hidden away in his chest. Sure, it’s warm and safe there, but you can’t drift off to his sweet face if you can’t see it.

Your solution is to plop your head back onto your pillow, throwing a leg over his waist to keep yourself close. His eyes are droopy, and hold all of the tender sweetness of the puppies he so often resembles. He’s clearly exhausted, and your own eyes slip shut at the sight of his struggling to stay open.

“Night, Brad.” You yawn, settling against your pillow with the tip of your nose brushing his own, “Welcome home.”

“Night, baby. Love you,” He gushes, as if you hadn’t just exchanged the words seconds prior. But it feels good, it feels right, so you say it back.

“Love you, too.” You use the last of your energy to reciprocate, sleep taking hold of you in its comforting embrace. You slip away like sand into unconsciousness, all of your thoughts about love, and life, and Bradley, and none of the horrific possibility of his memories returning. Nothing’s going to ruin this moment for you, not now.

you  smooth  your  thumb  over  the  letter  in  your  lap,  the  paper  worn  soft  at  the  creases  from  how  many  times  you  have  folded  and  unfolded  it,  traced  the  elegant  loops  of  lady  albon's  handwriting. my  dearest  girl,  she  had  written, it  is  time  you  came  home.

home.  as  though  you  still  have  one.  as  though  the  townhouse  where  you  spent  the  first  twelve  years  of  your  life  has  not  been  shuttered  and  sold,  as  though  your  mother's  name  is  not  still  whispered  in  drawing  rooms  with  that  particular tone  of  half-scandal  and  half-pity  that  makes  you  want  to  crawl  out  of  your  own  skin.

but  lady  albon  had  written,  and  lady  albon  had  insisted,  and  when  the  dowager  viscountess  of  a  family  as  old  and  respectable  as  the  albons  insists  that  you  will  stay  with  them  for  the  season,  that  you  will  have  your  debut  under  her  sponsorship,  that  she  will  not  hear  a  single  word  of  refusal… well.  you  have  learned,  over  the  years,  that  there  are  some  forces  of  nature  one  simply  does  not  argue  with.

the  carriage  turns  onto  a  familiar  street.  familiar,  though  you  have  not  seen  it  in  over  a  decade,  familiar  because  you  have  dreamed  of  it,  because  the  memory  of  these  townhouses  with  their  white  facades  and  wrought-iron  railings  has  lived  behind  your  eyelids  every  night  since  you  were  torn  away.  your  heart  begins  to  pound  so  violently  you  fear  the  driver  must  hear  it,  fear  that  the  whole  of  london  must  hear  it,  this  traitorous  organ  announcing  your  return  with  all  the  subtlety  of  a  herald's  trumpet.

there.  the  albon  residence.  fourth  house  from  the  corner,  distinguished  by  the  climbing  roses  that  lady  albon  has  always  insisted  upon  keeping  despite  the  gardener's  yearly  protestations  that  the  london  air  is  too  foul  for  such  delicate  blooms.  the  roses  are  in  full  flower  now,  a  riot  of  pink  and  cream  spilling  over  the  iron  fence,  and  the  sight  of  them  makes  your  eyes  sting.

you  are  not  going  to  cry.  you  are  three-and-twenty  years  old,  a  woman  grown,  and  you  are  not  going  to  cry  over roses.

the  carriage  slows.  stops.

and  then—

the  blue  door  flies  open  before  your  footman  has  even  lowered  the  steps,  and  there  is  a  sound  like  a  small  stampede,  a  blur  of  muslin  and  ribbons  and  flying  hair,  and  you  hear  your  name—  your christian  name,  propriety  be  damned—  shrieked  across  the  morning  air  in  three  voices  at  once.

“you're  here!”

you  barely  have  time  to  gather  your  skirts  before  the  carriage  door  is  wrenched  open  and  there  is  zoe,  zoe  who  was  eleven  years  old  and  missing  her  two  front  teeth  when  you  left,  zoe  who  is  now  a  woman  grown  with  her  dark  hair  pinned  up  in  a  style  that  is  only  slightly  askew  from  her  sprint  down  the  front  steps.  she  is  reaching  for  you,  laughing  and  crying  all  at  once,  and  behind  her  alicia  is  bouncing  on  her  heels  with  an  expression  of  barely  contained  joy,  and  behind her  is  chloe—  chloe,  who  was  five  years  old  and  still  in  the  nursery  when  you  were  sent  away,  who  you  know  only  from  letters  and  the  miniature  portrait  zoe  sent  you  three  years  ago.

“let  her breathe,  zoe,”  alicia  says,  though  she  is  already  shouldering  past  her  sister  to  grasp  your  hands  the  moment  your  feet  touch  the  pavement,  squeezing  so  tightly  you  fear  for  your  circulation.  “oh,  look  at  you,  look  at you—  you're  so tall—”

“i  am  precisely  the  same  height  i  was  in  my  last  letter,”  you  manage,  “i  believe  i  even  specified—”

“letters  are not  the  same,”  chloe  interrupts,  but  then  zoe  pulls  you  into  an  embrace  so  fierce  it  nearly  knocks  the  breath  from  your  lungs,  and  you  feel  chloe's  hand  on  your  arm,  and  alicia  is  pressed  against  your  side,  and  you  are  surrounded,  you  are held,  and  oh, oh,  you  had  forgotten  what  this  feels  like,  to  be  wanted  somewhere,  to  have  people  who  are  so  fiercely  glad  you  exist.

“mama  is  going  to  be  furious  that  we  did  not  wait  for  you  in  the  drawing  room  like  civilized  ladies,”  zoe  says  into  your  shoulder,  not  sounding  the  least  bit  concerned  about  her  mother's  fury.  “but  i  told  her—  i  said, mama,  i  have  not  seen  her  in  eleven  years,  i  am  not  going  to  stand  about  making  small  talk  when  she  is  right  there—”

“you  wretched  thing!”  alicia’s  voice  overlaps  her  sister’s,  finally  pulling  back  to  look  at  you  properly.  her  eyes  are  bright,  her  cheeks  flushed,  and  she  looks  so  much  like  the  girl  you  remember,  “making  us  wait  so  long,  do  you  have  any  idea  how  many  letters  i  had  mama  write  to  your  grandfather?  the  man  is  utterly  impossible,  i  cannot  believe  he  kept  you  from  us  for  so  many  years—“

“it  was  not  entirely  his  fault,”  you  begin,  but  alicia  waves  a  dismissive  hand.

“i  don't  care  whose  fault  it  was.  you're  here  now,  that's  all  that  matters.”

“oh,  well,”  you  say,  “in  that  case,  i  don't  know  what  all  the  fuss  is  about.”

zoe  laughs,  the  sound  bright  and  startling  and  exactly  the  same  as  you  remember,  and  she  links  her  arm  through  yours,  steering  you  toward  the  house  as  though  you  might  try  to  escape.

“come,”  she  says,  “come  inside,  mama  has  had  cook  prepare  all  your  favorites—  do  you  still  like  lemon  biscuits?  i  told  her  you  did  but  it  has  been so  long  and  people's  tastes change,  apparently,  though  i  cannot  imagine  giving  up  lemon  biscuits  personally—”

“i  still  like  lemon  biscuits,”  you  confirm,  and  you  let  yourself  be  pulled  up  the  steps,  alicia  on  your  other  side,  chloe  trailing  behind.

the  townhouse  is  exactly  as  you  remember  and  not  at  all  the  same—  the  wallpaper  in  the  entrance  hall  is  new,  a  soft  green  that  catches  the  light,  and  there  are  fresh  flowers  on  the  side  table,  and  the  smell  of  beeswax  and  lavender  wraps  around  you  like  an  embrace.  you  stand  there  for  a  moment,  breathing  it  in.

“we  put  you  in  the  room  next  to  mine,”  zoe  is  saying,  already  halfway  up  the  stairs,  “and  chloe  is  across  the  hall,  and  alicia  is—  well,  alicia  is  in  the  attic,  practically—”

“i  am not  in  the  attic,”  alicia  protests,  “i  am  on  the  third  floor,  which  is perfectly  respectable—”

“mama  says  she  will  see  you  for  tea  once  you've  freshened  up,”  chloe  adds.

you  smile  at  her,  and  you  hope  it  does  not  look  as  tremulous  as  it  feels.  “i  look  forward  to  it,”  you  say,  and  you  mean  every  word  of  it.

the room they have given you is lovely, pale blue walls and white linens and a window that overlooks the garden, and there is a pitcher of fresh water on the washstand and a small vase of forget-me-nots on the bedside table.

the maid lady albon has assigned to you— a cheerful, round-faced girl named martha who chatters amiably as she unpacks your trunks— helps you change out of your traveling clothes and into something more suitable for tea. the gown is one of your better ones, a soft blue muslin that your grandfather's housekeeper had insisted you commission before your departure, and you smooth your hands over the fabric as martha arranges your hair, twisting it into something more fashionable than the simple knot you had worn for the journey.

“there now,” martha says, with evident satisfaction, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “right pretty, you are. the young ladies will be so pleased.”

you manage a smile, though your stomach is tight with nerves that have nothing to do with your appearance.

the thing you have not allowed yourself to dwell upon, the thing you have carefully not mentioned in any of your letters, is that the albons have had their own share of scandal in the years since your departure.

you learned of it through zoe's correspondence, though she had been characteristically circumspect in her telling. something regarding money, she had written, something regarding mama and an investment that went rather badly wrong. you know how these things are. papa has retreated to the countryside to manage his health, and alex has taken over the estate matters. we are quite alright, truly. please do not worry.

do not worry, she had said, as though you could do anything else.

the details had come to you in fragments over the following months, both from gossip and from the girls’ letters. the albons, it had seemed, had come across certain financial decisions… investments that had seemed sound at the time but had ultimately proven disastrous. the loss had not been ruinous, not quite, but it had been significant enough to cause a stir among the ton, significant enough that lord albon had retreated to their northern estate in what everyone understood to be shame, unable to bear the whispers and the knowing looks.

he had passed there, three years later, without ever returning to london.

and lady albon, beautiful, gracious lady albon, who had welcomed you into her home when your own mother was too busy with her affairs to notice you existed, had been left to raise her children alone, her reputation tarnished, her husband gone, her eldest son forced to shoulder the burden of the estate at an age when he should have been enjoying his youth.

perhaps that is why she wrote to you. perhaps that is why she has opened her home to you now, when so many others would have turned you away. she understands, in a way that few others can, what it means to be marked by scandal.

you descend the stairs with your heart in your throat, following the sound of the girls’ laughter to the parlour, and when you step through the doorway, lady albon looks up from her seat with a smile that makes your eyes sting all over again.

“my dear girl,” she says, setting aside her embroidery and rising to take your hands in hers, and her grip is firm and warm and exactly as you remember, the hands of a woman who has weathered storms and come out the other side still standing. “let me look at you. oh, let me look at you. you have your mother's eyes— did you know that? i always told her so, though she never believed me—”

“lady albon—” you begin, but she cuts you off with a sound of pure exasperation.

“it is minky to you,” she says, squeezing your hands once before releasing them, “as it has always been, as it will always be, at least in the privacy of our own home. i did not help your mother plan her wedding and hold you as an infant and watch you grow into this remarkable young woman only to have you lady albon me in my own parlour. sit, sit—zoe, stop hovering and pour the tea—”

you sit, because there is nothing else to do when minky albon gives an order, and zoe rolls her eyes, but does as her mother says anyway.

“you look well,” minky muses, “the country air has agreed with you. though i suspect you are glad to be away from it, yes?”

“i am glad to be here,” you say, and you mean it so fiercely the words come out rough-edged. “i cannot thank you enough— the invitation, the sponsorship, all of it—”

minky waves a hand, “nonsense. you are practically family, and it is high time you were given the season you deserve. besides—” and here her eyes glint with something that might be mischief, “— i have three daughters to marry off, and i find the prospect far less tedious with the addition of a fourth.”

“mama,” zoe protests, but she is grinning as she passes you a cup of tea, “you make it sound as though we are horses at auction.”

“the marriage mart is hardly more dignified,” alicia observes, “but at least we are not expected to trot.”

“give it time,” chloe murmurs, and you nearly choke on your tea.

“you are not even out yet, young lady, so i will thank you to keep your cynicism to yourself.” minky turns back to you, and her expression softens. “now. we must discuss the practicalities. the season is already underway, but we have managed to secure you a presentation— lady norris has been kind enough to host a ball tomorrow evening, and the queen herself will be in attendance. it is not a formal drawing room presentation, but it will serve well enough to introduce you to society properly.”

“the norris ball!” alicia exclaims, “oh, it will be such fun— their eldest, oliver, is terribly serious and thinks himself very important because he is heir to an duchy—”

"he is heir to an duchy,” zoe points out.

“—yes, but he does not have to be so boring about it,” alicia continues, undeterred. "and their second son, lando, is an absolute menace. charming, of course, devastatingly so, but absolutely impossible! he flirts with everyone— everyone!— and never seems to mean a word of it, and he and alex are thick as thieves, which means we are constantly subjected to his presence at family dinners, and—”

“he is one of alex's closest friends,” zoe clarifies, noting your confusion. “they met at eton, i believe. lando is... well. you shall see for yourself tomorrow.”

“oh, speaking of alex!” alicia exclaims, sitting up so suddenly that her tea sloshes dangerously in its cup. “is he not due back from the mercer estate tomorrow? i thought he was meant to arrive just in time for the ball.”

“you will finally meet him,” chloe notes, watching you those wide eyes. “is that not strange? that you have known us so long and never met our brother?”

“i have thought of it,” you admit, because there is no point in pretending otherwise. “he was always— elsewhere. school, i believe. so i have not had the pleasure.”

the pleasure. as though you have not spent years constructing an image of him in your mind from the fragments the girls have shared. as though you did not, as a child of eleven, develop a most embarrassing fascination with the portrait of the young heir that hung in the upstairs hallway, a boy of fifteen in that painting, a slight smile on his lips despite the solemness of the painting. as though you did not write his name in the margins of your journal, once, twice, a hundred times, before tearing out the pages in a fit of mortified practicality.

it had seemed so silly, even then. a childhood infatuation with a boy you had never met, constructed entirely from a painted image and the adoring words of his sisters. you had been eleven years old and desperately lonely, and he had been the romantic hero of every novel you had ever read, distant and mysterious and perfect in the way that only imaginary figures can be.

“he is very good at being elsewhere,” alicia says, “but he is also very good at being present, when he chooses to be. you will like him, i think. everyone does.”

“alicia is biased,” chloe says, “because alex taught her to ride and let her borrow his books and generally spoiled her terribly when we were small—”

“as opposed to you, who he also taught to ride and let borrow his books and generally spoiled terribly?”

“i am not biased,” alicia protests, with tremendous dignity. “i am simply stating facts. alex is— alex. you will see.”

“tomorrow, then,” you say, and from the opposite sofa, zoe grins at you, bright and knowing.

“tomorrow,” she agrees. “and oh, it is going to be wonderful.”

the norris estate blazes with light, every window glowing gold against the darkening sky, and you can hear the music spilling out onto the gravel drive before the carriage has even come to a full stop. by the time you actually do step out of the carriage, your heart is already beating too fast, fluttering against your ribs like a caged bird, and you press your gloved hand flat against your stomach as though you might physically still the tremor of your nerves.

“breathe!” alicia whispers, leaning close enough that her breath tickles your ear. “you look positively green, and green does not complement that gown at all.”

"i am not green," you whisper back, though you cannot say with any certainty that this is true. "i am merely... contemplative."

“she is terrified,” zoe observes from your other side, though not unkindly. “which is perfectly reasonable. alicia was sick in the garden before her first ball. twice.”

​​”that was the oysters!” alicia protests.

“it was nerves. the oysters were merely… contributory.”

lady albon, resplendent in deep blue silk, fixes all three of you with a look that somehow manages to convey both fondness and warning. “if the three of you are quite finished,” she says, “we do have a queen to greet and a young lady to present. compose yourselves.”

chloe had been left at home, of course, protesting loudly that it was entirely unfair that she should miss your debut when she had been waiting to meet you for practically her whole life. but she was not yet out, and rules were rules, no matter how one might rail against them. you had promised to tell her everything, every last detail, and she had made you swear on your own dowry (which, admittedly, is not much) that you would not leave out a single dance or gown or whispered gossip.

the ballroom, when you finally enter, is a whirlwind of bodies and candlelight and colour: ladies in silks of every shade imaginable, gentlemen in dark coats and crisp cravats, the glitter of jewels at throats and wrists and ears. the queen herself is holding court at the far end of the room, surrounded by a small constellation of ladies-in-waiting, and even from this distance you can see the knowing tilt of her chin, the way the crowd constantly fixes their eyes on her, despite their total unsublety.

your presentation passes in a blur of curtsies and murmured pleasantries, the queen's sharp eyes assessing you for one endless moment before she nods, and you are released, dismissed, folded into the swirl of the evening like a single drop of water into an ocean. you remember very little of what was said. you think you did not embarrass yourself. that will have to be enough.

“well done,” lady albon says quietly, her hand briefly warm on your elbow. “now, enjoy yourself. that is an order.”

and then she is swept away into conversation with a group of ladies her own age, and you are left with zoe and alicia, who immediately steer you toward a relatively quiet corner where you can observe the proceedings without being directly in the fray.

“right,” zoe starts, “allow me to bring you up to speed on the season's developments, as you have missed the first three weeks and quite a lot has happened.”

“is this strictly necessary?” you ask, but you are smiling, still.

“absolutely essential,” alicia confirms.

“very well.” you acquiesce, moving to lean against the wall, “tell me everything.”

zoe takes a breath. "lord acosta’s daughter— you remember the acostas, yes? the house with the pretty garden? well, she has set her cap for the lord hamilton’s eldest ward, which is ambitious to say the least, given that he has shown absolutely no interest in anyone this season and seems to actively flee whenever a young lady approaches him with that particular gleam in her eye."

“the gleam of matrimonial intent!” alicia supplies with glee.

“precisely! meanwhile, the beaumont twins have both decided they are in love with the same gentleman— a mister chen, who is very handsome, very wealthy, very oblivious— and their mother is at her absolute wit's end trying to keep them from coming to blows over who saw him first.”

“this is absurd!” you exclaim, but you are laughing, your eyes following theirs, “are there no straightforward attachments this season? no simple, uncomplicated courtships?”

zoe and alicia exchange a look.

“no!” they say in unison, and zoe adds, “where would be the entertainment in that?”

the music shifts, the first dance of the evening beginning to form, and you watch as couples take their places on the floor. zoe is claimed almost immediately by a gentleman you do not recognize, and alicia is not far behind, swept onto the floor by a friend of the family whose name you have already forgotten.

and you— well, you remain where you are, pressed against the wall, watching.

it is not unexpected. you are new, unknown, the subject of whispers that have followed you since you walked through the door— that is the one, is it not? her mother's daughter, back from wherever they sent her, the albons have taken her in, how very charitable of them. the ton has a long memory, and your family's scandal is not so old that it has been forgotten. perhaps you will be asked to dance later, once curiosity overcomes caution. perhaps you will not. you have prepared yourself for this possibility, have armored yourself with low expectations.

and yet… it still stings, watching your friends laugh and turn in the arms of partners who sought them out, while you stand alone with your punch and your carefully neutral expression.

you let your gaze drift across the room, cataloging faces, looking for… something, though you are not certain what. a friendly countenance, perhaps. someone who might be willing to speak with you, to break the strange isolation that has settled around you.

and then you see him.

he is standing near one of the tall windows, half-turned away from the room as though he would rather be looking at the gardens than the glittering crowd.he is tall, dark-haired, and handsome, incredibly so, with a face that seems made for smiling even though he is not smiling now. his coat is well-cut and clearly expensive, his cravat tied with a kind of careless precision that suggests either great skill or a very good valet, and he is—

he is looking at you.

your breath catches.

he looks away immediately, almost guiltily, fixing his gaze on some point in the middle distance, but you saw. you saw him watching you across the crowded room, saw the flicker of something in his expression before he schooled it into neutrality, and the thing is—

the thing is you know him.

not personally, no. you have never been in the same room with him before this very moment, but, you know the set of his shoulders from years of studying a portrait that hung in the albons' drawing room, know the shape of his jaw from the miniature zoe sent you three christmases ago.

lord alexander albon.

a silly childhood crush, you had called it then, and you had told yourself you had outgrown it, had left it behind with all the other childish things you had been forced to abandon when your world collapsed. you are a woman now, not a girl, and you do not form attachments to men you have never met based on portraits and secondhand stories and a few kind words in fading ink.

and yet.

and yet.

he glances at you again, quick and furtive, and this time when your eyes meet he does not look away immediately— he holds your gaze for one endless, breathless moment, and you see colour rise in his cheeks, see the way his throat moves as he swallows, and something reckless seizes hold of you, something that feels like the girl you used to be.

you set down your glass of punch, smooth your skirts, swallow the heavy feeling in your throat, and you walk across the ballroom floor toward him, weaving through the crowd with a confidence you believe is entirely fabricated, your heart pounding so loudly you are certain the entire room must be able to hear it.

he watches you approach. he does not flee, though he looks for a moment as though he is considering it, his hand tightening briefly on the glass he is holding before he seems to consciously relax his grip. up close he is even more handsome than he was at a distance, and you notice that there is a warmth to him, a softness around his eyes that the portrait never captured, and when you stop before him you can see the rapid pulse at the base of his throat, can see the way his lips part slightly as though he means to speak and then thinks better of it.

“lord albon.” you say, giving a brief curtsy, “i believe we have never been formally introduced, though i feel i know you quite well through your sisters' correspondence. i am—”

“i know who you are,” he interrupts, and then immediately looks mortified, colour flooding his face all the way to the tips of his ears. “that is— i meant— my sisters have spoken of you. frequently. at length. i feel as though i have known you for—” he stops, takes a breath, visibly collects himself. “forgive me. it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. a genuine pleasure. i have heard— that is to say—”

he is flustered. this man, who for all intents and purposes is a viscount, this figure who has loomed so large in your imagination for so long, is flustered, and he is standing before you blushing and stammering like a schoolboy. you are incredibly endeared.

“your sisters told me you would be here tonight,” you say, taking pity on him, offering him an easier thread to grasp, “they were beginning to wonder if you had forgotten the way to london.”

he laughs, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “the tenants' drainage issues were rather more complicated than anticipated,” he admits, “though i confess the journey back was… motivated.” he seems to realize what he has said and immediately looks as though he wishes the floor would swallow him whole. “by the season. by the start of the season. my sisters— they would not have forgiven me if i missed—”

the orchestra begins a new piece. around you, couples are pairing off again, moving toward the dance floor, and you watch his gaze flicker to the swirl of silk and candlelight before returning to your face, and you see the question there, the hesitation, the way he opens his mouth and then closes it again as though he cannot find the words.

eleven years, you think. eleven years of waiting, of wondering, of holding the idea of him like a pressed flower between the pages of your heart.

“lord albon,” you say, and you smile, “are you going to ask me to dance?”

his eyes widen. the flush on his cheeks deepens impossibly further. “i was working up to it,” he admits, “i have been working up to it for—” he stops, shakes his head, and when he meets your eyes again there is a steadiness there that was not present before, “would you do me the honor of this dance, my lady?”

he extends his hand, and you take it. his hand is warm through the thin fabric of your gloves, warm and solid and real, and you let him lead you onto the floor with your heart hammering against your ribs like it is trying to escape the confines of your chest. 

the other dancers are a mere blur around you, a swirl of colour and movement at the edges of your vision, all because you find you cannot look away from his face, at he way his eyes keep darting to yours and then away again.

“you are very quiet,” you observe, after a full eight bars of the dance have passed in silence. “your sisters led me to believe you were rather more talkative.”

he huffs a laugh, soft and surprised, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases. “my sisters,” he says, “have a great deal to answer for. i dread to think what else they have told you.”

"only good things," you assure him,and you cannot help the smile that curves your lips, “well… mostly good things. your sisters are... very thorough in their correspondence.”

something sparks in his eyes, and the tension in his shoulders eases slightly. “they are, aren't they? i shudder to think what they have told you about me. all lies, i assure you.”

“all of it?”

“well.” his mouth twitches, “perhaps not all. but certainly the most embarrassing parts.”

you laugh, “ah, so all of them, then.”

he chuckles, shakes his head, “you are not so inclined towards wit in your letters.”

you raise a brow, “you have read my letters? to your sisters?”

the question slips out before you can stop it, and you watch the colour rise in his cheeks again, that telltale flush that seems to give away every thought in his head.

“not— not all of them,” he says, and he sounds almost defensive now, “only… sometimes they would read passages aloud. at dinner. and i could not exactly leave—”

“of course not,” you nod, fighting to keep your expression serious. “that would be rude.”

“exactly. it would be unconscionably rude to abandon one's family at the dinner table simply because one's sisters have decided to narrate their entire correspondence in excruciating detail—”

“excruciating!” you exclaim, and you let your eyebrows rise, let a hint of teasing creep into your voice. “how flattering, my lord. i had no idea my letters were such a trial to endure.”

“that is not what i—” he starts, and then he sees your expression and stops, “you are enjoying this.”

“oh, immensely.” you confirm, and you do not bother to hide your smile. “you turn the most remarkable shade of red when you are embarrassed, did you know that? it is quite fetching.”

“i–” he begins, but then the music ends. around you, couples are separating, bowing and curtsying, drifting apart to find new partners or refreshments or the relative safety of the room's edges. you should step back. you should curtsy and thank him for the dance and allow him to return you to his sisters like a proper gentleman escorting a proper lady.

you do not move, and neither does he.

“lord albon,” you say, and your voice comes out softer than you intend to, “i find i am rather glad we have finally met.”

“as am i, my lady,” he says, eyes still trained on yours as he bends down to press a kiss to your gloved hand, “as am i.”

the days that follow the norris ball pass in a blur of morning calls and afternoon teas and evening entertainments, a whirlwind of social obligations that leaves you breathless and exhausted and strangely, achingly alive in a way you had forgotten you could feel.

you attend musicales where young ladies of varying talent perform for politely captive audiences, promenades through hyde park where the ton parades itself in all its finery and pretends not to notice who is walking with whom. you smile until your cheeks ache. you make conversation until your voice grows hoarse. you dance with gentlemen whose names you forget almost as soon as they release your hand.

you tell yourself that this is what you came here for, that this is the purpose of the season, this is your one chance to secure a future that does not involve returning to your grandfather's estate, or becoming a governess to a pack of what you assume would be spoiled brats, waiting for the lessons to end so they may cajole around in the sun.

one fact remains, though: alexander albon makes himself scarce.

you see him at breakfast, sometimes, already halfway through his coffee and the morning papers when you come down, and he will look up and nod politely and inquire after your sleep with the distant courtesy of a man addressing a houseguest he barely knows.

you see him in the hallways, passing like ships in the night, and he will murmur good afternoon or pardon me and continue on his way without breaking stride. you see him leaving for the gentlemen’s club or arriving home from some business meeting or another, always in motion, always just out of reach, and you tell yourself it does not matter, you tell yourself you are being foolish, you tell yourself that one dance does not make a courtship and one conversation does not make a connection and you have no claim on his time or his attention or the warmth that had flickered in his eyes when he held you in his arms and told you he was glad to have met you.

very well then. you cannot simply sit around and wait for a man to notice you, no matter how long your infatuation for him might have been. there is a deadline for you, a ticking clock in the back of your head, and you cannot afford to wait. that is the truth of it.

you will just have to be practical.

it  is  a quiet tuesday  afternoon,  which  should  be  noted  as  a  rare  occasion,  given  the  revolving  wheel  of  suitors  and  callers  that  seemingly  appear  at  the  albons’  front  door,  and  you  are  in  the  parlour  with  zoe  and  alicia  and  chloe,  all  four  of  you  crammed  onto  one  settee  in  a  way  that  is  entirely  improper  and  entirely  comfortable,  passing  the  latest  society  papers  back  and  forth  and  reading  the  most  ridiculous  passages  aloud  in  increasingly  dramatic  voices.

“the  society  papers  report  that  a  certain  young  baron  was  seen  leaving  the  beaumont  residence  at  an  hour  most  unbecoming  of  a  gentleman  caller,”  zoe  reads  from  over  your  shoulder,  as  you  are  holding  the  papers  at  the  moment,  her  voice  dripping  with  affected  scandal,  “one  can  only  speculate  as  to  the  nature  of  his  business,  though  this  author  suspects  it  had  rather  more  to  do  with  matters  of  the  heart  than  matters  of  finance.”

“the  beaumont  residence!”  alicia  gasps,  her  eyes  going  wide.  “that  is  where  the  twins  live.  clara  and  catherine!  the  ones  fighting  over  mister  chen.”

“do  you  think  he  has  made  his  choice?”  chloe  asks,  leaning  forward,  trying  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  papers.

“if  he  has  any  sense,  he  will  flee  the  country,”  you  say,  and  the  girls  dissolve  into  giggles,  a  bright  cascade  of  sound  that  fills  the  parlour  like  sunshine.

then,  the  laughter  cuts  abruptly,  ​​and  you  turn  to  see  lord  albon  standing  in  the  doorway,  frozen  mid-step  as  though  he  had  not  expected  to  find  the  parlour  occupied.

“alex,”  zoe  says,  her  voice  bright  with  false  innocence,  “how  lovely  of  you  to  join  us.  we  were  just  catching  up  on  the  latest  gossip.”

he  clears  his  throat.  shifts  his  weight.  he  does  not  quite  meet  your  eyes.  “so  i’ve  heard,”  he  says,  voice  careful,  “i  did  not  mean  to  interrupt.”

“you  are  not  interrupting,”  alicia  says  sweetly,  “we  were  merely  reading  the  society  papers.  nothing  of  consequence.”

“nothing  of  consequence.”  he  repeats.  “i  was  not  aware  that  the  gossip  column  qualified  as  essential  reading.”

“it  is entertaining  reading,”  zoe  corrects.  “there  is  a  difference.”

“is  there?”  he  asks,  moving  into  the  room  properly  now,  crossing  to  the  settee  opposite  yours  his  eyes  flicker  to  you,  once,  quickly,  and  then  away  again,  fixing  on  some  point  on  the  far  wall  as  though  it  contains  information  of  vital  importance.

you  lower  the  paper  just  enough  to  peer  over  its  edge,  meeting  his  gaze,  “surely,”  you  say,  and  you  let  your  voice  curl  around  the  words  like  silk,  “it  is  not  a sin  to  indulge  in  the  society  papers,  my  lord?”

his  cheeks  flood  with  colour,  and  his  mouth  opens  and  closes  twice  before  any  sound  emerges,  and  when  it  does  it  is  not  words  so  much  as  a  strangled  sort  of  noise  that  might  be  protest  or  might  be  surrender  or  might  be  something  else  entirely.

“i— that  is  not—  i  did  not  say  it  was  a sin,”  he  manages,  and  his  voice  has  gone  slightly  higher  than  usual,  slightly  breathless.  “i  merely—  i  only  meant—”

"he  is  flustered!"  chloe  exclaims,  “look,  his  ears  have  gone  red!”

“they  have  not!”  he  protests.

“they  absolutely  have,”  alicia  confirms,  grinning.  “they  always  do  when  he  is  flustered.  it  is  one  of  his  tells.”

“i  do  not  have tells—”

“you  have  many  tells,”  zoe  shrugs,  “you  are,  in  fact,  the  least  subtle  person  in  this  family,  which  is  saying  something  given  that  chloe  once  tried  to  hide  a  squirrel  in  her  wardrobe  for  three  weeks.”

“the  squirrel  was  very  quiet!”  chloe  protests.

“the  squirrel  ate  mother's  favorite  gloves!”

“that  was  never  proven—”

“i  believe  we  were  discussing  lord  albon's  tells,”  you  interrupt,  grinning  at  him  with  a  glint  of  mischief  in  your  eyes,  “please,  do  continue.  i  find  myself  fascinated.”

alexander  drops  his  head  into  his  hands  in  a  gesture  of  defeat.   “you  are  all  impossible,”  he  says,  but  there  is  no  heat  in  it,  no  real  frustration,  only  warmth,  only  the  exasperated  affection  of  a  man  who  loves  his  family  even  when  they  are  determined  to  torment  him,  “every  last  one  of  you.”

“and  yet  you  keep  us!”   zoe  says,  reaching  across  the  space  between  the  settees  to  pat  his  knee  in  a  gesture  that  is  more  mocking  than  comforting.

“i  keep  you,”  he  agrees,  raising  his  head  to  meet  her  eyes,  “because  i  have  no  choice  in  the  matter.  you  are,  unfortunately,  blood  relations.”

“and  her?”  alicia  asks,  nodding  toward  you  with  a  sly  expression  that  makes  your  cheeks  warm.  “she  is  not  a  blood  relation.  will  you  keep  her  too?”

the  parlour  goes  quiet.

“i—”  he  starts,  and  then  stops,  and  then  looks  at  his  sisters  with  an  expression  of  profound  betrayal.  “you  are  all impossible!”

“you  already  said  that,”  chloe  points  out.

“it  bears repeating.”

“but  you  did  not  answer  the  question,”  zoe  presses,  and  she  is  relentless,  she  has  always  been  relentless,  and  you  want  to  kiss  her  and  strangle  her  in  equal  measure,  “will  you  keep  her?  we  have  already  decided  that  we  shall,  so  really  it  is  only  a  matter  of  whether  you  are  in  agreement—”

“zoe.”

“what?  it  is  a  simple  question—”

“nothing  about  this  is  simple,”  he  says,  and  his  voice  is  quieter  now,  more  serious,  and  when  he  looks  at  you  again  there  is  something  in  his  expression  that  makes  you  acutely  aware  of  every  breath  you  take  and  every  beat  of  your  heart.

“we  like  her,”  alicia  adds  softly,  and  the  teasing  has  gone  out  of  her  voice,  “we  have  always  liked  her,  alex.  and  she  is here  now,  finally,  after  all  these  years.  does  that  not  count  for  something?”

he  does  not  answer,  at  least  not  with  words,  but  his  eyes  stay  on  yours.

“i  should—”  he  clears  his  throat,  rises  from  the  settee  with  a  jerky,  graceless  motion,  “i  have  business  to  attend  to.  if  you  will  excuse  me.”

and  then  he  is  gone,  the  door  closing  behind  him  with  a  soft  click,  and  you  are  left  staring  at  the  space  where  he  was  with  your  heart  pounding  and  your  mind  racing  and  the  echo  of  his  almost-answer  ringing  in  your  ears.

one of the things you have come to learn about the albons, in the weeks since your arrival, is that they are not so much a family who keeps pets as they are a family who has been slowly, persistently taken over by animals.

it had started with frooky, or so zoe had explained during your first bewildering morning when you had come down to breakfast and found a large, frowning cat sitting in the center of the dining table like a furry centerpiece, calmly grooming himself while the family ate around him as though this were perfectly normal behavior.

“once you have one cat,” alicia had said, “you somehow end up with eleven. it is simply the way of things.”

"eleven?" you had repeated, certain you had misheard.

“eleven,” chloe had confirmed, ticking them off on her fingers. "frooky, moomoo, hippo, gigi, blue bear, stan, horsey…” and then she had continued to list them off, all with endearingly ridiculous names.

there are also, you have since learned, a dog and two ponies at the family's countryside estate, a fact that chloe had shared with tremendous enthusiasm and alex had confirmed with the weary resignation of a man who has accepted his fate.

you have met most of the cats by now, though you confess you cannot always tell them apart, and you know there are several grey ones who blur together in your memory, but you have grown fond of them regardless, these soft warm bodies that appear on your bed at night and wind around your ankles at meals and generally make themselves at home in every corner of your borrowed life here in london.

this afternoon, you are in the library.

it is a rare moment of solitude; zoe and alicia have gone calling with their mother, and chloe is practicing her pianoforte under the supervision of her governess. you had intended to spend the time reading, had been eyeing the albons' collection for days, and when you had finally found yourself alone you had made your way here with something approaching reverence.

the library is beautiful, all dark wood and tall windows, and the shelves stretch floor to ceiling, stuffed with volumes in no apparent order: philosophical treatises shelved beside gothic novels, scientific journals mixed in with poetry collections, everything jumbled together in a way that suggests the albons read widely and eclectically and do not much care for organization.

the book you want is on the top shelf. of course it is.

you eye the ladder that leans against the far wall, consider fetching it, and then decide that the step stool tucked into the corner will suffice. after all, the book is not that high, and you are not that short, and surely you can manage without going to the trouble of maneuvering a full ladder across the room.

this, as it turns out, is a miscalculation.

you position the step stool beneath the relevant section of shelving, gather your skirts in one hand to keep them from tangling around your feet, and ascend the two steps with what you feel is a feat of admirable grace. the book, a collection of essays on natural philosophy that you have been longing to read since you spotted it three days ago, is just within reach, your fingertips brushing the spine, and you stretch up onto your toes to get a better grip—

—and something moves in the shadows of the upper shelf.

you have approximately half a second to register a pair of gleaming eyes and a flash of grey fur before the cat launches itself directly at your face.

what follows is not, strictly speaking, dignified.

there is a yowl— from the cat or from you, you genuinely cannot say— and a flailing of limbs, and a desperate grab for the shelf that only succeeds in dislodging approximately a dozen books from their places. the step stool tips, and your balance abandons you entirely. and then you are falling, books raining down around you as you you hit the floor with a thump that knocks the breath from your lungs and sends a sharp bolt of pain through your hip and elbow.

for a moment you simply lie there, stunned, staring up at the ceiling while dust swirls in the afternoon light and somewhere above you a cat makes a sound of profound indignation, as though you are the one who has behaved unreasonably.

“what in god’s name—!”

the voice comes from the doorway, and you turn your head to see alexander albon standing frozen at the threshold with an expression of pure horror on his face, his eyes darting from you to the scattered books to the step stool lying on its side.

“‘m fine,” you say, which is perhaps optimistic given that you have not yet attempted to move, but it seems like the right thing to say, “i'm— there was a cat—”

he is across the room before you finish the sentence, dropping to his knees beside you with a complete disregard for his trousers, his hands hovering over you as though he wants to touch but is not certain he is allowed.

“are you hurt?” he demands, “can you move? should i send for a doctor? what happened—”

“a cat,” you repeat, and despite everything, despite the ache in your hip and the embarrassment burning in your cheeks and the fact that you are lying on the floor of his library surrounded by fallen books like some sort of disaster, you find yourself laughing, “a cat jumped at me. from the shelf. i think— i think it might have been moomoo—”

you both look toward the window at the same moment.

moomoo is sitting on the windowsill, one leg extended toward the ceiling as he attends to his… personal grooming with the focused dedication of a creature who has never done anything wrong in his entire life.

“moomoo,” alexander says, and there is a wealth of exasperation in that single word, a lifetime of similar incidents condensed into two syllables, “of course it was moomoo.”

“he came out of nowhere,” you say, and you are still laughing, you cannot seem to stop, the absurdity of the situation finally catching up with you, “i was just— i wanted a book—”

“let me help you up,” he says, and before you can protest his hand is closing around yours, warm even through both your gloves, and his other hand is at your elbow, steadying you as you struggle into a sitting position, “slowly, now. does anything feel broken? sprained?”

you take a moment to assess, wiggling your fingers and toes, rotating your wrists and ankles. everything seems to be in working order, though you suspect you will have some spectacular bruises by dinner, “i am intact,” you report, “merely… dented.”

“dented,” he echoes, and when you look at him his lips are twitching, almost into a smile, “that is one word for it.”

“i prefer to maintain my dignity wherever possible,” you say, with as much primness as you can muster, “even in circumstances that actively conspire against me.”

“here,” he says, reaching a hand out, “let me—”

you take his hand, let him pull you upright. when you stand, you are unsteady for a moment, and he reaches out, places a hand on your waist to balance you. for a moment you are standing very close to him, close enough to see the individual threads of his cravat, close enough to see the way his throat moves when he swallows, the way his eyes flicker down to your mouth and then away again. the hand on your waist sears through like a burn.

“the books,” you say, stepping away from him, from his grasp, because you have to say something, because the silence is becoming unbearable. “we should— i should—”

“yes,” he agrees, and his voice sounds strange, rougher than usual, “yes, we should—”

you both bend down at the same moment, and your fingers close around the spine of a fallen volume at the exact instant his do.

you freeze. he freezes. and then you are both crouched on the library floor with your hands overlapping on a copy of the mysteries of udolpho, your gloved fingers tangled together, your faces inches apart.

“oh,” you breathe.

his eyes meet yours. hold. and you see something flicker behind them, before a shutter seems to fall, some invisible wall slamming into place between one heartbeat and the next.

he pulls his hand back as though burned.

“forgive me,” he says, and his voice has gone strange again, “i should not have— that was—”

“lord albon,” you start, but he is already rising to his feet, already stepping back, already putting distance between you. “lord albon,” you try again, “please, if i have done something to offend—”

“you have done nothing,” he says, though you do not feel any sort of reassurance, “you have been— you are—”

he stops. shakes his head. 

“i should go,” he says, more definitively now, “i have— there is business i must attend to. please excuse me.”

“my lord—”

but he is already gone, the library door closing behind him with a soft click that sounds, in the silence that follows, very much like a period at the end of a sentence.

you stand there for a long moment, and you try very hard not to feel as though something precious has just slipped through your fingers.

from the windowsill, moomoo yawns elaborately and resettles himself in his sunbeam.

the  day  after  next  dawns  bright  and  clear,  and  lady  albon  declares  at  breakfast  that  the  entire  family  will  be  taking  a  turn  about  hyde  park  after  luncheon,  no  exceptions,  no  excuses,  and  she  does  not  want  to  hear  a  single  word  of  protest  from  anyone  at  this  table.

she  is  looking  very  pointedly  at  her  son  when  she  says  this.

alexander,  to  his  credit,  does  not  protest.  he  merely  inclines  his  head  in  acknowledgment  and  returns  his  attention  to  his  coffee  with  the  studied  nonchalance  of  a  man  who  is  very  carefully  not  looking  at  anyone  else  at  the  table,  and  you  tell  yourself  that  the  twist  in  your  chest  is  indigestion,  nothing  more.

the  walk  itself  is  pleasant  enough.  the  weather  holds,  though  it  is  a  bit  crowded;  it  is  easy  to  disappear  with  the  amount  of  people,  easier  to  slide  beneath  the  rush  of  the  crowd.

lady  albon  leads  the  brigade,  with  zoe  and  alicia  are  linked  in  arms,  chattering,  while  you  and  chloe  enjoy  companiable  silence  behind  them.  alexander  is  a  half-step  behind  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back  and  his  gaze  fixed  on  some  middle  distance  that  seems  to  exist  only  for  him.

you  steal  glances  at  him  when  you  think  he  is  not  looking,  cataloging  the  line  of  his  jaw,  the  set  of  his  shoulders,  the  way  the  sunlight  catches  in  his  dark  hair.  he  is  beautiful  in  a  way  that  feels  almost  unfair,  and  you  wish  that  beauty  were  enough.  that  wanting  were  enough.  that  you  could  simply  reach  out  and  touch  him  without  the  whole  complicated  machinery  of  society  grinding  into  motion  around  you.

but  you  cannot.  and  so  you  walk,  and  you  do  not  touch,  and  you  try  to  content  yourself  with  proximity.

ahead  of  you,  zoe  lets  out  a  small  shriek  of  delight.

“lottie!”  she  calls,  dropping  alicia's  arm  and  gathering  her  skirts  to  hurry  toward  a  cluster  of  young  ladies  near  the  serpentine.  “charlotte  liao,  is  that  you?  i  did  not  know  you  were  back  from  bath—”

and  then  all  three  albon  sisters  are  gone,  swept  up  in  the  unexpected  reunion,  and  you  are  left  standing  on  the  path  with  alexander,  watching  them  embrace  and  exclaim  and  generally  behave  as  though  they  have  not  seen  each  other  in  years  rather  than  weeks.

“are  you  not  going  to  join  them?”  alexander  asks,  after  a  moment.

“no,”  you  say,  curtly,  “i  think  not.”

“may  i  ask  why?”

“i  am  wrought  with  scandal  enough,”  you  say  simply.  “miss  liao’s  family  is  well-respected,  well-connected.  the  last  thing  she  needs  is  to  be  seen  associating  with  the  daughter  of—”  you  stop,  swallow.  “well.  you  know  what  they  say  about  my  mother.”

he  is  quiet  for  a  long  moment.  when  you  glance  at  him,  his  expression  is  unreadable.

“the  ton  has  a  long  memory,”  he  says  finally,  “they  remember  what  they  wish  to  remember,  and  they  forget  what  is  convenient  to  forget.”

“your  family's  troubles  seem  to  have  faded  more  quickly  than  mine,”  you  observe,  and  there  is  no  accusation  in  it,  only  a  simple  statement  of  fact,  “your  sisters  are  received  everywhere.  your  mother  is  welcomed  in  the  finest  drawing  rooms.  your  own  prospects  are—”

“my  own  prospects  are  complicated,”  he  interrupts,  not  unkindly,  “our  debts  are  paid,  yes,  and  the  worst  of  the  whispers  have  died  down,  but  the  ton  does  not  truly  forget.  they  simply…  wait.”  his  mouth  twists  into  something  that  is  not  quite  a  smile.  “the  albons  have  survived,  but  survival  is  not  the  same  as  acceptance.  my  sisters  will  make  good  matches  because  they  are  charming  and  beautiful  and will not carry the albon name in marriage, and  my  mother  has  worked  tirelessly  to  repair  our  reputation,  but  there  will  always  be  those  who  remember.”

“at  least  they  whisper  quietly,”  you  say,  and  you  cannot  quite  keep  the  bitterness  from  your  voice,  “my  family's  scandal  is  still  spoken  of  openly.  my  mother's  choices,  my  father's—”  you  break  off,  shaking  your  head,  “it  does  not  matter.  i  did  not  come  to  london  expecting  to  be  embraced  by  society.  i  came  because  your  mother  was  kind  enough  to  offer  me  a  chance,  and  i  intend  to  make  the  most  of  it,  whatever  that  looks  like.”

“and  what  does  that  look  like?”  he  asks.  “to  you?”

you  consider  the  question.  it  is  not  one  you  have  allowed  yourself  to  examine  too  closely,   the  boundaries  of  your  expectations.

“a  respectable  match,”  you  say  eventually,  "a  home  of  my  own.  children,  perhaps.  a  life  that  is…  quiet.  stable,  at  least.  free  from  the  constant  reminder  of  where  i  came  from  and  what  my  parents  did.”  you  pause,  and  then,  “i  do  not  expect  love.  i  am  not  foolish  enough  to  hope  for  it.  but  i  would  like…  contentment.  someone  who  does  not  flinch  when  they  hear  my  family  name.”

he  is  quiet  for  so  long  that  you  begin  to  think  he  will  not  respond  at  all.  when  you  look  at  him,  his  jaw  is  tight,  his  hands  still  clasped  behind  his  back,  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  distant  figures  of  his  sisters.

“that  seems  a  modest  ambition,”  he  says  finally,  and  his  voice  is  strange,  as  though  something  is  caught  in  his  throat,  “for  someone  who  deserves  so  much  more.”

you  have  to  look  away  for  a  moment  to  collect  yourself,  to  press  down  the  sudden  surge  of  emotion  that  threatens  to  spill  over.  “perhaps,”  you  say,  when  you  trust  your  voice  again,  “but  i  have  learned  that  deserving  and  receiving  are  rarely  the  same  thing.  i  will  take  what  i  can  get  and  be  grateful  for  it.”

“you  should  not  have  to—”  he  starts,  and  then  stops,  shaking  his  head  sharply.  “forgive  me.  it  is  not  my  place.”

“no,”  you  agree  softly,  “it  is  not.”

“my  sisters  are  returning,”  he  says,  and  his  voice  is  neutral  again,  “we  should  continue  our  walk.”

you  nod,  because  there  is  nothing  else  to  do,  and  when  zoe  bounds  up  to  take  your  arm  and  demand  to  know  what  you  and  alexander  have  been  discussing  in  such  serious  tones,  you  smile  and  tell  her  nothing  of  consequence,  nothing  at  all.

but  later  that  night,  lying  in  your  bed  with  frooky  curled  warm  and  heavy  on  your  feet,  you  stare  at  the  ceiling  and  think  about  the  look  on  his  face  when  he  said you  deserve  so  much  more,  and  you  allow  yourself,  just  for  a  moment,  just  in  the  privacy  of  your  own  mind,  to  imagine  a  world  in  which deserving  and receiving  might,  somehow,  impossibly,  be  the  same.

and  then  you  close  your  eyes  and  put  the  thought  away,  fold  it  up  small  and  tuck  it  into  the  same  corner  of  your  heart  where  you  keep  all  the  other  things  you  cannot  have,  and  you  tell  yourself  that  friendship  is  enough.  that  if  alexander  albon  cannot  be  a  suitor,  then  you  will  be  content  with  him  as  a  friend.  that  wanting  more  is  foolish  and  futile  and  will  only  lead  to  heartbreak.

you  tell  yourself  many  things.

you  believe  almost  none  of  them.

“you  are  going  to  fall.”

alex's  voice  drifts  up  from  somewhere  below  you,  tinged  with  concern  and  what  might  be  amusement.  you  do  not  look  down—you  are  balanced  on  a  narrow  ledge  of  the  garden  wall,  reaching  for  a  climbing  rose  that  has  wound  itself  around  the  upper  branches  of  a  nearby  trellis,  and  looking  down  seems  like  a  poor  strategic  choice.

“i  am  not  going  to  fall,”  you  say,  with  more  confidence  than  you  feel.  “i  have  excellent  balance.”

“you  have  reckless  balance.  there  is  a  difference.”

“the  rose  is  right  there.  if  i  can  just—”  you  stretch  further,  fingertips  brushing  the  stem,  and  feel  the  ledge  shift  slightly  beneath  your  feet.

“for  god's  sake—”

and  then  his  hands  are  at  your  waist,  steadying  you,  warm  and  solid  through  the  thin  fabric  of  your  dress,  and  you  are  suddenly  very  aware  of  how  close  he  is  standing,  how  easily  he  could  pull  you  down  from  this  ridiculous  perch,  how  your  heart  has  begun  to  beat  in  an  entirely  undignified  rhythm.

“i  had  it  under  control,”  you  say,  slightly  breathless.

“you  were  about  to  plummet  into  the  rose  bushes.”  his  voice  is  dry,  but  his  hands  remain  at  your  waist,  and  he  has  not  stepped  back.  “which  would  have  been  difficult  to  explain  to  my  mother. sorry,  lady  albon,  your  houseguest  has  impaled  herself  on  your  prize-winning  floribundas.”

“it  would  have  made  for  excellent  gossip,  at  least.”

“a  small  comfort  when  you  are  being  extracted  from  shrubbery  by  the  gardening  staff.”  he  pauses.  “why,  exactly,  are  you  attempting  to  scale  the  garden  wall?”

you  point  to  the  rose,  a  perfect  bloom,  deep  crimson,  just  out  of  reach.  “for  chloe.  she  mentioned  at  breakfast  that  red  roses  are  her  favorite,  and  i  noticed  this  one  blooming  earlier.  i  thought—”  you  shrug,  suddenly  self-conscious,  “i  thought  it  might  make  her  smile.  she  has  been  melancholy  lately.  missing  her  friend  who  left  for  the  country.”

his  hands  tighten  almost  imperceptibly  at  your  waist.

“you  noticed  that,”  he  says  quietly,  “that  she  has  been  melancholy.”

“it  is  not  difficult  to  notice,  when  you  pay  attention,”  you  risk  a  glance  down  at  him  and  find  his  expression  soft,  almost  wondering,  “she  tries  to  hide  it,  but  she  has  not  been  herself.  i  know  what  it  is  like  to  miss  someone.  to  feel  left  behind.”

for  a  moment  he  simply  looks  at  you,  and  there  is  something  in  his  eyes  that  makes  your  breath  catch,  something  that  looks  almost  like  recognition,  like  seeing.

“come  down,”  he  says  finally, finally  withdrawing  his  hands  from  your  waist,  “i  will  get  the  rose  for  you.”

“you?”

“i  am  taller.  and  i  am  significantly  less  likely  to  end  up  impaled  on  shrubbery.”  he  holds  out  his  hand,  waiting.  “trust  me?”

you  look  at  his  outstretched  palm,  at  the  steady  certainty  in  his  eyes,  and  you  make  a  decision.

“yes,”  you  say,  and  you  let  him  help  you  down.

he  retrieves  the  rose  with  considerably  more  grace  than  you  would  have  managed—  a  simple  reach,  a  careful  twist  to  avoid  the  thorns,  and  then  the  bloom  is  in  his  hand,  perfect  and  unblemished.

“for  you,”  he  says,  presenting  it  with  a  small  bow,  “to  give  to  chloe.”

“thank  you,”  you  take  it  carefully,  mindful  of  the  thorns,  “though  you  have  now  robbed  me  of  my  dramatic  garden-scaling  narrative.  i  was  planning  to  tell  her  i  risked  life  and  limb.”

“you  can  still  tell  her  that.  i  will  corroborate  your  story.”  his  eyes  crinkle,  “i  will  even  add  embellishments.  a  treacherous  wind.  a  near-death  experience.  perhaps  a  small  fire.”

“a  fire  seems  excessive!”  you  exclaim,  but  when  you  turn  to  look  at  him,  he  is  holding  back  a  laugh.

he  falls  into  step  beside  you  as  you  make  your  way  back  toward  the  house,  and  the  silence  between  you  is  comfortable  in  a  way  that  surprises  you.  “you  are  good  with  them,  you  know.  my  sisters.  they  adore  you.”

“they  are  easy  to  adore  in  return.”

“they  are  terrors,”  he  corrects,  but  there  is  nothing  but  fondness  in  his  voice,  “well-meaning  terrors,  but  terrors  nonetheless.  the  fact  that  you  have  survived  all  these  weeks  in  their  company  without  fleeing  speaks  highly  of  your  fortitude.”

“i  have  practice  with  terrors,  you  do  not  know  what  horrors  i’ve  endured  in  the  countryside.”

“horrors!”

“oh,  yes,”  you  respond,  nodding  solemnly,  though  you  cannot  hide  the  smile  on  your  face,  “the  ghosts,  the  phantoms—”

“you  have  too  much  fun  jesting  at  my  expense—”  he  cuts  himself  off,  almost  saying  your  name,  but  he  clears  his  throat,  corrects  himself,  “my  lady.”

you  glance  at  him,  “well,  i  do  not  jest  entirely.  you  could  say  there  were  other  horrors—  i  mean,  it  was  always  lonely,  and  the  draft  always  did  cause  a  chill,  even  in  the  summer  months.  and  my grandfather—  oh,  when  he  gets  in  a  mood,  he  could  have  such  a  temper!  not  that—  i  mean,  he  is  kind,  on  most  days.”

“he  sounds…  complicated.”

“he  was. is.”  you  consider  how  much  to  share,  “he  took  me  in  when  no  one  else  would.  raised  me,  after  everything  that  happened  with  my  parents.  i  know  he  loves  me,  in  his  way.  but  it  is  a—”  you  search  for  the  word,  “—a  distant  love.  the  kind  that  provides  shelter  and  education  and  expects  gratitude  in  return.  not  the  kind  that—”

you  stop,  embarrassed  by  how  much  you  have  revealed.

“not  the  kind  that  your  sisters  have,”  you  finish  quietly.  “the  easy  kind.  the  kind  that  asks  for  nothing.”

he  is  silent  for  a  long  moment.  when  he  speaks,  his  voice  is  careful.

"my  father's  love  was  not  the  easy  kind  either,"  he  says.  “before  the  scandal,  i  thought  it  was…  i  thought  we  were  close.  but  when  things  fell  apart,  i  realized  that  what  i  had  mistaken  for  closeness  was  actually—”  he  pauses,  “—transaction.  he  loved  me  as  long  as  i  reflected  well  on  him.  as  long  as  i  was  the  son  he  wanted,  rather  than  the  son  i  was.”

you  look  at  him,  and  you  see  something  you  had  not  noticed  before:  a  sadness  beneath  the  composure,  a  loneliness  that  mirrors  your  own.

“what  kind  of  son  were  you?”  you  ask  softly,  “the  son  you  were,  rather  than  the  one  he  wanted?”

“i  do  not  know.”  he  sounds  almost  surprised  by  his  own  answer,  “i  never  had  the  chance  to  find  out.  by  the  time  i  was  old  enough  to  question  it,  he  was  gone.  and  then  i  had  to  become… this.  the  responsible  one.  the  reliable  one.”

“that  sounds  exhausting.”

“it  is.”  he  laughs,  a  little  ruefully,  “but  it  is  also  necessary.  someone  has  to  do  it.  and  i  am  the  eldest.  it  falls  to  me.”

“just  because  something  falls  to  you  does  not  mean  you  have  to  carry  it  alone.”

he  stops  walking.  turns  to  look  at  you.

“no  one  has  ever  said  that  to  me  before,"”he  says  quietly,  “that  i  do  not  have  to  carry  it  alone.”

“then  the  people  around  you  have  not  been  paying  attention,”  you  hold  his  gaze,  refusing  to  look  away,  “you  are  not  atlas,  albon.  the  world  will  not  collapse  if  you  set  down  your  burden  for  a  moment.  and  even  atlas…  even he  had  help,  in  the  end.  hercules  held  the  sky  for  him,  if  only  for  a  little  while.”

“are  you  offering  to  be  my  hercules?”

“i  am  offering  to  be  your friend,”  you  say.  “if  you  will  have  me.”

the  smile  that  spreads  across  his  face  is  slow  and  wondering,  like  sunrise  creeping  over  the  horizon.  “yes,”  he  says.  “i  think  i  would  like  that  very  much.”

mr.  logan  sargeant  arrives  in  your  life  on  a  wednesday,  during  a  musicale  at  the  bearman  residence  that  you  had  been  dreading  for  the  better  part  of  a  week.

you  notice  him  first  because  he  is  standing  alone  near  the  refreshment  table  with  the  particular  expression  of  a  man  who  has  found  himself  at  a  party  where  he  knows  absolutely  no  one  and  is  beginning  to  question  every  decision  that  led  him  to  this  moment.  it  is  an  expression  you  recognize  intimately,  having  worn  it  yourself  at  nearly  every  social  function  since  your  arrival  in  london,  and  perhaps  that  is  why  you  find  yourself  watching  him  instead  of  the  young  lady  currently  murdering  a  sonata  at  the  pianoforte.

he  is  handsome,  clean-cut,  fair-haired  and  blue-eyed,  with  the  kind  of  face  that  looks  like  it  smiles  easily  and  often.  his  coat  is  well-tailored  but  not  egregious,  and  there  is  something  about  the  way  he  holds  himself  that  seems  fundamentally different  from  the  english  gentlemen  around  him,  though  you  cannot  quite  put  your  finger  on  what.

“that,”  zoe  whispers,  leaning  close  enough  that  her  breath  tickles  your  ear,  “is  mr.  logan  sargeant.  from the  americas.”

she  says  the  words the  americas  the  way  one  might  say the  moon,  with  a  mixture  of  fascination  and  disbelief,  as  though  she  cannot  quite  credit  that  such  a  place  exists,  let  alone  that  someone  from  there  might  find  themselves  standing  in  lady  bearman’s  drawing  room  looking  lost  and  slightly  overwhelmed.

“from  the  americas?”  you  repeat,  keeping  your  voice  equally  low,  “what  on  earth  is  he  doing  here?”

“inheriting  a  barony,  apparently,”  alicia  murmurs  from  your  other  side.  “it  is  the  most  delicious  scandal.  well,  not scandal,  precisely,  more  of  a  curiosity.  he  is  some  sort  of  distant  cousin  to  the  late  baron  of  westbrook,  and  when  the  old  man  died  without  a  direct  heir,  the  title  passed  to  mister  sargeant's  branch  of  the  family.  he  arrived  in  england  three  months  ago  to  claim  the  estate  and  has  been  trying  to  establish  himself  in  society  ever  since.”

“with  limited  success,”  zoe  adds,  “the  ton  does  not  quite  know  what  to  make  of  him.  he  is  a  baron  now,  technically,  which  means  he  should  be  of  similar  rank  to  half  the  men  in  this  room,  but  he  is  also american,  which  means—”

“which  means  they  will  never  let  him  forget  it,”  you  finish,  understanding  settling  over  you  like  a  familiar  weight,  “he  is  an  outsider.  no  matter  how  legitimate  his  claim,  he  will  always  be  the  american  who  stumbled  into  a  title  he  was  never  meant  to  have.”

the  sonata  ends,  thankfully,  and  the  room  breaks  into  polite  applause  that  is  perhaps  more  enthusiastic  than  the  performance  warranted,  and  in  the  general  shuffle  that  follows  you  lose  sight  of  mr.  sargeant  among  the  crowd.  you  think  nothing  more  of  it  until  later,  when  you  are  standing  near  the  window  trying  to  catch  a  breath  of  fresh  air  and  a  voice  at  your  side  says:

“forgive  me–  i  do  not  mean  to  intrude,  but  you  looked  as  though  you  might  be  as  desperate  to  escape  as  i  am,  and  i  thought  perhaps  we  could  be  desperate  together.”

you  turn  to  find  mister  sargeant  standing  beside  you,  his  expression  apologetic,  but  also  hopeful.

“that  is  a  rather  forward  introduction.”  you  observe,  but  you  are  smiling  despite  yourself.

“i  apologize,”  he  says,  and  he  does  sound  genuinely  contrite.  “i  am  still  learning  the  rules  here.  in  america,  if  you  see  someone  who  looks  like  they  might  be  a  kindred  spirit,  you  simply  walk  up  and  say  hello.  i  am  beginning  to  understand  that  things  are  more complicated  in  england.”

“everything  is  more  complicated  in  england,”  you  agree,  nodding,  “it  is  something  of  a  national  pastime.”

there  is  no  calculation  in  him,  you  realize.  no  careful  assessment  of  your  worth  and  standing,  no  subtle  cataloging  of  your  family  connections  and  marital  prospects.  he  is  simply  a  man  at  a  party,  talking  to  a  woman  he  hoped  might  be  friendly,  and  the  straightforwardness  of  it  is  so  refreshing  you  almost  do  not  know  how  to  respond.

“logan  sargeant,”  he  says,  offering  a  small  bow.  “baron  of  westbrook,  apparently,  though  i  confess  the  title  still  sounds  strange  when  applied  to  myself.  and  you  are—?”

you  give  him  your  name,  and  you  watch  his  face  carefully  for  the  flicker  of  recognition,  the  slight  tightening  around  the  eyes  that  usually  accompanies  the  realization  of  exactly whose  daughter  you  are.  but  there  is  nothing,  only  polite  interest  and  that  open,  easy  smile.

“a  pleasure  to  meet  you,”  he  says,  and  he  sounds  as  though  he  means  it.

mr. sargeant calls on you the following afternoon.

and the afternoon after that.

and the afternoon after that, until lady albon begins setting an extra place at tea as a matter of course and the servants stop announcing him because everyone already knows who is at the door.

“he likes you,” zoe declares one evening, sprawled across your bed while you attempt to decide between two dinner gowns for the russell ball. “he really likes you. he looks at you like you hung the moon and he cannot quite believe his good fortune in being allowed to stand beneath it.”

“he looks at me like i am the only person in the room who does not make him feel like a complete outsider,” you correct, holding the blue silk up against yourself and frowning at your reflection. “which is not the same thing.”

“it is adjacent to the same thing,” alicia argues from her position by the window. “proximity to the same thing. close enough that the distinction hardly matters.”

“the distinction always matters.”

“does it?” chloe asks, “he makes you laugh. he treats you kindly. he does not care about your family's scandal because he does not know about your family's scandal, and by the time someone bothers to tell him, he will already have formed his own opinion of your character. is that not valuable?”

“it is—” you start, and then stop, because you do not know how to finish the sentence. it is valuable. it is more than i expected. it is not what i want.

but what you want is standing on the other side of a door he refuses to open, and you have spent enough years of your life wanting impossible things. perhaps it is time to accept what is actually being offered.

“mama thinks he would be a good match,” zoe says, more gently now, moving to stand beside you, holding the red dress against your shoulders, “she mentioned it to me this morning. she said that mr. sargeant is new to the ton, which means he needs a wife who understands how society works, how to navigate the complexities of the peerage. and you—”

“and i need a husband who will not hold my family's disgrace against me.” you finish flatly. “yes, i understand the logic.”

“it is not only logic,” alicia protests. “he genuinely seems to enjoy your company. and you seem to enjoy his. would it be so terrible, to build a life with someone who makes you smile?”

no, you think. it would not be terrible. it would be safe, and comfortable, and probably even happy, in its way. it would just not be—

you cut the thought off before it can complete itself.

“the blue,” you say instead, turning back to the mirror. “i will wear the blue.”

you do not mean to discuss mr. sargeant with lord albon. it simply… happens.

you are in the drawing room, reviewing the invitations that have arrived for the coming week, and he is there as well, reading a book though you have not seen him turn a page in the better part of an hour. the fire crackles in the grate. outside, rain streaks the windows in long grey trails. and somehow, in the quiet domesticity of the moment, you find yourself saying:

“your mother believes mister sargeant intends to make an offer.”

the book in alexander's hands goes very still.

“does she…” he says, and his voice is carefully neutral, so carefully neutral that it circles back around to being obvious.

“she thinks it would be a good match,” you continue, watching his profile, trying to read something, anything, in the set of his jaw, the terse line of his shoulders, “he needs someone who understands english society. i need someone who—”

“who what?” alexander interrupts, and there is an edge to his voice now, “who does not know your history? who can be kept ignorant of the truth until it is too late for him to extricate himself?”

the words land like a slap, and you feel the colour drain from your face. “that is unfair,” you say quietly, “and you are being unkind.”

“you are right,” he says. “forgive me, i should not have said that.”

“no,” you agree, your lips pursing into a thin line, “you should not have.”

“mr. sargeant seems a decent man,” he says finally, and each word sounds as though it is being dragged out of him by force, “i am sure he would make you—” he stops, swallows. “i am sure you would be—”

“happy?” you supply, when he does not continue.

“content. i am sure you would be content.”

content. there is that word again, the ceiling of your ambitions, the highest rung of the ladder you are permitted to climb. you remember saying it yourself, that day in the park. i do not expect love. i would settle for contentment. but hearing it from his mouth, in that hollow voice, with that bleak expression… it sounds different. it sounds like a door closing.

“my lord—” you start, but he is already rising to his feet, already setting aside his unread book, already retreating with that familiar efficiency that you have come to recognize as his primary defense mechanism.

“forgive me. i had forgotten i was to meet mr. russell— george— at the gentleman’s club today,” he says, and he does not meet your eyes. “please excuse me.”

and then he is gone, and you are left alone with the fire and the rain and the growing certainty that something is very, very wrong, something you cannot name and he will not explain and neither of you seems capable of addressing directly.

it is raining again.

london, you have come to understand, exists in a perpetual state of dampness, the sky a low grey ceiling that presses down upon the city like a hand, the cobblestones eternally slick, the air carrying that particular smell of wet stone and coal smoke and something green struggling to grow beneath it all. you have been here long enough now that the rain no longer surprises you, no longer sends you rushing for shelter with the desperate urgency of your first weeks. you have learned to move through it, around it, to accept it as simply another facet of this strange new, temporary life.

this afternoon, the rain has driven everyone indoors, and you have retreated to the small conservatory at the back of the house, a glass-walled room filled with potted ferns and trailing ivy and the particular humid warmth of growing things. it is your favorite space in the albon residence, this little pocket of green amid the grey, and you come here often when you need to think, need to breathe, need to remember that there are living things in the world that do not care about scandal or propriety or the elaborate machinery of the marriage mart.

you are repotting a small orchid, one of of the lady albon’s, slightly neglected, its roots outgrowing their current home, when you hear the door open behind you. you do not turn around.

“i did not realize anyone was in here.” alexander says, and there is a hesitation in his voice, a question beneath the statement: should i leave? do you want me to go?

"”he rain.” you say, by way of explanation, still focused on the orchid, “i find it peaceful, watching it from in here. like being inside a terrarium.”

“a terrarium,” he echoes, and you hear him move further into the room, hear the soft click of the door closing behind him, “i had not thought of it that way.”

“your mother's orchid needed repotting,” you add, “i hope she does not mind. i found it looking rather sad on the windowsill in the morning room, and i thought—”

“she will not mind,” he says. “she will be pleased, actually. she loves that orchid but can never remember to care for it properly. she calls it her 'beautiful failure.'”

“that seems an unkind thing to call a living creature.”

“she means it affectionately. or so she claims.”

you smile despite yourself, and you hear him move close enough now that you can see him from the corner of your eye, leaning against one of the plant stands with his arms crossed over his chest. he is in shirtsleeves, you notice, his coat and waistcoat abandoned somewhere, and the informality of it sends a small shock through your system.

“you are good at that,” he observes, watching your hands work the soil, “the plants. you have a gentle touch.”

“my grandfather's estate had extensive gardens,” you find yourself saying, “i spent a great deal of time in them, growing up. it was—” you pause, considering how much to share, “it was the only place that felt truly mine. the house belonged to my grandfather, and the library belonged to my tutors, and even my own room felt borrowed somehow. but the gardens did not care who my parents were or what they had done. they only cared whether i watered them and gave them enough light.”

“that sounds lonely,” he says quietly.

“it was,” you admit. “but it was also peaceful. i knew what the plants needed from me, and i could provide it, and in return they grew and bloomed and asked nothing more.” you lift one shoulder in a small shrug. “there is something to be said for relationships with clear expectations.”

“i am sorry,” he says, “that you had to learn that lesson so young.”

“we all learn our lessons,” you reply softly, “some of us simply learn them earlier than others.”

you return your attention to the orchid, tamping down the fresh soil around its roots, and for a few minutes there is only the sound of the rain against the glass and the quiet rhythm of your work. 

“there,” you say finally, stepping back to survey your work, “she should be much happier now. another few weeks and she may even bloom.”

you reach for the small watering can you had set aside earlier, but your hands are covered in soil, dark earth caught beneath your fingernails and smudged across your palms, and you make a small sound of frustration.

“here,” alex says, and he is beside you suddenly, and he is offering you a handkerchief, plain white cotton, slightly rumpled.

“thank you.” you murmur, and you reach for it without thinking, and your fingers brush against his.

the touch is electric.

you feel it everywhere, sparking up your arm, blooming in your chest. his hand is warm, so warm, and you realize with a start that neither of you are wearing gloves, that this is skin against skin, your soil-stained fingers pressed against his bare palm, and the intimacy of it makes your breath hitch.

you look up. find his eyes already on you.

he is frozen, still as a statue, his lips slightly parted and his pupils blown wide, and you can see the pulse jumping at the base of his throat, can see the way his chest rises and falls with quickened breath. the handkerchief is caught between you, forgotten, and neither of you moves to complete the exchange.

“i—” you start, but you do not know how to finish the sentence, do not know what words could possibly be adequate for this moment.

his thumb moves. just slightly. A barely-there brush against the inside of your wrist, tracing the delicate skin where your pulse beats rapid and frantic, and the sensation is so overwhelming that you actually gasp, a small, soft sound that seems to echo in the humid air of the conservatory.

“forgive me,” he breathes, and his voice is a wreck, raw, barely above a whisper. “i should not— we should not—”

but he does not pull away. and neither do you. you stand there, and you think: this is madness. this is impossible. this is everything i have been trying so hard not to want.

and then a door slams somewhere in the house. voices echo down the corridor, the general commotion of the albon sisters returning from wherever they had been. the spell shatters like glass, reality rushing back in to fill the space between you, and you jerk backward so quickly you nearly knock the freshly potted orchid from its stand.

“i should—” your voice comes out strangled, “i need to— the soil, i should wash—”

“yes,” alex says, and he sounds as shattered as you feel, his hand still extended as though he has forgotten how to lower it. “yes, of course, you should—”

“excuse me,” you manage, and you do not wait for a response, do not look back, simply flee (because there is no other word for it) out of the conservatory and up the stairs and into your room, where you close the door behind you and press your back against it and try very, very hard to remember how to breathe.

your hand is shaking.

you lift it, examine it in the grey afternoon light, the soil still caught beneath your nails, the faint redness where his skin touched yours. you can still feel the ghost of that touch, the warmth of it lingering.

we should not, he had said.

but he had not said i do not want to.

and therein, you think, lies all the difference.

the hamilton ball is a crush.

this is, you have learned, considered a compliment. a crush means the event is successful, well-attended, the sort of gathering that people will speak of for weeks afterward with tones of satisfaction or envy depending on whether they managed to secure an invitation.

you have been at the ball for perhaps an hour, navigating the crowd with zoe and alicia as your guides, making polite conversation with mamas and debutantes, carefully avoiding any corner of the room where alexander might be standing, when mr. sargeant appears at your elbow.

“you look,” he says, and then stops, “forgive me. i had a compliment prepared, something properly poetic, and it has completely fled my mind now that i am actually standing in front of you.”

“that might be the nicest compliment i have ever received,” you tell him honestly, “far better than poetry.”

“then i shall endeavor to remain tongue-tied in your presence,” he says, “may i have the honor of this dance?”

you should hesitate, consider. you should think about what it means, to dance with a man who has been calling on you daily, whose intentions have been made increasingly clear, whose proposal you can feel approaching like a storm on the horizon.

but the music is swelling and his hand is extended and somewhere across the room you can feel alexander's eyes on you like a physical weight, and so you say yes.

you say yes, and you let him lead you onto the floor, and you dance.

and then the dance ends. you curtsy. he bows. and then he looks at you with those clear blue eyes and says: “i know it is forward, and i know it is perhaps more than i should ask, but would you do me the honor of a second dance?”

a second dance?

in the language of the ton, a second dance is not quite a proposal, but close. a second dance says i am serious about you. a second dance says i want everyone in this room to know that my intentions are honorable. 

you should refuse. you should demur, claim fatigue, suggest that he partner someone else lest the gossips begin to talk.

“yes,” you say instead, offering your wrist, as he signs your dance card, “i would be honored.”

and so you dance again.

when it ends, he escorts you from the floor with visible reluctance, fetches you a glass of lemonade, and excuses himself to pay his respects to some acquaintance or another with the promise that he will find you again before the evening is out.

you watch him go, and you think: he is going to propose. soon. perhaps even tonight. you do not know how to feel about that.

“that was quite a display.”

the voice comes from behind you, and you do not need to turn around to know who it belongs to.

"lord albon," you say. "i did not see you there."

“evidently not.” alexander says, moving to stand beside you. his jaw is set, his shoulders rigid, and when you glance at him his eyes are fixed on the point in the crowd where mister sargeant has disappeared. “you seemed rather… occupied.”

“i was dancing,” you retort, “that is generally the purpose of a ball.”

“twice.”

very well, then.

“yes,” you agree, because there is no point in pretending otherwise. “twice.”

he is silent for a long moment. when he speaks again, his voice has lost some of its edge, replaced by something that sounds almost like defeat.

“the next dance is a waltz,” he starts, “would you—” he stops, swallows, forces himself to continue. “would you do me the honor?”

you should refuse, should claim that three dances in a row would be too much, claim anything that would allow you to escape this impossible situation without making it worse.

but it seems you have never been good at refusing alexander albon anything.

“yes,” you say softly, “i would.”

the waltz is nothing like your first dance with him, all those weeks ago at the norris ball—  this dance is something else entirely, his hand pressing warm and firm against your waist, your bodies closer than they should be, closer than propriety allows.

he does not speak. neither do you. there are no words that would be adequate for this moment, no conversation that could possibly address the tangled mess of wanting and denial and impossible longing that stretches between you like a living thing. so you simply move, let him guide you through the steps, let yourself exist in this single stolen moment where you can pretend that wanting is enough.

his thumb traces a small circle against the curve of your waist, and you feel your breath catch, feel the colour rise in your cheeks.

and then the dance ends, and the world rushes back in, and you are left standing in the middle of the hamiltons’ ballroom with your heart pounding and your hands trembling and the absolute certainty that you are in far, far deeper than you ever intended to be.

mr. sargeant calls the next afternoon.

you know, from the moment you see his face, what he has come to say. 

the drawing room feels smaller than usual when he enters, as though the walls have contracted to accommodate the magnitude of what is about to happen. lady albon is seated in her usual chair, her embroidery abandoned in her lap, and the girls are arrayed around the room in various attitudes of forced casualness— zoe by the window, alicia on the settee, chloe curled in the armchair with a book she is very obviously not reading.

alexander is standing by the fireplace.

you do not look at him. you cannot look at him. if you look at him you will lose your nerve entirely, and you cannot afford to lose your nerve right now.

“lady albon,” mr. sargeant says, and his voice is steady despite the slight tremor in his hands,  “ladies. lord albon.” he pauses, takes a breath, visibly steels himself, “i wonder if i might have a moment alone with—” he gestures toward you.

the room goes very still.

“of course,” lady albon says, after a moment, “girls, i believe you were planning to review the menus for the house party. alexander, perhaps you could—”

“yes,” alex says, and his voice sounds hollow, scraped clean of emotion, “yes, of course.”

he does not look at you as he leaves.

you do not watch him go.

and then the door closes, and you are alone with mr. sargeant (although lady albon stands as chaperone), and the weight of what is about to happen comes crashing down on you.

“mr. sargeant—”

“logan.” he corrects gently. “please. i think we have moved past formality, you and i.”

you swallow. you nod. “logan.”

“i am asking you to marry me,” logan says, and his voice is steady, certain, the voice of a man who has rehearsed these words a hundred times and means every one of them. “i know i am not what you expected— an american, an outsider, a man still learning what it means to bear a title he never asked for. but i have heard the whispers about your family, and i find that i do not care. i care about you. your kindness, the way you make me feel like i might actually belong in this impossible, impossible country.”

here is everything you should want. and yet…

“mr. sa— logan.” you say, and your voice catches on his name,  “i am— i am honored, truly. more than i can say. but i—” you stop, take a breath, try to find words that will not wound him. you glance at lady albon, who has a wary expression on her face, “might i have a few days to consider? this is a significant decision, and i want to be certain that my answer is the right one. for both of us.”

“of course,” he says, “of course you should take time. i would not want you to feel rushed, or pressured. this should be your choice, freely made.”

“thank you for understanding,” you whisper.

“might i ask—” he hesitates, then presses on. “might i ask when i might expect an answer? only so i know whether to hope or—” he attempts a smile, though it does not quite reach his eyes, “or begin preparing my heart for disappointment.”

“the albon ball,” you say. "at mercer hall, in a fortnight. i will give you my answer then.”

his face brightens, “the albon ball,” he repeats, “that is— yes. that is perfect. i will be there. i will be waiting.”

“logan—”

"until mercer hall, then," he says.

"until mercer hall," you agree.

and when you are alone in the drawing room with nothing but your thoughts and the crackle of the fire, you sink onto the settee and press your palms against your eyes and try very, very hard not to think about the other man who left this room without looking at you.

the man whose face you cannot seem to stop seeing, no matter how tightly you close your eyes.

the man who has given you no promises, no declarations, no reason to hope, and yet somehow manages to make every other option feel like settling.

the albon ball, you think.

you have a fortnight to decide the rest of your life.

the first few days in mercer hall pass in a blur of activity.

the ball is to be the event of the season, or so the albon girls have declared. every room in the house is being aired and polished, furniture rearranged, flowers ordered from farther out into the countryside, menus planned and replanned until cook threatens to quit in protest. the girls throw themselves into the preparations with enthusiasm, debating colour schemes and seating arrangements and whether the musicians should be placed in the gallery or the alcove, and you try to help where you can, but—

but they do not necessarily need you. not really. you are a guest here, not a daughter of the house, and there are limits to how much you can contribute to an event that is not yours to host.

so you find yourself with time on your hands, long stretches of afternoon where lady albon and the girls are occupied, and you are left to wander the grounds alone, exploring the gardens and the folly and the library that is indeed three times the size of the one in london.

you are not, strictly speaking, alone.

alexander is everywhere.

or perhaps it only feels that way, perhaps you have simply become so attuned to his presence that you notice him the way sailors notice the north star.

he is in the library when you go to select a book, standing by the window with the light catching in his hair. he is in the garden when you walk the paths, picking rose petals with the focused attention of a man who needs something to do with his hands.

he is at breakfast before you come down and at dinner when you retire, and every time your eyes meet across the table something electric passes between you.

you try to avoid him. you truly do.

but mercer hall is not london, and there are only so many rooms in even a house this size, and somehow you keep finding yourselves in the same spaces at the same times, drawn together by some gravity you cannot name and cannot resist.

you are not prepared for the strawberries.

it is an ordinary tuesday morning, the breakfast room flooded with pale sunlight, the sideboard laden with the usual offerings of eggs and toast and fresh fruit from the hothouse. the girls are bickering amiably about something inconsequential, lady albon is reviewing correspondence, and you are attempting to eat your breakfast like a civilized person.

and then alexander reaches for the bowl of strawberries.

it should not be remarkable. it is not remarkable— just a man selecting fruit from a dish, an action performed by thousands of people every morning across england without incident or comment.

but you watch him lift a strawberry to his lips, and you forget how to breathe.

his fingers are long and elegant, dusted with fine dark hair at the knuckles, and they cradle the fruit with a carefulness that seems almost reverent. he bites into it, and juice glistens on his lower lip, red and obscene against the soft pink of his mouth.

lick it, you think wildly. please, god, lick it—

his tongue darts out to catch the droplet.

you make a sound. a small, strangled noise that you disguise hastily as a cough, reaching for your tea with hands that tremble slightly.

“are you quite all right?” zoe asks, concerned, “you have gone rather flushed.”

“i’m fine!” you manage to choke out, “just… swallowed wrong.”

alexander looks up at you across the table, and for a moment your eyes meet. his expression is innocent, but there is something in the depths of his gaze that makes heat pool low in your belly, something that suggests he knows exactly what effect he is having on you.

he cannot possibly know, you tell yourself. you are being ridiculous. he is simply eating breakfast.

he selects another strawberry. brings it to his lips. bites.

you watch the movement of his jaw as he chews, the way his throat works when he swallows. you watch his tongue sweep across his lower lip, collecting the last traces of sweetness. you watch his fingers— oh god, those long, capable fingers— reach for another piece of fruit, and you imagine them touching other things. touching you.

“the strawberries are excellent this morning,” he says, and his voice is perfectly conversational, perfectly innocent, “would you like one?”

he holds one out toward you across the table.

your hand moves before your brain can intervene, reaching out to accept his offering. your fingers brush against his as you take the fruit (and it is the briefest contact, barely a whisper of skin against skin) but the sensation shoots through you like lightning, making your breath catch audibly.

“thank you,” you manage.

“of course,” his voice is mild, but his eyes are intent on your face, “what are friends for?”

you bite into the strawberry. the sweetness bursts across your tongue, and you are acutely aware of his gaze on your mouth, tracking the movement of your lips, watching you the same way you were watching him moments ago.

friends, you remind yourself desperately. we are friends. this is normal. this is fine.

the strawberry tastes like sin itself.

you find him in the library at midnight.

you had not been able to sleep, and you had crept downstairs in search of a book, something dull enough to bore you into unconsciousness. you had not expected to find the library already occupied, a single lamp burning low in the corner and alexander sprawled in one of the leather armchairs with a glass of something amber in his hand and a look of exhaustion on his face.

“oh,” you say, freezing in the doorway. “i did not realize— i can go—”

“stay.” the word is soft, almost slurred with tiredness, “please. i could use the company.”

you hesitate. it is improper, being alone with him at this hour, in this setting. if anyone found you, the gossip would be catastrophic. but he looks so tired. and there is something in his voice… a loneliness that calls to your own.

“one hour,” you say, moving into the room, “and if anyone asks, i was never here.”

“agreed.” he gestures to the chair across from him. "would you like a drink? the brandy is mediocre, but it does the job."

“i should not.”

“neither should i. and yet—” he raises his glass in a small salute. “desperate times.”

you settle into the offered chair, tucking your feet beneath you, “what has driven you to desperate measures at midnight?”

“estate business. tenant disputes. a letter from my father's former solicitor informing me that there may be additional debts we were not previously aware of,” he takes a long sip of his brandy. “the usual.”

“that sounds overwhelming.”

“it is. but i am learning to manage it,” he sets down his glass, runs a hand through his hair, already disheveled, as though he has been doing this repeatedly, “the worst part is not the problems themselves. it is the constant… aloneness of it. knowing that every decision rests on my shoulders, that there is no one i can turn to for advice or reassurance or even just—” he stops, shakes his head. “forgive me. i should not burden you with this.”

"you are not burdening me." you lean forward slightly. "i asked. i wanted to know."

"why?"

"because i care about you." the words slip out before you can stop them, more honest than you intended. "because you are my friend, and friends do not let friends drink mediocre brandy alone at midnight."

he stares at you for a long moment. then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face—small and tired but genuine.

“friends,” he repeats softly, “yes. i suppose we are.”

“you say that as though it surprises you.”

"it does, a little. i do not—" he pauses, considering. "i do not have many friends. well, i have george and lando, but they are the second sons, they do not… understand. the loneliness of it all. but friends— genuine friends, who understand who i am, who just… know—” he shakes his head. “those are rare.”

“that seems very lonely.”

“it is.” he says it simply, without self-pity. “but i am used to it. i have been alone for a long time, in one way or another.”

“you have your sisters, and luca.”

“i do. and i love them fiercely, desperately. but they are also—” he searches for the word. “—my responsibility. i cannot burden them with my worries. they have already carried enough because of our parents’ choices. i will not add to that weight.”

“so you carry it alone instead.”

“someone has to.”

“that is the second time you have said that. and i am going to tell you again—” you hold his gaze steadily, “—that it is not true. you do not have to carry everything alone. that is not strength, lord albon. that is just stubbornness.”

he laughs, surprised. “did you just call me stubborn?”

“if the shoe fits.”

“it fits,” he admits, “rather well, actually.” he is quiet for a moment, swirling the remaining brandy in his glass, “can i tell you something? something i have never told anyone?”

“of course.”

“sometimes—” he pauses, swallows. “sometimes i am so tired of being the responsible one that i fantasize about simply… walking away. leaving everything behind. getting on a ship and sailing somewhere no one knows my name or my family's history or expects anything of me." another pause. “is that terrible?”

“no,” you say softly. “that is human.”

“it feels like failure, even thinking it.”

“it is not failure to want a different life than the one you were given. it is not failure to feel tired, or overwhelmed, or desperate for something more,” you lean forward, willing him to understand. “my lord, you have spent years holding everything together for other people. you are allowed to want something for yourself.”

"and what would that be?" he asks, and there is something raw in his voice now, something unguarded. “what am i allowed to want?”

you think about the question. really think about it.

“i do not know,” you admit. “but i think—” you pause, choosing your words carefully. “i think you are allowed to want to be seen. not as the heir, or the caretaker, or the man holding everything together. just as yourself. whoever that is.”

he sets down his glass. looks at you with an expression you cannot quite read.

“you see me,” he says quietly. "you are the only person who has ever—” he stops, shakes his head. “i do not know how you do it. how you look at me and see past all the– the duty, the weight of expectation. but you do. you see me. and i—” he stops again. swallows hard. “i do not know how to thank you for that,” he finishes, barely above a whisper.

“you do not have to thank me,”  your voice is gentle, “you just have to let me keep doing it.”

the silence between you is different now, and it feels a little like understanding. you should leave. you know you should leave. but you cannot seem to make yourself move.

“tell me something,” he says suddenly, “something about you. something no one else knows.”

you consider. there are so many things you keep hidden: fears and hopes and secret shames that you have never shared with anyone. but here, in the dim light of the library, with this man who has just shown you his own hidden places, it feels safe to offer one of your own. “i am afraid,” you say slowly, “that i am fundamentally unlovable.”

his breath catches.

“not in a dramatic way,” you continue quickly. “not in a– a tragic heroine sort of way. but i think—” you pause, forcing yourself to continue, “i think that everyone who has ever been supposed to love me has found me… lacking, somehow. my parents left me. my grandfather tolerates me. and i have spent so long being the girl with the scandal, the girl who is not quite acceptable, the girl who must be grateful for whatever scraps of affection are thrown her way—” your voice breaks slightly, “i do not know how to believe that anyone could love me for myself. without reservation. without condition.”

“that is—” he stops, shakes his head. “that is the saddest thing i have ever heard.”

“it is not sad. it is just,”  you huff, “true.”

“it is not true.” his voice is fierce, suddenly. “it is a lie you have been told so many times you have started to believe it. but it is not true.”

“how would you know?”

“because i see you,” he says simply, “and what i see is not unlovable. what i see is brave and kind and funny and stubborn and so desperately deserving of love that it makes my chest hurt to think you have never had it.”

you stare at him. the tears are pricking at your eyes now, hot and unwelcome.

“i– my lord—”

“i am not saying this to– to make a declaration, or to complicate things,” he says quickly. “i am just saying. you asked what i see, when i look past the armor. and i am telling you. i see someone extraordinary. someone who has survived things that would have broken most people, and come out the other side still capable of kindness, still capable of hope.” he holds your gaze. “you are not unlovable. you never were.”

the tears spill over. you cannot stop them. “i should go,” you manage, rising from your chair, “it is late, and i—”

"of course." he rises too, concern flickering across his face. “i did not mean to upset you—”

“you did not upset me.” you wipe at your cheeks, embarrassed, “you just.. well, no one has ever said anything like that to me before. and i do not know how to—”

“you do not have to do anything.” his voice is gentle,  “just… remember it. when the voices in your head tell you otherwise. remember that someone sees you. someone thinks you are extraordinary.”

you nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

and when you slip out of the library and make your way back to your room, you carry his words with you like a chant— brave and kind and funny and stubborn and so desperately deserving of love— and for the first time in longer than you can remember, you allow yourself to wonder if they might be true.

it comes to a head the night before the ball.

the whitmores, a family of considerable wealth and considerably less pedigree with a girl around the same age as alicia, had extended an invitation to dinner that the lady albon could not politely refuse. the girls had been delighted, eager for any distraction from the endless preparations that had consumed the household for weeks, and even chloe had been permitted to attend under the watchful eye of her governess, a rare treat that had sent her into raptures of excitement about gowns and hairstyles and whether she might be allowed to stay for the dancing.

you had begged off.

the headache you claimed was not entirely fabricated; your temples had been throbbing for days, a dull persistent ache that you suspected had less to do with physical ailment and more to do with the impossible choice that loomed before you like a cliff edge. tomorrow night, logan sargeant would be waiting for your answer. tomorrow night, you would have to say yes or no, would have to commit yourself to a path that would determine the entire shape of your future.

and you still did not know what to say.

so when zoe had come to your room to help you dress, you had pressed a hand to your forehead and claimed a headache, and she had tutted sympathetically and promised to make your excuses, and you had watched from your window as the carriage pulled away.

the house is quiet now. emptied of its usual chaos, its constant motion.

you cannot bear it any longer.

you rise from your bed, pull a wrapper over your nightgown, and make your way through the darkened corridors toward minky’s chambers. you need to speak with her, need her counsel, her wisdom, her practical perspective on the choice before you. she has been where you are, after all. she married for position and security and built a life from those foundations, and if anyone can tell you whether such a life can also contain happiness, it is her.

you do not realize your mistake until you have already knocked on the door.

the door you knock upon is not the lady albon’s. standing before you, is alexander.

in a robe. and, from what you can tell, very little else.

his hair is damp and disheveled as though he has recently bathed, and you can see the hollow of his throat where the robe gapes open at the chest, the shadow of collarbone, of the old scar there he had said he had gotten on an incident with george on horseback, the suggestion of skin that you have never seen and should not be seeing now.

you make a sound. you are not certain what sound, though you assume it is something between a gasp and a squeak, something deeply undignified that you will be embarrassed about later when you have the capacity for embarrassment, which you currently do not because all of your faculties have been consumed by the sight of alexander albon in a state of undress that you should absolutely not be witnessing.

“i—” you manage, “this is not— i thought this was—”

“my mother's room is two doors down,” he says, and his voice is strangled, “on the other side of the corridor.”

“i was looking for her,” you say lamely, “i needed—” you shake your head, trying to force your thoughts into some semblance of order. “forgive me. i will go—”

“she is not here.”

you pause, halfway through the motion of retreat. “what?”

"my mother. she had decided last minute on chaperoning the girls at the whitmore dinner. she left with them several hours ago."

the implication settles over you slowly. “so there is no one,” you say carefully. “in the house. except—”

“except the servants,” he confirms. “who have retired for the evening. and you. and me.”

you should leave. every instinct you possess, every lesson you have ever been taught about propriety and self-preservation and the dangers that lurk in dark rooms with handsome men, is screaming at you to shut the door in his face and return to your room and pretend this never happened.

you do not leave.

"i could not sleep," you hear yourself say instead, and the words feel distant, as though someone else is speaking them. "i have been— there is something i must decide. tomorrow. and i cannot seem to—"

“sargeant,” alex says, and it is not a question.

you swallow. “he is expecting an answer at the ball. i told him i would give him one.”

“and what answer will you give?”

“yes.” you say, not quite believing yourself, and you watch his expression shatter, “i am going to tell him yes.”

“he is a good man,” you continue, more so trying to convince yourself than anything else, “he will be kind to me. he will give me a home, a life free from—” your voice catches, “free from all of this. the wanting. the not having. the endless, unbearable hoping for something that will never—”

“don’t.” he says.

“don’t what?” you ask, and your own voice sounds foreign to you, thin and trembling.

“don’t marry him,” alexander takes another step toward you, close enough now that you can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath the silk, close enough that you can smell him, clean soap and something else, something that makes your head spin, or maybe it’s just him, “do not— you cannot—”

“give me a reason,” you say, and it comes out like like a desperate plea, like the last throw of a gambler who has already lost everything. “give me one reason why i should not accept the only man who has offered me a future. give me anything, my lord, because i am so tired of—”

“because i am in love with you.”

you stare at him. he stares back. somewhere outside an owl calls into the darkness, and the world narrows down to just this: this hallway, this moment, this man standing before you with his heart laid bare and his eyes reflecting the flames.

“what?” you whisper.

“i love you.” he says it again, stronger this time, as though now that the dam has broken he cannot stop the flood, “i have loved you since— god, i do not even know when it started. since that first dance, perhaps. since you looked at me across that ballroom and asked me if i was going to ask you to dance. since every moment after, every conversation, every accidental touch that was not accidental at all—”

“you have been avoiding me,” you say, and your voice is shaking, “you have been— you left, every time we were alone, you—”

“because i am a coward.” he laughs, but it holds no humor, “because i was afraid that if i stayed, i would do exactly this. i would tell you the truth and ruin everything— your prospects, your reputation, any chance you have at the respectable life you deserve—”

you do not know who moves first.

perhaps it is him, closing the final distance, his hands coming up to cradle your face with a desperation that steals your breath.

perhaps it is you, surging forward to meet him, your fingers fisting in the silk of his robe as though you might drown if you let go.

perhaps you both move at once, drawn together by the same irresistible gravity that has been pulling at you since that first dance, that first touch, that first moment when you looked across a crowded ballroom and saw him looking back.

it does not matter.

what matters is that his mouth finds yours, and the world ends.

the kiss is not gentle.

it is hungry and urgent and consuming, his mouth slanting over yours with a ferocity that steals your breath and replaces it with fire. he tastes like want, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that makes your knees buckle, and when you make a sound— some desperate whimpering noise that you would be mortified by if you had any capacity left for mortification— he swallows it down and gives you back a groan that vibrates through your entire body.

his hands are everywhere. in your hair, scattering pins across the carpet. at your waist, pulling you against him so tightly you can feel every line of his body through the thin silk of his robe. sliding down to grip your hips, your thighs, lifting you as though you weigh nothing at all.

you wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, clinging to him as he walks you further into the hallway, your back hitting the narrow console table that stands against the wall between two portraits of disapproving ancestors. the wood is cold through your wrapper, a sharp contrast to the heat of him pressed against your front, and when he steps between your thighs and pins you there with his body you hear yourself moan, loud and shameless in the empty corridor.

this is not the alexander you thought you knew. the flustered, awkward, blushing man who could barely meet your eyes across the breakfast table has vanished entirely, replaced by someone confident and utterly without hesitation. he kisses you like he is trying to memorize the taste of you, his teeth catching your lower lip, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, his breath coming in harsh pants against your skin when he breaks away to trail his lips down your throat.

“alex,” you gasp, and his hips jerk against yours at the sound of his name, a reflexive motion that drags a groan from both of you.

“say it again,” he murmurs against the pulse point beneath your jaw, “god, please, say it again—”

“alex—”

his hand finds the hem of your nightgown. slides beneath it. the touch of his palm against your bare calf makes you shudder, makes your fingers clench in the fabric of his robe, makes you forget every reason why this is madness and remember only the wanting, the endless desperate wanting that has been building in you for months.

his hand drifts higher. past your knee, along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and you feel him hesitate there, feel the tremor in his fingers, the sudden tension in his body. he is waiting, you realize. he is waiting for you to stop him, to come to your senses.

you reach down and find his hand where it rests against your thigh.

and you guide it higher.

his breath catches. his forehead drops to rest against yours, his eyes squeezing shut, and when you shift your hips to press yourself more firmly into his touch, arch forward against his fingers, he makes a sound that is as desperate as a sob, the same time another moan is drawn out from your lips.

“please,” you whimper, and you do not entirely know what you are asking for, only that you need more, need him, need this moment to never end—

the front door opens.

voices flood the entrance hall below, the general commotion of arrival and the removal of wraps and the exchange of evening pleasantries. they are back. they are back early, hours before they should be, and you are sitting on a table in the hallway with alexander's hand under your nightgown and his mouth on your throat and absolutely no way to explain any of this.

alex pulls away from you like he has been burned.

he staggers back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and when you see his face in the dim light of the wall sconces his expression is absolutely horrified.

“forgive me,” he says, and his voice is wrecked, shattered into pieces. “god, forgive me, i should not have— i am a gentleman, i should never have—”

“alex—” you start, sliding off the table on legs that shake so badly you have to grip the edge of it for support.

“this was unconscionable!” he is backing away from you, one hand raised as though to ward you off, his robe askew and his hair wild and his chest heaving with uneven breaths. “you are a guest in my home. under my family's protection. and i— i took advantage—”

“you did not take advantage of anything!” you say fiercely, taking a step toward him. “alex, i wanted—”

“it does not matter what you wanted.” his voice cracks on the words. “it matters what i should have done. what i failed to do. a gentleman does not—” he stops, shakes his head violently. “i am sorry. i am so sorry. this was— there is no excuse. none.”

“will you stop apologizing and listen to me—”

“i cannot.” he has reached his door now, his hand fumbling for the handle behind him. “i cannot— if i stay here, if i listen to you, i will—” another violent shake of his head. “i am sorry. forgive me. please, just forgive me.”

“alex.”

"goodnight," he says with finality, and the door closes between you.

the ballroom is magnificent.

the albons have outdone themselves. the room glows with the light of a thousand candles, flowers cascading from every surface, their perfume mixing with the scent of champagne and celebration. the orchestra plays from the gallery above. by all intents and purposes, it is a crush of a ball.

you stand at the edge of it all and feel nothing.

or perhaps you feel too much. so much so that it has circled back around to numbness. you smile when you are supposed to smile, you make conversation when conversation is required. and—

and you watch alexander across the room, handsome in dark evening clothes, his expression carefully pleasant and his posture carefully relaxed, and you note the way his eyes slide past you without ever quite landing, the way he angles his body away whenever you draw near, the way he has constructed a fortress of social obligation around himself that you could not breach even if you tried.

you do not try.

logan sargeant arrives halfway through the evening, his face bright with anticipation, his eyes finding you across the crowd, eager and hopeful. he makes his way toward where you and lady albon are standing, weaving through the press of bodies, and when he reaches your side his smile is so hopeful, so earnest, so completely unaware of what you are about to do to him that you have to look away.

“lady albon,” he says, his voice carefully steady. “might i request a private audience? i believe there is a sitting room nearby—”

“of course.” lady albon nods, her expression composed, eyes knowing, “this way, mr. sargeant.”

the sitting room is small and quiet, the noise of the ball muffled by thick walls and closed doors. lady albon positions herself near the window, and logan stands before you with his hands clasped behind his back and his jaw set and his eyes still, somehow, full of hope.

“i promised you an answer,” you say, because someone has to speak first, because the silence is unbearable.

“you did.” he swallows. “and i promised i would accept it, whatever it was. i meant that. i still mean it.”

you look at him, look at this good man, this kind man, this man who has offered you everything you once thought you wanted, and you feel your heart break for him, for the hope you are about to crush, for the future you might have had if you were capable of wanting what was wise instead of what was impossible.

“i cannot marry you,” you say.

the entire room stills.

logan does not move. does not speak. simply stands there, absorbing the blow, and you watch the hope drain from his eyes, watch it replaced by confusion, by hurt, by the desperate grasping of a man trying to understand where he went wrong.

“may i ask why?” his voice shakes, “if there is something i have done, something i have failed to do—”

“you have done nothing wrong!” the words come out thick, clogged with the tears you are fighting to hold back, “you have been— god, you have been perfect. kind and patient and everything i should want. but i—” your voice breaks, “i cannot give you what you deserve. i cannot give you a wife whose heart is wholly yours. and you deserve that, logan. you deserve someone who loves you, not someone who is settling for safety because she is too afraid to—” you stop. you cannot finish that sentence. you cannot admit, even now, even to him, what you are too afraid to reach for.

“there is someone else.” he says quietly, and it is not a question.

you do not answer. you do not need to.

“i see.” he is silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on some point past your shoulder. then he takes a breath, squares his shoulders, “then i hope he knows how fortunate he is. and i hope”  his voice wavers, “i hope he deserves you. because you deserve the world, and i would hate to think you gave up something good for someone who cannot see that.”

“logan— mr. sargeant—”

“no, please.” he holds up a hand, “do not apologize. you have done nothing wrong. you were honest with me, and that is— that is all i could ask.” he bows, “i wish you every happiness. truly.”

he leaves.

the door closes behind him, and you stand in the silence of the sitting room with your hands shaking and your eyes burning and the weight of what you have done pressing down on your chest like it’s a physical thing.

“my dear,” lady says softly, crossing to your side, “are you—”

“i need a moment,” you manage. “please. i just need— i need air, i need to—”

you do not wait for her response. you turn and flee out of the sitting room and down the corridor, away from the light and noise of the ballroom, toward the quiet darkness of the residential wing where you might find a moment's peace to fall apart.

you make it perhaps twenty steps before you collide with someone.

the impact sends you stumbling backward, and hands come up to catch your arms, to steady you, and you look up into alexander's face and feel something inside you simply snap.

“let go of me!” you say, and your voice comes out sharp.

“are you—” he starts, and then his eyes find the tears tracking down your cheeks and his expression shifts, “what happened? what is wrong?”

“what is wrong?” you repeat, incredulous, and the laugh that escapes you is jagged and bitter. “what is wrong? you are asking me what is wrong? you?”

“i do not understand—”

“i just refused the only man who was willing to marry me!” you spit, wrenching your arms from his grip, “i just destroyed my only prospect, my only chance at a respectable future, because i was foolish enough to think—” you stop, shake your head violently. “and you dare ask me what is wrong?”

understanding dawns in his eyes, “sargeant. you told him no.”

“yes, i told him no!” your voice is rising, you cannot seem to control it, “i told him no because of you, because you kissed me and told me you loved me and then you left, you apologized and retreated and today you could not even look at me—”

“was trying to give you space,” he reasons,  “i was trying to make it easier for you to—”

“to what? to accept another man's proposal with the taste of you still on my lips?” the tears are falling freely now, hot and angry on your cheeks, “you are a coward, alexander albon. you tell me you love me and then you run away. you kiss me like i am the only thing that matters and then you apologize for it like it was a mistake, like i was a mistake—”

“you were never a mistake,” he says fiercely, “never, not for a single moment—”

“then why?” you demand, “why do you not want to marry me? if you love me as you claim, if i am not a mistake, then why—”

“because i have never intended to marry!” the words seem to tear themselves from his throat against his will, “i cannot marry, do you not understand? there is too much scandal attached to my name, and even if the whispers have quieted, even if the debts have been paid, there is still too much— i am the heir to a family in disgrace, and anyone i marry will inherit that disgrace alongside me. i could not ask that of anyone. i will not ask it of you.”