#angstember 2025

You never thought you could be so lucky.

After dating the same guy throughout high school and most of the way through college, you finally broke up with him and took some time for yourself. You worked hard to finish in the top 2% of your class and went straight into post graduate work.

That’s where you met Steven. Doctor Grant.

You didn’t mean to fall for him but he was so charming, kind and sincere. You mesmerized him and the two of you fell in love with one another quickly. He told you about his alters: Jake, the quiet one and Marc, the reluctant one. Soon enough you got to know them too.

After completing your master's degree, Steven asked you to move in last month, just before your one-year anniversary. Elated didn't begin to describe how lucky you felt, nor how in love you were.

Twenty-seven days into relative domestic bliss, things began to change.

Marc came home late, stumbled through a shower and into bed with you, exhausted, but hardly willing to protest when you kissed a trail down his body and took him into your mouth. Damp curls flopped back on the pillow as his hips slowly responded to the hot velvet of your tongue and the way your lips wrapped hungrily around his thick length.

A sharp intake of breath alerted you to his pleasure, harsh pants escalating until his voice rumbled out, “Just like that honey, fuck…”

Gripping the nape of your neck, he worked himself in and out of your mouth. It didn't take him long to finish, the most delicious sounds of pleasure rumbling in his muscular chest as you licked your lips clean.

"Bet you'll sleep good tonight," you teased, climbing your way back up his body and draping yourself over him.

Marc groaned, body still buzzing with pleasure and mind hazy and satisfied. But your delicious, satin-covered body drove him crazy and he couldn't help but run his hands all over your curves.

"Nice surprise. Thought you'd be asleep."

"I took a little nap, but I wanted to see you..." voice fading away, your eyes fluttered closed as he dragged thick fingers between your thighs, pulling your panties aside so he could feel your slick. He slipped two fingers inside, smiling into your kiss at how your walls gripped his digits.

"So tight, baby," he breathed against your cheek, curling and twisting his hand harder inside you. "Open up for me. Wanna fuck you back to sleep."

Pushing the pad of his thumb over your throbbing clit, he swallowed your gasps and whimpers of pleasure in a salacious kiss, coaxing you steadily closer to the edge.

Back arching, you gushed all over his hand, your pretty lips parted and panting as you came. He loved to watch you fall apart.

After kissing and touching one another heatedly, he steadily grew harder in your grasp, again. Rolling you over onto your stomach, he dragged your delicate nightgown up over the swell of your hips, hands roaming liberally all over the curve of your ass. Marc squeezed both cheeks indulgently before pushing you down to the mattress and pressing his chest to your back, almost covering you like a blanket.

"You're so damn beautiful," he purred on your neck, nipping at the flesh roughly before soothing it with his tongue as you hissed.

You could feel his cock, heavy and hard, rubbing against the back of your thigh. "What's your color, baby?"

"Green," you gasped, lifting your ass up in the air to push back against him temptingly. "Fuck me. I want it."

Marc wasn't sure how he got so lucky. Steven met you at university and had you eating out of the palm of his hand in no time. He felt surprised his alter pursued a student, but at least you were about to finish your postgraduate work when you started seeing each other.

When Marc saw you, he couldn't help his body's natural response to you. Over ten years his junior, smart, so full of life. He could only hope you felt the same way. You let him fuck you on your first date and not a day passed since, without him thinking about the next time he could be inside you, cook dinner with you or take you out somewhere fun.

No one was more surprised than Steven at how fast Marc fell for you.

Now you were underneath him, hissing and gasping as he pushed his way slowly inside your core. It was a tight fit - so tight that Marc wondered, that first time, if you were a virgin.

"Come on, baby, let me in," he murmured against your ear. "So fucking tight, honey." Gripping your hips, he buried himself all the way inside, cock twitching at the sound and feel of your writhing and moaning.

The weight of Marc's body against yours - the heavy drag of his thick cock in and out lured obscene shrieks and moans from your throat. It almost stung but the stretch felt so good.

You loved when he took you like this. So strong and so needy and so good to you, all while uttering the filthiest words in your ear. You came fast, panting his name and he pulled out just in time to come all over your ass and thighs.

You were both exhausted, but managed to clean up and climb back into bed, passing out almost instantly.

Then it happened.

Nestled safely in your boyfriend's embrace, you began to thrash, whimper and sweat. Your disturbing motion instantly woke Marc, who assumed you were having a nightmare.

"Hey, hey, hey..." He cupped your cheek, whispering your name, trying to wake you without scaring you further.

Then you screamed. Blood-curdling, somebody-call-the-cops, heart-stopping, feature-film-style screaming that terrified Marc to his core. No matter how much he called your name or shook you, he couldn't wake you. He even called out to Khonshu for help.

Your head lolled to the side and you seemed to be awake, but you wouldn't respond.

...until you called his name, crying out for him, frantically.

"I'm right here, sweetheart, it's okay," he gasped, desperately attempting to get you to just look at him.

Finally, you stopped, but you were still sleeping as peacefully as before the whole incident began.

Marc's heart pounded and now he was sweating too. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he pushed his hands through his hair in exasperation and worry.

The next morning, as you shuffled out of the bathroom toward the kitchen, you found Marc sitting at the table, empty coffee cup in front of him, staring forlornly out the window.

"Hey." Leaning over, you pressed a kiss to his forehead before reaching to pour yourself a cup. "You okay?"

"Am I okay? Are you okay?" Worried eyes searched yours for any hint of an explanation.

Marc told you what happened, but you had no memory of it whatsoever. Both of you were left confused and you could tell Marc was upset by your nightmare, or whatever it was.

When he saw your wide, pleading eyes, he brushed his fingertips across your cheek. "It's okay, sweetheart. You just screamed and I-I couldn't help you. I couldn't wake you up."

"I didn't mean to scare you." Kneeling down in front of him, you grasped his hands. "I should probably tell you..."

You explained to Marc how you had night terrors as a child. They sounded terrifying to any onlookers, such as your parents, but you could never remember what happened once you woke up.

"I haven't had one in over ten years," you explained. "Most of the time, kids have them and grow out of them. That's what I did. But then the nightmares came. I had more like...'regular' nightmares all through high school. It got better in college."

"Come here." Marc pulled you across his lap and wrapped his arms around you. "You could've told me."

"I wasn't trying to keep it from you, I promise. I just thought they were over."

The next night, Marc remained with you. He seemed tense, but after a little coaxing, finally admitted he still worried about you.

"You sounded so scared and I couldn't help you." Running his hands over your soft body, he pressed a kiss to your temple. "Tell me what to do."

So you explained that if it happened again, to avoid trying to wake you, to speak softly and just sit with you and wait it out.

"Hopefully it won't happen again."

It didn't. Not that night. Instead, you had a regular old nightmare.

You are a child, in a boy's bedroom, not your own, seated on the carpet, playing with blocks. A little boy sits across from you, inky curls flopping carelessly across his forehead as he crashes a Star Wars action figure into your hastily constructed tower.

The action doesn't upset you - it's endearing. You laugh. But the little boy hurriedly picks the blocks up and starts to put them away.

"Can't make a mess," he says to himself.

Footsteps resound on the stairs. He freezes.

"No, no, no," he gasps, cleaning as fast as his fingers will fly.

Suddenly the door bursts open and in stumbles a woman in a nightgown, reeking of alcohol, glassed eyes struggling to focus on the boy.

"Look what you did," she spat. "You ruin everything you touch. Ungrateful, spoiled, selfish brat."

You tremble as you realize she's holding a belt. "You're gonna learn some respect."

You feel the first lash as if it snapped across your own skin. The little boy cries out, curling into a ball with his arms wrapped tightly around his head.

You try to speak, to tell her to stop, but the second lash lands, searing your back with white hot pain.

Finally finding your voice, you scream.

Your screaming startled Marc, snapping him out of slumber. Powerful images of this woman raging at him, hurting him, shook you to your core. Your eyes flew open as you gasped, jolting awake. Marc shushed you, tenderly stroking your face, finding tears on your cheeks.

"Marc," you hoarsely whispered. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

He shook his head, confused. "Yeah, I'm okay. I think you were having one of those sleep terrors again."

"It was a nightmare. Or-or a memory, maybe?" Sitting up in bed with him, you touched your forehead to his, your brain a twisted fog of memory and dream. "What did she do you?"

"What are you talking about? I'm fine." Cupping your cheek, he eased back so he could look into your eyes. "That must've been a hell of a nightmare."

"I saw you," you insisted. "I think it was you. You were just a little boy and someone hurt you. Who did that to you?"

Marc's jaw tensed as his eyes went cold. "What are you talking about? What did Steven tell you?"

"Nothing," you assured him. "Did someone hurt you? I swear it felt so real."

Sighing loudly, Marc carded a hand through his curls. "It was just a dream. Don't worry about me."

You scooted close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin, soothingly brushing your hand down his muscular arm. "I can feel your old pain. She hurt you, that woman. You can tell me."

Pushing off the bed suddenly, Marc's hands landed on his hips as he paced agitatedly. "That shit doesn't matter anymore." His gaze flew to you - the earthen warmth in his eyes simmering to something distantly cold. "Just leave it."

His dismissal squeezed the air out of your lungs and left your heart burning with questions and doubt.

Later that evening, the two of you prepared dinner in silence. Marc halted a chopping motion mid-pepper and turned to you. "I'm sorry."

You posture instantly softened toward him. "For what?"

He shrugged, knife in hand. "I don't know exactly. I just know I upset you."

"Try reversing that," you sadly replied. "I definitely struck a nerve, but I didn't mean to."

He resumed chopping, realizing this was coming out all wrong. He finished with the pepper and scraped it from the cutting board into the skillet, where it greeted the oil with a satisfying sizzle.

"All that was a long time ago. I'm fine now."

You nodded, mostly to yourself, realizing there must be a lot about Marc you didn't know, and apparently, he didn't feel ready to share.

"I won't bring it up again," you promised. "Not unless you want to talk. But I can't help my dreams. I didn't mean for it to happen."

"I know that."

He stared at you for a moment before mumbling that he needed to use the restroom. You waited only a beat before calling after him, following him to find the restroom door shut.

You heard talking. Steven must be here.

Sure enough, Steven emerged a few minutes later.

"Shit, I really upset him, huh?"

Steven granted you an eye-sparkling, sweet smile, kissing your cheek. "Nonsense, I just missed you, is all."

"It was a nightmare. I didn't know it was real," you tried to explain. "But I can feel that it is - real. So if it is, I'm sorry. I had no idea."

Steven took a diplomatic pause, chewing on his lip while his hands fidgeted. "Would you like to tell me about your dream, my love?"

So you and Steven returned to meal prepping and you explained to him what you saw during your nightmare.

"You must be a bit of an empath if you're dreaming 'bout our past. Have you dreamed about the past before?" He questioned.

You explained that you'd always been sensitive to others' emotions, and harsh realities often manifested in your dreams, but nothing like this.

You and Steven decided to watch a documentary series he'd been interested in trying out. But soon enough, you were an odd mix of sleepy and horny, which tended to happen when you got bored.

Easing down, you lay your head on Steven's lap, snuggling up to him as he brushed his fingers repeatedly up and down your arm. After a while longer, you turned over and buried your nose in his soft tummy, eliciting a groan from him as he shifted underneath you.

It didn't take him long to get hard, especially with the way you started mouthing him through his joggers. Your free hand slipped underneath him, toying with him as he grew harder and started leaking through the thin fabric.

"Let me suck you," you begged, even as you tugged the waistband of his pants down far enough for his dick to spring free, slapping against his stomach.

He muttered out a curse as you dragged your tongue all the way up his length, swirling it all over the leaking tip. Your lips wrapped around him, teasing as the tip of your tongue flicked back and forth.

He gasped out your name, desperately trying not to buck up into your mouth and gag you, but you saved him the trouble, opening your mouth wide. You took him deep, bobbing your head and laving your tongue all over his shaft, sucking almost too hard on his tip with every pass.

"Fucking hell," he moaned as you worked him in and out of your mouth, the sound of your slurping and reverberation of your moans on his dick enough to make him lose it. As much as he would'vd loved to come down your throat, he gently pushed you off him by the shoulder, lips crashing into yours as he reached for the hem of your t-shirt.

Making out sloppily, you took off his shirt and he yanked off yours, cupping your breasts eagerly, tweaking your nipples in the way that brought sweet, breathy moans from your lips. While he fondled you, your hands worked on pushing down your sweatpants.

Steven released you long enough for you to stand and completely disrobe, licking his lips at the sight of your naked body as he pushed his joggers the rest of the way off. You climbed back onto his lap, ready to ride him, when he stopped you.

"Turn around," he ordered and you bit your lip in anticipation. You complied, facing away from him and easing back onto his lap, sinking down fully on his cock as he chest pressed against your back.

Steven moaned out a filthy curse as he pushed all the way into your slick channel, obsessed with how the curve of your ass felt rubbing against him when you fucked him like this.

"Good girl," he purred against your ear. Strong hands caressed your curves, dragging up the tops of your thighs, squeezing your hips and moving you against him, back and forth, setting the pace commandingly. He shifted you a few times until he heard a certain gasp you would make - that's how he knew he hit the right spot.

"Right there, Steven, please," you whimpered, confirming his positioning and stroking his ego in the process. Fingers pushed up over the soft parts of your abdomen to your breasts. He cupped the soft flesh in his hands, palming you, using his grip to pull you down harder onto his length even while twisting and toying with your nipples.

"Remember the first time I had you like this, in my office," he panted against your neck, pushing your breasts together and sucking on your pulse point. You liquified in his arms, rocking your hips faster and faster until you were bouncing on his dick.

A scandalous reflection of the two of you fucking shone back at you from the paused, darkened television and something about the way he was commanding you and fondling you and the things he was saying had you so close already.

"I remember," you finally answered. Reaching for one of his hands, you guided his thick fingers down to your throbbing clit, working with him to rub firm circles there. "...fuck...Steven."

"No. Call me what you called that night. The first time you let me inside you," he directed, "Tell me what you want."

Just the thought of those first few salacious weeks together caused your walls flutter in response.

"Fuck me, professor."

At the sound of his title, he bit down on the meat of your shoulder, rubbing your clit faster until you exploded, shrieking in pleasure as your walls gripped him so hard he instantly followed, unloading inside you, filling you up until he made a mess of you both.

Collapsing against his chest, you came back to yourself as he harshly panted against your skin, holding you close.

That night, another nightmare happened. And the next night, and the next.

Always with the drunk, angry woman terrorizing a young boy.

And every morning, you cried, asking your boyfriend, "Who hurt you? Who did this?"

Steven finally admitted to you what he knew about their abusive past. But no one remembered it the way Marc did. No one lived it but him.

Marc woke up to the sound of you softly crying one morning, heart burning inside his chest, wishing he could comfort you somehow, but simultaneously feeling everything you were experiencing was somehow his fault alone.

"Baby," he whispered, pulling your back against his bare chest as you lay facing away from him. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you sniffled. "Sorry."

"Don't be," he breathed, nuzzling your neck tenderly. "I'm the one..."

Turning over, you touched your forehead to his. "It hurts me so much that something so bad could've happened to you. And I respect your privacy, Marc. I do. I just wish you could let me in. I wish I could understand. Or help. Something."

You pressed ahead even when he flinched. "I'm trying to be patient. I just feel like there's something I'm supposed to know or understand here. Why else do I keep dreaming about it over and over?"

Pulling away roughly, Marc sat up in bed, pushing both hands through his hair. "I don't want this shit in our relationship."

"It is in our relationship. Look what it's doing to us," you argued passionately, sitting up beside him. "I haven't seen you in days, I-I can barely get any sleep. I keep seeing her face, seeing her hurt you, over and over. And I can't help you. I can't protect you." A choked sob interrupted you.

"I'm so fucking sorry," he whispered, pulling you into his arms, across his body, rocking you gently against his bare chest. "I don't want this for you. It's the last thing I could ever want."

You didn't even know how to respond to that, so you cherished the chance to be close to him for a few moments, quietly crying against his soft skin.

"What can I do?" He brokenly rasped.

But you said nothing, because he wouldn't talk to you anyway. He had a right to his privacy, and you felt cruel to insist he reveal to you what he wasn't ready to share. You only wished these dreams would stop so that you could carry on with your life and your relationship.

"Come here," he tried again, lying back down and bringing you with him, tucking you in beside him, folding you close. Terror gripped his heart as he realized all his mistakes would rip you from his life. "Tell me what you need. Please. Please, I...I don't know what to do."

"I don't know either," you finally whimpered. "I just want to sleep. I need to sleep and not see her face. She's there every time I close my eyes."

"Damn it," he hissed. "I fucking hate her so much."

"Because of what she did to you?"

"Because she's still fucking up my life," he growled, fists clenching against your skin. With a huff, he untangled his body from yours and climbed out of bed, pacing like a caged tiger.

With a roar of fury, he slammed his fist into the wall.

Squeezing your eyes shut, your shoulders shook as you quietly sobbed. Your stupid brain was stealing your relationship from you, making you miserable, not allowing you to get any sleep.

Worse, Marc was clearly not okay. This was hurting him, and you couldn't understand why it was happening.

You rolled on your side, facing away from him and buried your face in your pillow.

It was Jake who checked on you hours later, after you cried yourself back to sleep.

"¿Está todo bien, cariño?" He whispered gently, kneeling beside you on the floor. Taking your hand, he kissed your knuckles as you stirred, your eyes blinking open.

"Jake?" You choked out, desperately wrapping your arms around his neck. "You're here."

"Calmáte," he tenderly hushed you. "Está bien."

Jake got you out of bed and took you out for a drive. He had a talent for getting your mind off things. You ate your favorite drive thru in the car and listened to music for hours. He never once brought up your dreams.

His goal was apparently to keep you out late, give you an escape from the horrors, and make sure you were nice and sleepy when you returned home.

But the whole thing backfired when the nightmares intensified.

You saw Jake's hands covered in blood, bodies lifeless around him.

You saw him in military uniform, raging against four men restraining him.

A terrifying, skeletal figure with a booming voice and tattered robes threatening Marc.

You woke up screaming so loud, it scared even Jake.

And nothing scared Jake.

You couldn't get any rest. Your eyes were bloodshot, your skin was changing color, you could barely eat. Your work, your hobbies, your mere existence were all put on hold.

It was Steven who tenderly nursed you back to health, making sure you were hydrated, that you sipped broth to keep something in your stomach. And you found some fitful rest in his arms.

Steven asked Khonshu to intervene, but the old god's response chilled him to his core. He suggested that your empathic powers were so acute that you would make a perfect avatar. And that one of the gods might be afflicting you to somehow guide you toward this destiny.

Steven insisted Marc tell you the truth about their past. Marc was afraid you would get worse if you knew more information. But Steven would not relent, so Marc finally told you everything. It took days because the more he remembered, the angrier her grew and the more it brought Steven back to you.

But it worked. The more you understood what actually happened, how his own mother tormented and abused him for years, the less your mind attempted to decode through empathic dreams. The depth of your compassion and love for Marc grew deeper and more powerful than ever before.

"That's everything I can remember," Marc told you one night as you sat quietly together on the sofa after dinner.

"Thank you for telling me," you quietly voiced, reaching for his hand. "I know it's been hell for you to re-live it. I hate so much that you had to go through it. But not as much as I hate myself for doing this to you."

Shaking his head emphatically, Marc scooted closer, desperately grasping both your hands with his. "No, I'm sorry. I never wanted any of this shit to touch you, to ever come near you. I wanted to leave all that buried."

"But it was still hurting you, Marc, and that's what I was feeling so intensely," you reminded him. "Khonshu said that my empathetic tendencies were amplified because you're an avatar. He wants me to be an avatar too. He feels a god or goddess is drawing me to their service."

Marc's eyes flashed, his jaw clenching. "Absolutely not. It's bad enough that you had to hear all this shit from my past. I don't want Khonshu and his bullshit anywhere near you. You've been through enough."

"But what if he's right?" You questioned. "What if the reason all this is happening is so we can work together?"

Leaning in, his eyes widened with nothing short of pure terror. "You can never do what I do, do you understand? Enough of my shit is fucking up your life as it is."

Tentatively reaching out, you placed your palm soothingly on this flexing forearm. Even that small contact made him flinch.

"I'm sorry," you softened your voice, moving back.

Feeling as though he'd upset you terribly and possibly scared you, Marc swallowed hard, lips parting as he tried to form words.

"It's okay," you soothed. "I know you want to protect me, Marc, and I love you for it. I've never felt safer with anyone."

The tension in his shoulders eased, if only by a fraction, at your declaration. Easing closer, you looked right into his eyes, openly, tenderly, with no accusation. "Do you love me?"

With a terse nod, he choked out an affirmation.

"Me too." You smiled softly. "So much. But I think that maybe..."

His jaw clenched as moisture gathered in his eyes. You were going to ask him for space or a time out. He just knew it.

"I think maybe you're trying so hard to protect me from yourself that you're shutting me out. From your past, from your life as an avatar. Hey, look at me."

With the gentlest caress, you traced your fingertips over the back of his hand, which had clenched into a fist. Slowly, his gaze found yours again, anguish written all over his face.

"It's my choice," you went on. "To be with you and to love you." You shook your head sadly. "The avatar thing...it's up to me -"

"Baby, no." One tear slipped down his cheek.

"We don't have to work together," you conceded, barreling on. "I can see how I might be a liability to Moon Knight. But what I do is my choice. I have to see this through. Something is calling to me."

This silenced him, but didn't lessen the tension in the room. Gaze dropping to the floor, he scrubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin.

"You don't understand," he brokenly whispered. "We can't lose you. I can't do that to Steven. I've done enough."

"You've never done anything but survive. And you don't have to worry about Steven. I already talked to him," You told Marc, resolutely. "He's taking me to Cairo. I'm going to say yes."

Your health had finally improved enough to travel. You knew Steven had traveled to Cairo once before and Marc was more familiar with the area. Still, it did not stop Steven from guiding you there and checking you into a hotel before taking you out for your first dinner, which was delicious. The city was vibrant and alive and you felt as if you could breathe deeply for the first time since your nightmares began.

But it was Marc who woke up with you on your first full day in Cairo, explaining that he wanted to be there for you.

The truest test of a relationship could be when you wholeheartedly, fundamentally disagreed on a huge, potentially life-changing decision. Respecting the person you loved while honoring yourself, when those two things directly conflicted, could make or break your whole world.

Nothing would be worth losing Marc. Or Steven or Jake. Steven supported you. Jake understood the calling of an avatar. He spent the most time in Khonshu's armor, after all. But Marc held onto the assumption that anything bad that had ever befallen him, would also happen to you.

You could feel, deep in your soul, that an ancient power was calling to you, somehow cultivating and curating your emphatic tendencies into some sort of useful, tactical ability.

So it meant everything to you that Marc showed up for you. But if it came all the way down to choosing, you were absolutely certain you would choose your relationship over all this, even if you suffered for it.

You gathered supplies and Marc arranged a guide to a remote area, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The guide explained that he would go no further into the desert, but if you wanted to reach your destination, you needed to hike a couple more kilometers in the same direction.

He double checked your supplies before returning to a check point, letting you know he would wait for you there for a couple of days, since Marc paid him so well.

"Are you sure about all this?" Marc asked you once more. "That this is the place you're drawn to?"

You took his hand with a grateful smile and insisted it was. "This feels like the right thing to do, to me. But if I do this, will you ever be able to forgive me?" You asked him, earnestly.

Shaking his head, he reached for your arms, pulling you close. "There's nothing to forgive. This is your choice."

Throwing your arms around his neck, you thanked him, tears pooling in your eyes. "That means everything to me."

The two of you set up camp and waited for nightfall. Despite your lack of experience in the desert, it felt like an adventure. Something your relationship sorely needed after the recent horrors.

Too anxious to go to sleep, you simply held one another and talked, enjoying the cool night and its relief from the daytime sun.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Might as well."

"What made you change your mind about me? About all this?"

"I don't want to lose you," he quickly answered.

You pressed a tender kiss to his mouth. "I want you to know you can disagree with me, even over something big, without losing me. I don't want to lose you either."

"You won't," he reassured you.

"Can I ask you something else?"

"Shoot."

"If you're so against being an avatar, why are you one?"

"Because I want to help people," Marc answered without hesitation.

"And do you feel like it's your choice to do so, or do you feel enslaved to it?"

"I used to," he carefully admitted. "I would...take lives in repayment for Khonshu saving my life. But after Steven, after we died and went to the Duat, and after Jake came along, it was different. Now we don't kill. Not unless we have to, to save life. It's important to Jake to do this. Steven too. So I carry on. For them, and to save people."

"I want to do that too," You confessed. "I feel as if I'm meant to do it."

After that, Marc told you more about his past. Nothing too heavy, just memories. The first time he knew Steven was there, when they were children. His favorite places in Chicago. The incredible cities he'd visited and worked in. Funny stories about his friend Frenchie.

You talked about your past too, the conversation sobering you as you realized how other guys pushed you away once they got too close. Once your empathy made them too vulnerable.

Once you finally started to rest, you heard a call. A voice as clear as Marc's, but deeper, reverberated through every cell in your body.

It was time.

You awakened Marc and dragged him toward what must have been a mirage. Somehow, a temple stood before you, having emerged from the sand.

You clung to Marc, terrified at the sight. Fear gripped him entirely differently. You were about to give yourself to the service of an avatar.

The suddenly-emerged temple had but one opening so, hand-in-hand, you trudged through.

Mystical air swirled around you as a haunting glow lit your stone path.

"This place can't be real, can it?" You mused aloud. "It appeared out of nowhere."

"I have no idea," Marc responded, his Moon Knight armor wrapping around his muscles reactively. Despite the glow of his haunting, white eyes, you honestly felt marginally safer, at least, with him ready for action.

"Is Khonshu with us?" You whispered, gripping his bandaged hand tightly.

"More often than you know," a deep voice boomed. You shrieked in surprise as a skeletal, looming bird-like figure appeared beside Marc, towering over him, and moving as if he were taking a stroll with the two of you.

"Oh god...is that...?"

"Yeah," Marc answered, nodding. "He does this."

You took in the god's appearance. Hollow eyes, long, pointy beak, and tattered robes that matched Marc's suit in almost every regard. He held a regal staff in his bony fingers.

"Any idea who's waiting for us in there?" Marc asked him.

"I do not."

"This isn't another one of your stunts, is it?"

Khonshu almost seemed to chuckle. "An avatar's calling is not to be taken lightly. She has been summoned."

"Summoned by nightmares? Why?"

"You were summoned by death," Khonshu reminded Marc. "Wounded, bleeding, ready to end your mortal suffering. An avatar's journey is not without trials."

"Why are you here?" Marc questioned.

"To protect you, of course."

Marc motioned to you. "Protect her."

"I will," Khonshu promised. "Proceed."

You arrived in some sort of chamber, adorned with symbols you recognized as being related to Khonshu. Moon disks, crescent moons, falcons and staffs of protection.

You stopped cold. "Does this temple belong to you?"

"It is a place that honors me," Khonshu explained, coming to the point. "Serve me. I will protect you, as I protect Marc."

Marc's mask disappeared as he glared up at the ancient being. "What is this? What do you want with her? You have an avatar."

"You limit my power," Khonshu bluntly stated. "You protect. You guard travelers of the night. And you have my gratitude."

His bony beak turned to you. "But with your capacity for empathy, my full power could finally be realized - the power of healing. The power to cure illness, even. Marc would be my fist of vengeance. You would be my healing touch. Two sides, making a perfect whole."

Marc's jaw clenched, eyes flashing with fury. "You did this to her? Gave her these dreams? Tormented her?"

"I did not," Khonshu assured him, turning back to you. "You are very powerful. You empathic dreams have a near-prophetic quality, which drew the attention of many deities wishing for a physical link to this earth. Every nightmare is a beacon. The wrong deity could endanger Marc, and so much more importantly, me."

Marc rolled his eyes. "How does this help her - serving you?"

"With your combined powers, in service to me, you will both be safe. You will protect and she will heal. You will make an unbreakable circle. Your love for one another will only strengthen this bond."

Marc looked to you for direction.

An incredibly powerful being could have summoned you. Any choice you made could prove dangerous. The god or goddess calling you could be an enemy of Khonshu. However, if you returned home, your nightmares may return, even stronger, and draw even more deities to you.

"Could I really heal people?" You questioned the old god. "Help them? Truly?"

"Say yes, as an act of faith. I will show you," Khonshu promised.

You took Marc's hands in your own, eyes fixed on his. "Now that I'm here, I know more than ever that nothing is worth losing you. If doing this would change the way you feel about me -"

"It won't," he assured you steadily. "Nothing could."

You nodded quickly, tears pooling in your eyes. "After all this, I understand why you were afraid. I'll go back if you want. I'll take the nightmares. I'll do anything for you."

"You do everything for me. Let me do this for you," he answered resolutely. "Let us do this with you." He kissed you fiercely.

You granted approval to Khonshu, who warned you to brace yourself for what was coming: a full display of his power.

Wind and light swirled around you in a terrifyingly stunning display. A force knocked you back while simultaneously lifting Marc's body into the air. A haunting glow enveloped his body. His Moon Knight armor unraveled, mummified strips loosely fluttering in the air around him as he floated, head thrown back, throat exposed, arms extended, muscles straining.

His eyes glowed so brightly you had to cover your face, even while you frantically called his name.

What had you done? What would Khonshu do?

On and on the display went, too bright to behold, with a force too powerful for you to stand or approach the man you loved.

After an agonizing eternity, everything ceased and you heard a sickening thud as Marc's body must've dropped to the stone floor.

You cried out his name, pushing yourself up to run to him, but stopped short at the sight of two bodies.

Two identical bodies.

Read Part 2

The invitation arrived three weeks ago—thick cardstock with elegant script, your name written in someone else's handwriting. Not Jackie's. Never Jackie's. You're invited to celebrate the bachelorette party of Jackie Taylor, it read, followed by details about a bar in the city, a hotel suite, a night of celebration before she becomes Mrs. Jeff Sadecki.

The wedding invitation itself had come months earlier. Same expensive cardstock. Same impersonal calligraphy. You'd stared at it for hours before shoving it in a drawer. You weren't planning on going. Why would you? You were nothing to Jackie. Just another name on a list, invited out of formality because your social circles still occasionally overlapped. Because it would be weird not to invite you.

But Shauna had called you last week, her voice careful. "You should come. To the bachelorette thing, I mean. It might be... I don't know. It might be good."

"Good for who?"

"Maybe for both of you."

So here you are, standing outside some trendy bar in Manhattan, watching through the window as Jackie's sorority sisters shriek and laugh inside. You can see her at the center of it all—blonde hair perfectly curled, white sash across her dress declaring her the bride-to-be, tiara perched on her head like a crown.

She looks exactly like what she's supposed to be. Perfect. Happy. On track.

Your hand is on the door when you seriously consider leaving. Going back to the subway, back to your apartment, back to your regular life where Jackie Taylor is just a memory you're still trying to forget.

Then Shauna's at the door, pulling it open. "I saw you lurking. Come on, don't be weird."

"I'm not being weird."

"You're being weird." She links her arm through yours, tugging you inside. "One drink. If you hate it, you can leave."

The bar is packed—bachelorette parties seem to be having a moment, because there are at least three other groups with their own sashes and tiaras. Jackie's claimed a corner booth, surrounded by girls you vaguely recognize from college. They're already drunk, already loud, trading stories about Jackie and Jeff's relationship like it's a fairy tale come to life.

You slide into a seat near the end, accepting the drink Shauna pushes into your hand. Vodka cranberry. Your old standby.

Jackie hasn't seen you yet. Or she's pretending she hasn't. She's in the middle of some story, gesturing wildly, and everyone's eating it up. She's always been good at commanding a room, at making people lean in. It's a gift—one you'd been stupid enough to think she'd used just for you, once.

Then her eyes find yours across the table, and something flickers in her expression. Too quick to name.

"Oh my god, you came!" She says it like she's surprised, like she hadn't personally written your name on the guest list. "Girls, you remember—" and she says your name like it doesn't cost her anything.

You raise your glass slightly. "Congratulations."

"Thank you." Her smile is pageant-perfect. "I'm so glad you're here."

The lie sits heavy between you.

------

An hour in, and you're starting to regret coming. The conversation is all wedding planning—centerpieces and seating charts and whether the band or a DJ is classier. You nurse your second drink and try to look interested while internally cataloging your escape routes.

Then Jackie appears at your elbow, having somehow extracted herself from the main group. "Another drink?"

"I'm good."

"Come on, it's my bachelorette party. You have to drink with me." She's already pulling you toward the bar, her hand warm on your wrist. "It's like, a rule or something."

You let her lead you because you've never been good at telling her no. At the bar, she orders shots—tequila, which you both used to hate. She slides one toward you with a grin that's almost mischievous.

"To old friends," she says, raising her glass.

We were never friends, you think. But you clink your glass against hers and throw back the shot. It burns going down, familiar and awful.

"Another," Jackie tells the bartender, and you don't stop her.

Three shots in, and she's closer than she needs to be, her shoulder pressed against yours. "I wasn't sure you'd come," she admits, her voice lower now. "To tonight, I mean."

"Shauna said I should."

"Oh." Something crosses her face—disappointment? "So not because you wanted to?"

You look at her then, really look at her. There's something desperate in her eyes, something that reminds you of that night two years ago when she'd climbed through your window crying. "I don't know why I'm here, Jackie."

"Me neither," she says softly, and you're not sure if she means why you're here or why she is.

The night dissolves into a blur of noise and drinks and Jackie's hand finding yours in the crowd. She doesn't let go, even when her sorority sisters shoot you curious looks. She pulls you onto the makeshift dance floor, laughing at something you said that wasn't even funny, her fingers laced through yours like it's natural.

"Having fun?" Shauna appears beside you during a bathroom break, her expression unreadable.

"I don't know what I'm doing here."

"She wanted you here." Shauna leans against the sink, watching you in the mirror. "I know that doesn't make it easier, but... she did."

"It's been two years, Shauna. Two years of nothing. And now she wants me at her bachelorette party?" You laugh, bitter. "What am I supposed to do with that?"

"I don't know." Shauna's quiet for a moment. "But I know she's not happy. And I know she keeps—" She stops herself, shaking her head. "Never mind. Just... be careful, okay? Both of you."

When you return, Jackie's waiting. "Dance with me," she says, not really a question.

The music's too loud, some Britney Spears song everyone's screaming along to. Jackie pulls you close, closer than friends dance, her arms around your neck. She smells the same—that expensive perfume, underneath it something that's just her.

"I missed you," she says into your ear, quiet enough that it might be a secret.

Your hands are on her waist, and you're both drunk enough that this feels almost okay. Almost normal. "Jackie—"

"Don't." She pulls back just enough to look at you. "Not tonight. Can we just... not tonight?"

You should leave. You should extract yourself from this situation before it becomes something you can't take back. But her eyes are bright with unshed tears and alcohol, and you've never been strong enough to walk away from her when she looks at you like that.

So you dance. You let her hold you. You let yourself pretend, just for a few more hours, that this means something.

------

The hotel suite is chaos—girls scattered across couches and beds, some still drinking, others crashed out. Someone ordered pizza that's getting cold on the counter. Jackie's tiara is askew, and she's kicked off her heels, her feet bare against the carpet.

She finds you on the balcony, where you've escaped for air and space and clarity.

"Hey," she says softly, sliding the door shut behind her. "You disappeared."

"Needed a minute."

"Me too." She joins you at the railing, looking out over the city lights. "It's weird, right? All of this. Being someone's fiancée. Having a bachelorette party. Getting married."

You don't answer because anything you say will be wrong.

"I'm scared," Jackie admits, so quiet you almost miss it. "Is that normal? To be scared?"

"I think so. It's a big decision."

"The biggest." She's not looking at you, staring instead at the skyline. "Sometimes I think about—" She stops, shakes her head. "Never mind."

"What?"

"Nothing. It's stupid."

You turn to face her, emboldened by alcohol and two years of silence. "Jackie. What do you think about?"

She finally looks at you, and there's something raw in her expression. Something that reminds you of those nights in your bedroom when she'd let herself be vulnerable. "Different choices. Different lives. What if I'd been braver, back then."

"Back when?"

"You know when." Her voice breaks slightly. "Don't make me say it."

Your heart is hammering in your chest. "You chose, Jackie. You chose Jeff. You chose that life."

"I know." She steps closer. "I know I did. And I've spent two years trying to convince myself it was the right choice."

"Was it?"

"I don't know." Her hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing your skin in a gesture so familiar it hurts. "How fucked up is that? I'm getting married in three months, and I don't know if I made the right choice."

You should step back. Remove her hand. Walk away. But you're drunk and she's here and it's been two years of wanting something you can't have.

When she kisses you, it feels like falling all over again.

You barely make it back inside before you're stumbling toward the bathroom, the only private space in the suite. Jackie's hands are in your hair, your back against the door, and she's kissing you like she's trying to consume you. It's desperate and messy and tastes like tequila and regret.

"Jackie," you manage between kisses, "we can't—"

"I know." She doesn't stop. "I know we can't. I know it's wrong. I know—" Her voice cracks. "I know everything I'm supposed to know. But I can't stop thinking about you. Two years, and I can't stop."

Your hands find her waist, pulling her closer even as your brain screams at you to stop. "What do you want from me?"

"Everything." She's crying now, tears mixing with kisses. "Nothing. I don't know. I want things I'm not allowed to want."

There's something broken in the way she says it, something that speaks to years of shame and hiding and pretending to be someone she's not. You recognize it because you've lived it too—the way you've learned to make yourself smaller, quieter, more palatable. The way you've watched Jackie build her perfect life and told yourself you were okay with it.

She kisses down your neck, and you let her. You let her push your shirt up, her hands on your skin. You let yourself have this one last time, even knowing what it'll cost in the morning.

"I loved you," Jackie whispers against your collarbone. "I still—" She can't finish the sentence. Can't say it out loud, even now.

"I know." Your hands are shaking as you pull her face up to look at you. "I know, Jackie."

When she kisses you again, it's softer. Sadder. The kiss of someone saying goodbye.

You lose track of time. It might be minutes or hours. Eventually, you end up curled on the bathroom floor together, her head on your shoulder, both of you too exhausted and drunk to do anything but breathe.

"What are we doing?" she asks.

"I don't know."

"I'm getting married."

"I know."

"To a man."

"I know."

She laughs, hollow. "God, what's wrong with me? What kind of person does this?"

You don't have an answer. You're both too far gone for easy explanations.

------

You wake up with a pounding headache and Jackie's arm across your waist. The bathroom floor is unforgiving beneath you. Gray morning light filters through the small window, and you can hear movement in the suite beyond—other girls waking up, groaning about hangovers.

Jackie stirs beside you, blinking slowly. For a moment, she looks at you like she used to—open and vulnerable and real. Then reality crashes back in, and you watch her face shutter.

"Oh god," she whispers. "Oh god, we—"

"Jackie—"

She scrambles away from you, putting distance between you like you're contagious. "This was a mistake. This was such a mistake."

The words hit like a slap, even though you knew they were coming. Even though you'd planned to say them first, to beat her to it, to protect whatever dignity you have left.

"Yeah," you hear yourself say, cold and detached. "It was. A mistake. That's all."

Jackie flinches. "I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did." You stand up, your head swimming. "You meant exactly that. Just like you meant it two years ago when you chose him. When you chose this life."

"That's not fair—"

"Fair?" You laugh, and it sounds cruel even to your own ears. "Nothing about this has ever been fair, Jackie. You don't get to keep doing this to me. You don't get to pull me back in every time you have doubts about your perfect life."

"I wasn't—" Her voice breaks. "I wasn't trying to—"

"What were you trying to do?" You're angrier now, two years of hurt bubbling up. "What exactly was last night supposed to be? One last hurrah before you commit to Jeff? A reminder of what you're giving up? Some kind of twisted bachelorette tradition I'm not aware of?"

She's crying, mascara smudged under her eyes. "I just wanted—I needed—"

"What, Jackie? What did you need?"

"I needed to know if it was real!" The words explode out of her. "I needed to know if what we had was real or if I imagined it. If I've spent two years mourning something that only existed in my head."

You stare at her, struck silent.

"Because if it wasn't real," she continues, her voice shaking, "then I didn't give anything up. I didn't lose anything. I just... I just chose the life I was supposed to choose. But if it was real—" She covers her face with her hands. "If it was real, then what the hell have I been doing?"

The vulnerability in her voice almost breaks you. Almost makes you take it back, gather her in your arms, tell her it was real and it mattered and it's not too late.

But you can't. You can't keep being her secret, her experiment, her what-if.

"It was real," you tell her quietly. "But it doesn't matter. Because you're still getting married. You're still choosing him. You're still choosing the life where I don't exist except as some mistake you made drunk at your bachelorette party."

"That's not—" She drops her hands, looking at you with devastated eyes. "You're not a mistake."

"Then what am I, Jackie? What have I ever been to you besides something you're ashamed of?"

The question hangs between you, unanswerable.

"I'm not—" She stops, swallows hard. "I'm not ashamed of you."

"But you're ashamed of this. Of what we are. Of what it means about you." You can see the truth of it written all over her face. "You can't even say it, can you? Can't even name what we had. What we did."

"Don't." Her voice is small. "Please don't."

"Why not? We're already here. Might as well be honest." You're cruel now, pushing because you're hurt and you want her to hurt too. "Say it, Jackie. Say what you are. What we are."

"Stop." She's sobbing now. "Please stop."

But you can't. "You want to know if it was real? It was. I loved you. I loved you so much I would have done anything for you. But you know what? You were right. It was a mistake. All of it. Because I wasted two years of my life on someone who's too scared to be herself. Someone who'd rather marry a man she doesn't love than—"

"I do love him!" She shouts it, desperate. "I love Jeff. He's good and he's kind and he wants the life I want. He wants marriage and kids and a house in the suburbs. He wants normal. He wants—" Her voice cracks. "He wants what I'm supposed to want."

"And what do you actually want, Jackie?"

She looks at you for a long moment, her eyes red and her face blotchy from crying. When she speaks, her voice is barely a whisper. "It doesn't matter what I want."

"There it is." You feel suddenly exhausted. "That's always been the problem, hasn't it? You've spent so long being what everyone expects that you don't even know who you are anymore."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it? You're marrying Jeff because it's what you're supposed to do. You hooked up with me because I'm what you're not supposed to do. But neither of those things are actually about what you want. They're just... reactions. To pressure. To expectations. To whatever script you've been following since you were old enough to understand that girls like you aren't supposed to want girls like me the way you do."

She's silent, and you know you've hit something true.

"I can't do this anymore," you say finally. "I can't be your secret. Your mistake. Your what-if. I deserve better than that."

"I know." She's still crying, quieter now. "I know you do."

"So this is it. After this, we're done. No more late-night calls. No more showing up at each other's important moments. We're just... nothing."

"Okay." She nods, even though she looks like it's killing her. "Okay."

You move toward the door, ready to leave this bathroom and this hotel and Jackie Taylor behind forever. Your hand is on the doorknob when she speaks again.

"For what it's worth," she says softly, "I did love you. I do. I just—I can't—"

"I know." You don't turn around. "But love isn't enough if you're too scared to choose it."

You leave her there, crying on the bathroom floor. In the main room, Shauna looks up from where she's making coffee. She takes one look at your face and doesn't say anything, just pulls you into a hug.

"Come on," she murmurs. "Let's get you out of here."

As you're gathering your things, you see it—Jackie's purse, open on the couch. Something catches your eye, a flash of your handwriting. But before you can look closer, Jackie emerges from the bathroom, eyes swollen, and you force yourself to look away.

Some secrets are better left alone.

You don't go to the wedding. When the day comes in January, you spend it in your apartment, ignoring your phone. Shauna calls to check on you. You tell her you're fine.

You're not fine.

But you will be. Eventually.

You have to believe that.

------

The box is hidden in the back of her closet, behind her winter coats where Jeff would never look. Inside are dozens of letters, all addressed to you, none of them ever sent.

She's been writing them since that morning in the hotel bathroom. Since you walked away and she let you go because she was too much of a coward to ask you to stay.

Dear Y/N,

I wore white today. I said the words I was supposed to say. I promised forever to a man I care about but don't love the way I loved you.

My mother cried. Jeff's mother cried. Everyone said it was the most beautiful wedding they'd ever seen.

You weren't there. I kept looking for you, even though I knew you wouldn't come. Part of me hoped you would—that you'd stand up during the objections, that you'd give me a reason to run.

But you didn't come. And I didn't run.

I'm Mrs. Sadecki now. I'm learning to answer to it.

She adds the letter to the box and hides it again, deeper this time.

In the living room, Jeff calls her name. Dinner's here. He's ordered her favorite.

Jackie closes the closet door and pastes on a smile.

By now, you'd scrambled over to Steven, throwing your arms around him. "Steven? Are you okay?"

Before he could answer, Marc awakened, gasping for air, eyes flying open as if awakening from a nightmare in a film.

You sobbed his name, crawling back over to him and gripping his jacket in your hands as you checked him over for injury.

He saw Steven outside his body and his eyes flew to you. "No. No. Not you."

Realizing immediately what troubled his alter, Steven held up his hand, stepping forward. "We're not dead. This isn't the Duat. We're alive, aren't we?"

You nodded.

Exhaling in relief, Marc pulled you into his arms, squeezing you tight. His eyes found Steven's. "You okay, buddy? What's going on?"

"Khonshu," you answered, taking a moment to explain to your...boyfriends what happened - the astonishing sight you witnessed. "Neither one of you are hurt?"

By now you were standing with Marc, his arm wrapped around you securely as you laid your head against his shoulder. But noticing Steven there, you stretched out your hand for him. Steven smiled at you softly, gratefully taking your hand.

The three of you worked as a team, attempting to figure out why this happened to Steven and Marc.

And there was an even more pressing question. You and Steven were thinking it, while Marc looked like he was concentrating so hard his head might explode.

"Are you both thinking what I'm thinking?" Steven voiced aloud.

You nodded tersely. "If you two are in separate bodies...where's Jake?"

"I-I can't find him," Marc gasped, finally opening his eyes. "I'm trying to see if he's in here, with me. I can't feel him."

Your lip trembled. "Where is he?" You whispered frantically. "Where is Jake?"

"Is he with you?" Marc asked Steven.

"Don't think so, mate."

You continued looking around the temple, wondering if there was another god who would appear, or if Khonshu would return. He did not, even when you all called out for him.

Attempting to look outside the temple for Jake, you made your way toward the only entrance. Marc and Steven both slammed into an invisible wall, which knocked them back. Marc doubled over while Steven landed on his ass, rather adorably, but it had to hurt.

"I can't summon the suit," Marc said to Steven.

"Me either," Steven groaned, climbing to his feet, “or I’d be lookin' a bit more posh right now rather than landing on my arse."

"What was that?" You asked them, more than happy to help Steven dust off his cute backside. "You guys can't suit up? You can't leave either? Did Khonshu trap us here?"

After a few more experimental attempts at exiting, you realized that you could leave, but the boys were indeed stuck. And still no Jake.

Marc grew quieter, hands on his hips and jaw clenching as he paced agitatedly. Steven cursed several times, rather colorfully and comedically, but you weren't getting anywhere.

"Maybe this is about me," you suggested. "If you two can't connect to your power, you know - be Moon Knight, the fist of vengeance, protector of the travelers of the night and all that - then maybe I'm supposed to somehow connect to it. To my part of it. The healing part, or...something like that?"

"Maybe," Marc mused, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. "But we're not hurt or sick."

"We are trapped," Steven reasoned, "and in separate bodies, no less. Not exactly normal for us. And there's the small problem of missing an entire person."

"Okay, so, what do you think?" Marc turned back to you. "Put us back together? Find Jake? Fix us?"

You swallowed hard. "I don't know. I'm not...you guys know I'm obviously not trying to suggest that there's anything wrong with you. Like that you need fixing."

"We know that, darling, but there is something wrong," Steven assured you. "Don't know about Marc, but this," he motioned rapidly between them, "doesn't feel right. Especially if we can't find Jake."

"He's right," Marc agreed. "The last time we were separated, we were dead. And we promised Jake we wouldn't leave him again."

You glanced between the men you loved - your whole world, minus one. Holding up your hands, you inspected them, searching for some sort of answer.

You exhaled shakily. "What if I can't? What if we're stuck here? I don't even know what to do."

"Not possible," Steven said softly, taking both your hands in his. "You're brilliant and I should know." You were his student at one time, so maybe he really saw you as brilliant.

"This kind of bullshit is why I'm not a big fan of the avatar stuff," Marc added. "Whatever Khonshu is doing, I don't like it. But if you feel like you're meant to do this, then I know you can."

You resented the fact that Khonshu potentially hurt your boyfriend to make this happen, as well as the suggestion that their DID was some sort of problem to be solved.

Steven was always sassing the old god, muttering things in the kitchen or wagging his finger condescendingly up toward the ceiling - at a being you formerly could never see. So you supposed that if you had an issue to take up with Khonshu that you could do the same.

And instead of feeling like something was wrong with your boyfriend, with who he was, you decided to concentrate on finding Jake and making sure he was okay. If Khonshu had done anything to Jake, you would turn this whole damn temple back to dust.

As you mulled these things over in you mind, your eyes squeezed shut tightly, hands down by your sides, palms facing outward.

"Look," Steven whispered to Marc, pointing at a haunting white glow emanating from your hands. It pulsed, growing brighter as you tipped your head back and inhaled deeply.

"Come here to me," you beckoned Marc and Steven forward, somehow aware of their proximity without opening your eyes. You placed one glowing palm on Steven's chest, right over his heart. The fingers of your opposite hand caressed Marc's cheek before pressing gently against his temple.

"Jake, come to me," You said firmly, but your tone was warm, inviting.

Marc and Steven exchanged glances, realizing you were looking for him, in them.

The white light flared up your arms, pulsing and consuming you, but there was no heat to it. You called Jake's name again and again until you glowed so brightly it looked as if you would burn up. Marc and Steven had to shut their eyes against the glow, just as you had done minutes before with Marc.

Finally a force knocked them back - a power that came from you. But they didn't fall. They were unharmed. Instead, their suits wrapped around each of their bodies: Steven's tight fitting, pristine white dress suit and Marc's bandaged armor with a flowing cape. Their eyes glowed white as they turned to see Jake, his cape unfurling behind him dramatically as black body armor hugged his frame.

The glowing white light around you pulsed and flowed until it lifted you off the ground. The glow separated into magical strips of fabric that wrapped around your body in a perfect-fitting suit of armor. A black mask engulfed your face, a white hood covered your head and your eyes glowed as bright as your boyfriend's.

Golden pauldrons rested upon each shoulder and black and gold patterns weaved themselves over the breastplate covering your chest. Your cape was white, the same as Marc and Jake's, with a gold trim. The rest of your suit was white, except for the golden boots that adorned your feet.

The four of you stopped and stared at one another rather comedically, like some sort of meme.

"Oh my days, you look amazing," Steven gushed, while Marc simultaneously asked if you were all right.

But before you could react, or even speak to Jake, the theatrics began anew: lights flashing and swirling as the three alters merged back into one body.

Jake's body.

You rushed over to him, who bristled, having no idea what was going on, or even who you were inside the suit.

"Hey, it's okay. It's me. It's me, see?" Your mask and hood disappeared on instinct. So that's how they did it.

"Mi vida..." He stared at you, confused, his own mask dissolving as well.

You brought Jake up to speed, making absolutely sure he could tell Steven and Marc were with him.

"You did it," he realized, squeezing your hands. "You fixed us."

Khonshu finally reappeared, congratulating you on becoming his new avatar. In Steven-like fashion, you sassed him, assuring him there was no need to hurt anyone to prove a point.

"As you can see, they are unharmed," Khonshu countered, motioning to Jake with his staff, "thanks to you."

"Fine, but can the next test not be performed on my boyfriend?"

You assumed Marc would take you back to your guide in the desert, but it was Jake who led you out, still suited up.

"Jake, are you okay?" You asked him, your gloved fingers tangled with his.

You were thankful his mask wasn't in place at the moment, because he gave you a heart-stopping look. "We're gonna work together?"

"Uh, I'm not sure," you tentatively answered. "Not if you don't want to."

"Oh, I want to," he roughly whispered, wrapping his arm around your waist and cinching your body tightly to his. "Full moon tonight. Wanna see if you can fly?"

Your heart soared as high as you and Jake did just that, over the desert, capes flowing behind you.

After soaring across the night sky, you landed at your camp. Jake was all over you in an instant.

Strips of your ancient armor faded away as you laid your self bare before one another in your tent. His mouth found yours hot and wet and hungry. He pushed your arms over your head and bound them together with a piece of his suit. But you could do the same now, so your suit swirled around his thighs, pulling his hips down to meet yours.

His eyes glowed a lustful, burning white as his suit wound around your body, your suits and your powers mingling, connecting your bodies as he thrust inside you hard and deep.

You were protected now, able to withstand his strength, his raw power. He took your body with unrestrained fervor, the force of your combined strength shaking the earth itself.

You had always felt things deeply and viscerally, but this was something new.

Marc shouldered his way through your front door, armed with suitcases from your trip. Relief washed over you now that you were finally home and had started to make peace with your decision to be an avatar. Or...avatar adjacent. Dual avatar?

Honestly, you were a little worried about him since the events in the desert. Jake was obviously pleased. Steven was resilient and rather loved an adventure. But Marc had worried so much about you becoming an avatar, and Khonshu certainly didn't pull any punches during the process.

After a shower, the two of you decided to go to bed early and fell asleep right away. You dreamed, vividly, but it no longer hurt you physically to do so.

Not every dream was pleasant, but it seemed something had been healed between your psyche and Marc's. Now you shared something with him, Steven and Jake unique to most any relationship in the world. You were bound together through love, and through so much more - through time and ancient legend and powerful forces.

You and Jake had certainly bound yourselves to one another in the desert.

You woke up, remembering the power of your union. Marc rolled over, and, realizing you weren't asleep, he wrapped his arm around your torso, burying his nose in your neck.

"Hey," you whispered. "Did I wake you up?"

"'Sokay," he mumbled, his hot breath tickling your skin. "You have a dream?"

"Yeah, but it was good," you whispered, tracing patterns up and down the muscles of his bare back. "Like I can still feel things, but they don't hurt me like they did before."

"I'm glad, baby," he murmured, kissing the spot behind your ear. "I love you." He nuzzled your cheek before pressing his mouth to yours, brushing his lips over yours hungrily.

Forearm flexing against your back, he maneuvered you close, his other hand squeezing your hip, using his grip to pull your body across his.

You settled in, one knee on either side of his thighs, straddling his lap, smiling at him knowingly. "Maybe I'm not sorry I woke you up."

Pausing, just to be sure, you cupped his cheek. "You must be sleepy." Even as you suggested it, you rocked your hips back and forth over the hardness you felt growing there.

Marc smirked, gripping your hips. "Not that tired." He pulled you down while thrusting up, getting harder by the second, taking his time rubbing against you.

You worked your shirt over your head. Next went his shirt and by the time he crushed you against him, the feel of his bare skin against yours made turning back an impossibility. It felt so good to feel his hunger for you, to know that you weren't too much for him. But he felt exactly the same way.

Kissing you wildly, he pulled the rest of your clothes from your body and rolled you back over, laying you down on the bed. He gripped your thighs and pulled them wide open open. His eyes darkened as he gazed down at you, hungrily licking his lips as he admired your arousal, and the way you were spread open and ready for him.

When he pushed his way inside, he started off leisurely, grinding deep and slow, rubbing himself up against you, creating electric sensations that had you tossing your head back and moaning.

He slowed down, rotating his hips so that you could feel every part of him. "Look at me," he lowly commanded.

Lips parted and panting, your eyes struggled to open and lock onto his as he angled his hips and hit the spot that made you shriek.

"Right there?"

"Yes, yes, oh fuck..."

He gave you more, rubbing that spot deep inside you, thrusting faster, a growl rumbling in his chest as your hips lifted to match his pace, on and on until you came suddenly and hard, gripping him tight.

But something different happened. Something had changed. It wasn't like before with Marc. And it wasn't like the moon-fueled display of power in the desert with Jake.

As your cunt clenched his cock, you could feel all the normal sensations of an orgasm - the rush of pleasure, the bliss, the heat, but you felt something more. The sensation that something soft and warm was fluttering against your sex, coaxing you to come - only you were already climaxing.

Marc held on as long as he could, fucking you through your release until he was about to burst.

Roughly pulling out of you, he jerked himself with a few firm tugs, spilling all over your stomach, marking you the way he liked to do sometimes. But instead of simply feeling the warm splash of his come on your bare skin alone, you felt a second, entirely different, yet equally euphoric climax made your body seize along with his.

It took you so long to recover that Marc wondered if he hurt you somehow. Your body trembled as you panted and moaned out the most delicious sounds. Your eyes were hazy and satisfied. You drifted off to sleep only minutes later.

A dream realistic and sensual roused you in the night. You found yourself soaked and rutting against Marc's thigh, which woke him.

You panted out an apology but he shook his head in the dark, covering your mouth with his. The two of you rapidly fumbled your way out of your clothes, bodies urgently joining once again.

Marc groaned in pleasure as he felt you coming already. "Baby...should've woken me up."

"Keep going," you whined, lightly pounding on his chest with your fist. "I can feel...I can feel..." The sensation of your climax doubled back on itself somehow. Your own release mingled with the sensation of your velvety soft cunt fluttering and squeezing...you somehow. "Marc, fuck me," you demanded, bouncing wildly on top of him, so that the bed creaked and groaned in protest. "Hard. I can feel it. I can feel what you feel."

And you could. Happily accepting the challenge, Marc pushed you off him, laughing darkly at your protest as he planted you face down to the mattress and smacked the swell of your hip.

"Up," he ordered.

You lifted up on your knees, ass up in the air and whined in anticipation as he mercilessly gripped both hips and shoved his cock inside your heat. The sensation of his satisfaction surged through your body. As his dick got wetter and the pressure built in his stomach...as his balls slapped against the delicious curve of your ass, every single second of his pleasure coursed through your body, coaxing your own level of stimulation toward its breaking point...again.

You felt a throbbing deep within, a delicious tightening, more sensitive and euphoric with every stroke until you exploded into a new kind of ecstasy. Your body felt simultaneously as if it released and unloaded while being filled completely.

The waves of pleasure overwhelmed you so utterly that you almost blacked out. Marc, who just pounded his way to his best orgasm in weeks, suddenly found himself lying beside you as tears streaked down your cheeks, your skin flushed with sweat, your body boneless and spent.

"Did...did I hurt you?" He finally managed, panting against your neck. He slung one arm across your torso to pull your close, never minding the mess the two of you made.

And in the middle of your chest, concern and adoration flared, with a twinge of anxiety birthed out of the deepest love.

You cried even more, it was so beautiful.

"God, I'm sorry. Are you hurt?"

"I can feel you." You gripped his hand and pressed it between your breasts, over your heart. "How much you love me. How you want to protect me." You turned your head so that your foreheads touched. "I felt every sensation in your body as if it were my own."

You sniffled as he nuzzled his nose against your cheek. "I'm okay. It's just a lot. I didn't even know it was possible."

"What was possible?" He tenderly whispered, easing back so he could see your eyes.

"That you could love me anywhere near as much as I love you."

"More," he said, with conviction. "I love you more."

"But you still don't feel like quite enough sometimes," you whispered, slipping your arm around his waist. "I was with Steven first. We share...academic passions and pursuits. And Jake wants to work with me as an avatar. You don't think you're offering me anything except love."

Marc's eyes went wide at your bluntness.

"Sorry I'm still getting used to this feeling your feelings thing." You winced apologetically. "But, Marc, all I want is your love."

"I do want to work with you as an avatar," he assured you. "It's just that Jake does most of that. But there is something I can give you besides love."

You could feel the cheekiness behind his offer.

"Yeah, what's that?"

"Sex."

"Heard you were gonna be reading our minds now," Steven said, the next afternoon.

You hadn't seen him since Egypt, so you quickly stashed your book on the end table and rose to greet him.

"I can't read minds," you assured him, curling up across his lap on the sofa.

"Just feelings and...physical sensations?" His dark eyebrows shot up curiously.

"Yes, pretty much, I guess."

"Mmm, I see," he went on, brushing his fingertips over your collarbone before pressing a kiss to the soft skin of your neck. "So, what am I feeling right now?"

Shifting your ass playfully in his lap, you teased his half hard cock, rocking back and forth a few times before pressing your lips to his.

After a salacious kiss, you, shifted your position to where you were straddling him. "The same thing you're always feeling when you pull me onto your lap."

"I'm that obvious, then?" He murmured, tasting your lips one at a time.

"I spent a lot of time on your lap in your office, Professor." Rolling your hips temptingly, you slid your tongue in his mouth.

"Can you really feel what it's like when I...finish?" He asked as the two of you pulled each other's clothes off.

"Let's find out." He watched as you sank down on his cock, your body instantly shuddering as you shared his pleasure.

On a London rooftop, you watched Jake's cape swirl dramatically behind him. Black body armor hugged his frame and his eyes glowed a haunting white.

Your gold and white suit wrapped around your body, glimmering in the moonlight and fitting you perfectly.

"Ready, mi vida?" He held out his hand to you.

"I feel like I've been waiting for this my whole life."

Powered by the moon's glow, you leapt into action.

With every passing moment, the constant ticking in the otherwise silent house bore into his skull, almost berating him.

'Tick. Tick. Tick.'

'Wrong.'

'Shame."

'Guilt."

"Shut up," he hoarsely whispered, fingernails digging into the wood.

"Shut up, shut up!"

"I didn't say anything." You emerged from your daughter's bedroom after tucking her in for the night. "Please don't wake her up. It took me forever to get her to sleep."

He squeezed his eyes shut in anguish.

"Who were you talking to anyway? Me? Steven?"

HIs jaw clenched as he swallowed hard. "Not a chance."

You frowned, confused. "What? Why? What did he say?"

"Nothing," he muttered. "Is she okay?"

You sat down on the couch perpendicular to Marc. "She's okay."

Your assurance brought no comfort.

The muscles of his arm strained so intensely you thought he might break the chair. He couldn't even look at you.

"Marc, she's okay," you repeated, although your words gave him no real relief.

He scared her. Maybe scared you a little.

A boy in your daughter's kindergarten class pushed her down on the playground. She was okay for the most part, but she cried during her bath. The soapy water stung her scrapes and bruises formed alongside them. Her little palms also bore the marks of catching her fall.

Marc thought she was watching TV before bed as he asked you how you handled the situation at school.

But, hearing her parents talk about the boy at school drew your daughter's curious mind toward the two of you.

She darkened your bedroom door just in time to hear her dad saying, "How could they let this happen to her? What kind of fucking school is this?"

"Marc, hold on, just...calm down," you advised, but seeing marks on his little girl sent him off the deep end.

"Don't tell me to calm down, not about this. Who the fuck put his hands on her? I'll kill him."

Your daughter's face scrunched into an anguished pout as she burst into tears. "Don't kill him, Daddy."

"Oh my god, baby," you gasped, running to scoop up your frantic daughter. "It's okay, it's okay. That's not what Dad meant."

Marc suddenly pushed off the chair in the living room, shuddering at the thought of his daughter's face, horrified by his words. By him.

Afraid of him.

The only thing he'd ever wished for his child was to never be frightened of him.

He stalked to the bedroom and shut the door, leaving you alone and defeated.

Marc found you on the balcony a while later, listening to music on your phone and jotting something down in a spiral notebook. It was a journal of sorts, where you drew little illustrations, made notes to clear your head, and journaled.

Fearing the worst but hoping for forgiveness, he brought you a cup of tea, saucer and everything, the way Steven made it for you.

"Here," he said gruffly, thrusting the offering toward your face, startling you in the process. His hand trembled and the cup toppled to the ground, shattering.

You jumped, letting out a shriek of surprise.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, I - I wanted to -"

"Are you okay?" You asked him, stashing your notebook and rising to meet him. “Did it burn you?”

He dropped down to frantically pick up the mess he'd made, haphazardly grasping at the glass shards, when you knelt in front of him and reached for his hand.

"Don't do that. You'll cut yourself."

"I have to...I have to -"

"Marc, stop. Stop."

Abandoning his task, he sank down to the ground, against the chair opposite yours, head bowed in anguish.

"I'll clean it up," he muttered, pushing his hands through his curls and yanking hard. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I…” His voice broke as he slumped forward, interrupted by an anguished sob.

Easing down beside him, you reached for his hand to stop him for pressing his palms into his forehead and starting to pound.

Your heart burned and broke for him, but swelled with love for his efforts. You were honestly surprised he hadn’t disassociated under such duress. You only wished you knew the best way to connect to him or comfort him. But you were only human. The fact that he accidentally scared your daughter and stormed off into the bedroom for the last two hours hurt. You tried not to take it personally but it stung.

Then he made you tea? For Marc, that was as big as a marriage proposal. Reaching over for your phone, you paused the music.

“Baby…” you whispered, gently tracing your fingertips on his back, slowly easing into rubbing up and down, which tended to ground him. “I’m here. It's gonna be okay.”

“I can’t lose you,” he mournfully choked out, slumping over onto your lap.

“Lose me? Marc…” Raking your fingers through his thick hair, you hushed him. “That’s not how marriage works. Maybe you fucked up. We’re parents. We fuck up. Spouses too. It doesn’t mean you’re going to lose me.”

It took him several minutes to get his bearings, but you let him cling to you, wrap his arms desperately around your torso as you soothed him.

Finally, you helped him turn over so he could rest across your lap. You pushed his damp curls out of his eyes with one hand, while soothingly rubbing his chest with the other.

“I scared her,” he hoarsely whispered, peering up at you. “You saw her face. She’s afraid of me.”

“She’s not. You know she’s not.”

He sniffed, nodding once. “I fucked up.”

You smiled at him sympathetically. “You didn’t know she was listening. I didn’t either. We should have put her to bed first. That’s on me too.”

“I just… I saw those marks on her body,” his voice broke. “I never wanted her to feel any pain.”

“You want to protect her. Believe me, I spent a half hour with the principal. I want the same thing. I bet a thousand dads have said the same words.”

He slowly sat up, touching his forehead to yours. “I’m sorry you had to take care of both of us tonight. You have no idea how much I hate that.”

Hitching your thumb toward the broken tea cup, you said, “I think I have some idea. You hate making tea. You must have felt really bad.”

“Fucked that up too.”

“Believe me, you didn’t. I felt so alone before you came out here. Thank you for doing that.”

“You’re thanking me?”

“Yes. You love our daughter. You love me. We’ll figure the rest of it out.”

You could only imagine how much it hurt Marc to frighten his only child, so when you woke up the next morning and found her sitting on his lap, reading a story together in Steven's chair, the world felt right again. You heard her ask if they could make you some tea in your favorite cup.

He winced, admitting that it accidentally broke, but rebounded beautifully by carrying her to the kitchen to pick out a different cup. As he opened the cupboard, you heard your daughter say, “There it is!”

“This is the best one, huh?”

“Yes, it has our picture on it."

Marc turned the mug this way and that, admiring the family picture on it with your girl. "It's a good picture, huh? Do you like it?"

"Yeah, but Dad?"

"What, baby?"

"Can we have a brother?"

You're debating between two brands of granola—the organic one your mom keeps insisting is better for you versus the cheaper one that actually tastes good—when you hear it. That laugh. The one that used to make your stomach flip, that you've spent five years trying to forget.

You look up, and there she is.

Jackie Taylor. Except not Taylor anymore—Sadecki now, probably, though you've actively avoided finding out. She's standing by the oatmeal, one hand on her shopping cart, the other resting on the swell of her stomach. She's pregnant. Very pregnant, maybe six or seven months, wearing a cream-colored sweater that somehow makes her look like she stepped out of a catalog for expectant mothers.

She hasn't seen you yet. You could slip away, take the next aisle, avoid this entire situation. Your hand tightens on the granola box.

Then she turns, and her eyes meet yours.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. A tinny version of "Last Christmas" plays through the store speakers. Someone's cart squeaks past on the next aisle over.

"Oh," Jackie says. Just that. Oh.

"Hey." Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "Hi."

"Hi." She blinks, and you watch her cycle through several expressions—surprise, something that might be panic, then a careful neutrality that you remember too well. "Wow. I didn't know you were in town."

"Just visiting. For the holidays." You gesture vaguely with the granola box, like that explains anything. "My parents, you know."

"Right. Of course." Her hand moves unconsciously to her stomach, a protective gesture. "How long are you here for?"

"Through New Year's."

"That's nice."

The conversation is excruciating. You're talking like strangers, like you didn't once know every inch of each other. Like her name isn't still the one you think of in quiet moments when your guard is down.

"So," you say, because someone has to. "Congratulations. On the—" You nod toward her stomach.

She glances down, and something softens in her face. "Thanks. It's a girl. Due in February."

"That's great, Jackie. Really."

There's a pause where neither of you seems to know what to say next. An older woman squeezes past, muttering about people blocking the aisle. Jackie automatically moves her cart closer, and the movement brings her nearer to you.

"You look good," she says quietly. "Different, but good."

"So do you." It's not a lie. She does look good, if you ignore the way your chest aches looking at her. Pregnancy suits her—she's glowing, like everyone always says pregnant women do, though you'd never really believed it until now.

"I'm huge." She laughs, self-deprecating, and there's the Jackie you remember. The one who hid insecurities behind humor.

"You're pregnant. There's a difference."

Her smile turns genuine, just for a second. Then it falters, and you can see her remembering. Everything. The same way you're remembering.

"Listen," she starts, then stops. Shifts her weight. You notice she's wearing sneakers instead of the heels she used to favor. "This is weird, right? Running into each other like this?"

"Extremely weird."

"Would it be weirder if I asked—" She pauses, catches her bottom lip between her teeth. It's a nervous tell you recognize. "Do you want to get coffee? Or dinner? Catch up?"

Every instinct screams at you to say no. To make an excuse, grab your cereal, and get out. But there's something in her eyes—vulnerability, maybe, or hope—that makes you hesitate.

"I don't know if that's a good idea."

"Probably not," she agrees. But she doesn't take it back.

You should say no. You know you should say no.

"There's a diner," you hear yourself say. "The one on Maple Street. Is it still open?"

"Yeah." She says it fast, like she's afraid you'll change your mind. "Yeah, it's still there. Tomorrow night?"

"Sure." You're already regretting this. "Seven?"

"Seven's perfect."

You grab your granola—the organic one, because apparently you're making all kinds of questionable decisions today—and start to move past her. Her hand catches your sleeve, just for a second.

"It's really good to see you," she says, and she sounds like she means it.

"You too, Jackie."

It's only half a lie.

------

You call Shauna as soon as you get to your car.

"I ran into Jackie at the grocery store."

There's a pause. Then: "Oh boy."

"We're having dinner tomorrow."

"Oh boy."

"It's not—it's just dinner. Innocent. Catching up." You're trying to convince yourself as much as her.

"Uh-huh." Shauna's tone is carefully neutral. "And how are you feeling about that?"

"I don't know. Weird? She's pregnant, Shauna."

"I know. She's been posting bump photos on Facebook."

You haven't looked at Jackie's Facebook since you crossed paths with it. Blocked her after a moment of self-preservation. "How is she?"

"You'll have to ask her yourself." There's something in Shauna's voice—something she's not saying. "Just... be careful, okay? Both of you."

"It's just dinner."

"It's never just dinner with you two."

------

You arrive at the diner ten minutes early and immediately regret it. The place hasn't changed since high school—same red vinyl booths, same laminated menus, same faint smell of coffee and fryer grease. You and Jackie used to come here after games sometimes, back when you were still friends. Before everything got complicated.

You slide into a booth facing the door and order coffee you don't want just to have something to do with your hands.

Jackie arrives at 7:03, bundled in a winter coat that doesn't quite close over her belly. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, and she's wearing a knit hat that makes her look younger somehow. More like the girl you used to know.

"Sorry I'm late," she says, unwinding her scarf. "I've completely lost track of what it takes to get out the door these days. Everything's more complicated when you're shaped like a basketball."

"You're three minutes late. I think you're fine."

She smiles as she settles into the booth across from you, arranging her coat on the seat beside her. "I forgot how punctual you are. Jeff's on 'time is a suggestion' protocol."

The mention of her husband sits heavy between you. You take a sip of coffee.

"How is Jeff?" You ask because you should, because that's what people do.

"Good. Great, actually. He's taken over his dad's store." There's pride in her voice, but it sounds rehearsed. Like she's said it at a hundred holiday parties. "He's been working crazy hours, but once the baby comes he's planning to cut back."

"That's good."

"Yeah." She fidgets with the menu even though you both probably know it by heart. "What about you? Shauna mentioned you're in grad school?"

"Just finished, actually. Master's in social work."

"That's perfect for you." She says it like she still knows you. "You always wanted to help people."

The waitress appears, saving you from having to respond. Jackie orders decaf coffee and a grilled cheese—"I'm having the weirdest cravings," she explains with a self-conscious laugh. You order a burger you're not sure you'll be able to eat.

Once the waitress leaves, silence settles over the table. Not comfortable, not quite uncomfortable. Somewhere in between.

"This is strange," Jackie says finally.

"Yeah."

"Not bad strange. Just... strange." She wraps her hands around her water glass. "Six years."

"Six years," you echo.

"Shauna said you're living in Boston now?"

"Cambridge, technically. Got a job at a youth center there."

"That sounds amazing." She means it—you can tell. "Are you happy?"

The question catches you off guard. "I... yeah. I think so. Most days."

"Good." She nods, and something in her expression shifts. "I'm glad you're happy."

You want to ask if she is. Want to know if the life she chose was worth it. But you don't.

The food arrives, and you both focus on eating for a while. It's easier than talking. But eventually, Jackie sets down her sandwich and looks at you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.

"I need to apologize," she says.

"Jackie—"

"No, please. Let me say this." She takes a breath. "What happened at my bachelorette party. The way I treated you, the things I said. Or didn't say. All of it. I'm sorry. I've wanted to tell you that for six years."

You set down your burger carefully. "Okay."

"That's it? Okay?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Something?" Her voice cracks slightly. "You can be angry. You can tell me I'm awful. You can—"

"I'm not angry, Jackie. Not anymore." It's mostly true. The sharp edges of that hurt have dulled over time. "We were both... we were both dealing with stuff. We both made choices."

"I made the wrong ones." She says it quietly, looking down at her plate.

"You made the ones you could live with. That's different."

Her eyes snap up to meet yours. "Is it?"

The question hangs there, weighted with everything you're both not saying. About her marriage. About what you had. About whether any of it could have been different.

"You're having a baby," you say instead of answering. "You're building a life. That's not nothing."

"No." She touches her stomach again. "It's not nothing."

But there's something hollow in the way she says it.

The conversation shifts to safer topics—your work, her pregnancy symptoms, mutual friends you've both lost touch with. She tells you about her nursery plans, and you tell her about your tiny apartment in Cambridge. You're both performing normalcy, pretending this is just two old friends catching up.

But underneath it all, there's a current. The same pull that's always been there, the thing that made you unable to stay away from each other even when you should have.

You notice the way her eyes linger on your face. The way she laughs a little too hard at your jokes. The way she finds excuses to reach across the table—passing the ketchup, brushing crumbs away—so her hand briefly touches yours.

And you notice the way you're leaning forward, drawn in despite yourself. The way you've memorized the new details about her—the tiny silver necklace with a "J" pendant (for Jeff or Jackie?), the way her wedding ring looks slightly tight on her swollen finger, the faint circles under her eyes that makeup doesn't quite hide.

"I've missed this," Jackie says softly, when the waitress clears your plates. "Just talking. Being around you."

"Jackie." It comes out as a warning.

"I know. I know I don't get to say that." She looks down at her hands. "But it's true."

"We can't—"

"I'm not asking for anything." She cuts you off gently. "I just wanted you to know."

The thing is, you've missed her too. Missed her in a way that's never quite gone away, like a phantom limb. But missing someone doesn't mean you should be around them.

"How's therapy going?" Shauna's voice echoes in your head from a conversation months ago. You need to stop carrying Jackie Taylor around like a wound.

"I should go," you say abruptly, reaching for your wallet.

"Wait." Jackie's hand shoots across the table, covering yours. "Please. Just a few more minutes."

You should pull away. You should leave. But her hand is warm, and it's been six years since anyone touched you like they didn't want to let go.

"Five more minutes," you agree.

She doesn't remove her hand, and you don't make her.

"Can I ask you something?" Jackie's voice is careful. "Are you seeing anyone?"

"No." You don't ask her the same question. You know the answer.

"Why not?"

"Haven't found the right person, I guess." Haven't found anyone who's you, you don't say.

She nods slowly, her thumb tracing an absent pattern on your knuckles. "Do you ever think about—" She stops. "Never mind."

"About what?"

"About how different things might have been. If I'd been..." She searches for the word. "Braver."

"Sometimes." There's no point in lying. "But you can't build a life on 'what ifs,' Jackie."

"No." She pulls her hand back, and you feel the loss immediately. "You can't."

The moment breaks. Jackie reaches for her purse, and you both go through the motions of paying, bundling back into winter coats, preparing to step back out into the cold and your separate lives.

Outside, snow has started to fall. Light, lazy flakes that catch in Jackie's hair as she turns to face you.

"Thank you," she says. "For this. For giving me a chance to apologize."

"Yeah. Of course."

"Maybe..." She hesitates. "Maybe we could do this again? Before you leave?"

You should say no. Every piece of hard-won wisdom tells you to cut this off now, before it becomes something.

"Maybe," you say instead.

Her smile is sad and grateful in equal measure. "I'll text you. If that's okay?"

"Sure."

She hugs you goodbye—awkward around her belly, brief but tight. You smell that same perfume, underneath it something else now. Something maternal and domestic.

"Take care of yourself," she whispers.

"You too."

You watch her walk to her car—a sensible SUV, because of course it is. She waves before getting in, and you wave back.

On the drive to your parents' house, you cry. Not hard, not dramatically. Just quiet tears that slide down your cheeks while the radio plays Christmas songs and the snow continues to fall.

You text Shauna: Dinner happened. I'm fine.

She responds immediately: Are you actually fine or 'fine'?

The second one.

Come over tomorrow. I'll make coffee and you can tell me everything.

------

Jackie texts three days later.

Coffee before you leave? Just as friends.

You stare at the message for ten minutes. Then you type: Can't, sorry. Family stuff. But it was good seeing you.

It takes her an hour to respond: You too. Take care.

You don't text back.

On New Year's Eve, you're at a party at your cousin's house when your phone buzzes. Unknown number.

I kept your letters. All of them. The ones I wrote but never sent. They're in a box in my closet. Jeff doesn't know about them. Sometimes I take them out and read them and remember what it felt like to be honest about something. I shouldn't tell you this. I'm probably going to regret it in the morning. But I wanted you to know that what we had was real. It mattered. You mattered. Happy New Year.

Your hands shake as you read it twice, three times. You start to type a response—delete it—start again.

Finally: Happy New Year, Jackie. I hope you find whatever you're looking for.

You delete the message thread and block the number.

At midnight, everyone around you is kissing and cheering and making promises about new beginnings. You slip outside to the back porch, breath clouding in the winter air.

Your phone stays silent.

Six years wasn't enough time to get over Jackie Taylor. Ten years probably won't be either. But you're learning to live with it—this ache that's become part of you, this love that has nowhere to go.

Inside, someone calls your name. The party continues. Life continues.

You take a deep breath of cold air, wipe your eyes, and go back inside.

-----

February 2006

The birth announcement comes through Shauna—a photo of Jackie looking exhausted and radiant, holding a tiny pink bundle. Lily Elizabeth Sadecki, born February 14th. 7 lbs 3 oz.

You send flowers to the hospital through an anonymous service. White roses, because Jackie always loved white roses.

You don't include a card.

Three weeks later, Shauna mentions casually that Jackie asked if you'd sent them.

"What did you tell her?"

"That I didn't know."

"Thanks."

"She's struggling," Shauna says quietly. "Postpartum is hitting her hard. She keeps asking about you."

"Shauna—"

"I know. I'm not trying to push anything. I just thought you should know."

You don't respond. There's nothing to say.

That night, you dream about white roses and a baby you'll never meet. You wake up with Jackie's name on your lips and tears on your pillow.

Some stories don't have endings, just ellipses. Just the slow fade of what could have been into what is.

You carry Jackie Taylor with you still—not as a wound anymore, but as a scar. Proof that you survived something. Proof that you loved and were loved, even if it was never in the way you needed.

It's not a happy ending.

You were Jonathan's TA, which made your attraction to him a huge no-no. Not to mention the engagement ring on your finger, and the wedding band on his.

Here you were, lights off, door locked, sitting in a specific corner deemed the safest area.

"Been a while," he softly remarked, adjusting his wire frames on his nose. "Must have really lost track of a patient."

"You don't think it's anything more than that?" You fretted. "Like a real emergency? Someone dangerous?"

Jonathan worked his thumb through the thick beard covering his jawline. "Should we go in the closet?"

That's how you ended up in his storage closet, in pitch black, feeling a little afraid, if you were honest. You sat on the floor, up against the wall, legs drawn up to your chest. Your arm pressed up against Jonathan's from shoulder to elbow, the small point of contact grounding you and setting you off balance simultaneously.

"You okay?" He whispered, gingerly taking hold of your wrist. Nothing untoward. He simply wanted to check in with you. But as his thumb brushed the tender skin on the underside of your wrist, your breath trembled.

You immediately rolled your eyes at yourself, thankful Jonathan couldn't see you in the dark.

"Fine," you sighed.

You didn't mean to do it. His grip on your wrist eased into a hand hold, fingers caressing, pushing in a back and forth motion, linking, caressing and dragging apart, over and over.

With one tug, he pulled your hand to rest against his chest.

"My heart is beating so fast," he admitted breathlessly.

"Scared?" You halfheartedly teased, turning your face to his.

"Only of fucking this up." His lips sought yours out in the dark, and covered yours, messily.

It was wet and hot. His tongue was heaven, and when he hoisted you across his lap, you forgot to remember the promises you'd made to another man.

Your hips rolled against his urgently, the thrill of working him to hardness urging you onward without sense or reason.

One touch, one grind, one taste, led to another until your bodies shared a sinful rhythm.

"Tell me to stop right now," he pleaded, his glasses yanked from his face and set haphazardly aside.

“We should,” you panted, grinding your core against the delicious, heavy length you craved to feel pushing up into you hungrily.

Every breath, every caress of skin, every brush of his thick beard against your face as he kissed you wetly, thundered in your ears, enhanced by all you couldn’t see.

You were kissing him back. It was wrong. But that was all, right? All your clothes were in place.

Nevermind that his palms spread across the curve of your back, pressing your chest flush against his.

His heels dug into the floor, giving him leverage to thrust against the most tender parts of you.

Your fingers wove through his thick mess of curls as you matched his pace. It was painfully slow, but extremely effective in turning you on beyond your wildest imagination.

The sound of your phone jolted you back to your right mind.

Panting but hardly sated, you and Jonathan withdrew from one another, fixing your clothes as you checked your phone.

You both saw your fiancé's name on the screen.

You quickly texted him back as Jonathan stood and opened the door, allowing light to spill into the closet. He extended his hand to help you up.

"You gonna tell him?" Jonathan softly asked smoothing his thick curls back into place and putting on his glasses.

You nodded to his wedding band. "You gonna tell her?"

He frowned in confusion. Noticing your eyes referencing his hand, he shook his head. "No, uhm...she left." He cleared his throat, fingers instinctually gripping the wedding band. He caressed its cool metal for a moment before working it free of his finger. "Been meaning to take this off. It just felt more normal with it. Until today, that is."

His dark eyebrows lifted hopefully. But now you fidgeted with your own ring. A magnificent piece, actually. Your fiancé must be loaded. Even if Jonathan wanted to, he could never give you a gift like that.

"That's a beautiful ring," he commented politely, motioning to your hand.

"Oh? Thank you," you responded. "It's a family heirloom. Old money." You sighed worriedly. "Don't know how I could ever fit into all that, honestly."

You winced, letting out an apologetic sigh. "I'm sorry about today, in there."

Jonathan's coffee colored eyes met yours bravely. "I'm not."

He yanked his cap off his head, carding a hand through his curls. “I was a little busy trying to stop a murder.”

“For five hours?”

“Yes. I don’t know if you noticed, but we live in a shitty world.”

“Which is why you scared me to death tonight. I thought something happened to you.”

“I told you not to wait up. I’m out there trying to protect you," he said emphatically.

“Then at least tell me you’re okay.”

He groaned in frustration, throwing up his hands. But all it took was the glistening in your eyes and trembling of your lip to wear him down.

“I’m sorry, mi vida. I thought you were asleep. I…I’m not used to all this.” He motioned around him, to you, to your home.

It was true. Jake was new to this relationship, despite the fact that you married Marc two years ago.

You took another step back, blinking back tears. “I’m sorry.” You were probably too much for him. And he would go back to hiding, like he did before. When you felt certain he wanted nothing to do with you. “I just don’t want to lose you,” you brokenly confessed.

With a firm shake of his head, he moved toward you, eyes locked onto yours. “You won’t. I want to be here. Believe me, it’s all I want, and out there,” he paused, pointing toward the window, toward the city, “I’m protected. I have the armor. But you don’t have anything. So I go. So you’re safe.”

He reached for your arms. “I’m sorry about my phone. I’ll do better.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered as he touched his forehead to yours. “You’re right, I should be asleep. I guess we just misunderstood each other.”

“It happens, baby.”

You sniffled, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love you. I’m glad you’re home.”

But as you forced your heavy lidded eyes open, you trembled in fear.

Glowing, white eyes stared back at you under a white hood. You twisted away from...whatever horror had come to drag you to the afterlife.

Suddenly, the hood, the glowing eyes and the black mask covering its face dissolved to reveal...

"Grant?" You choked out, using what little strength you possessed to spit your father's enemy's name.

Millionaire Steven Grant. The only man in three counties who wouldn't bend the figurative knee to "the king of everything." Aka, your father.

Your father's organization owned this city. The cops, politicians, everyone with deep pockets.

Everyone except the Grants.

And this infuriated your father beyond measure. He'd ordered the death of Elias and Steven Grant multiple times. Never worked.

Mr. Grant must have gotten fed up because you were kidnapped two days ago.

"Not Grant," the man corrected, reaching for your shackles.

Terror spiked through your body but you wouldn't die a coward at your enemy's hands. "Here to finish the job yourself? I'm surprised you would bother to get your hands dirty." You coughed, throat parched with thirst.

He tutted condescendingly, continuing to loose your bonds with one hand, while his strong arm wrapped around your body, supporting your weight.

Despite the fight in your words, you sagged against him, exhausted, terrified and dehydrated. "Don't bother if you're just going to kill me."

"I'm here to take you home, hermosa."

He finally freed your hands. Your arms dropped to your sides like lead and the jerking motion made you start to cry. "It's hurts, it hurts so much.”

"Shh, shh, I got you." The white-caped Steven Grant scooped you up in his arms as if you weighed nothing, despite being much shorter than you imagined. In an instant, the black mask and white hood covered his incredibly handsome face once more, and his eyes glowed their haunting white.

You passed out.

You'd heard about Moon Knight for months. A vigilante, some said. A hero to others. A menace to criminals.

Like your father.

Though you would never say it out loud. No one would.

Some people said he wore a crisp, white suit, kind of like the mascot for that fast food chicken place. Others swore he wore a white cape, and was bandaged like a mummy, head to toe, in all white.

But this...person, if he even was Moon Knight, did have a white cape, but his suit was more like black, body-hugging body armor.

Stunning, really.

Of course, you were too frightened, infuriated, thirsty, hungry and exhausted to exactly ogle your savior.

The mystery man took you to a tiny room in some warehouse in the side of town where your father's minions did their dirtywork.

He handed you a sealed bottle of water and a package of crackers. You snatched them and devoured them both. He said nothing until you were done. He handed you a second water bottle, which you also drained in about thirty seconds.

"Do you have more?"

"Take it easy," he cautioned. "Give it a few minutes."

"Do you have more?"

"Soon. I promise."

He knelt down in front of the small sofa where you were halfway sitting up. You wanted to lie down so badly, but what if you needed to run?

"Are you going to kill me?" You whispered, weakly.

"No," he answered resolutely. "I wouldn't have bothered saving you just to do that."

"Why did you do this to me?"

Confusion wrinkled his forehead as his dark eyebrows shifted curiously. "I didn't do this. Why would I help you if I did this?"

"Because of who I am. And because you're Steven Grant."

Even a small amount of arguing with him took the last of your energy. You slumped over on the couch.

The last thing you heard before you passed out was, "I'm not. My name is Jake."

The man in the black body armor and white cape swore his name was Jake Lockley.

You sipped some soup he brought you, noticing there was a stack of fresh clothes, a wash rag and a brand new bar of soap, along with other hygiene items.

Your wrists were bandaged. He must have done that while you slept. The intimacy of him tending your wounds while you had no knowledge of it made you shiver.

"Are you the Moon Knight?"

"I am."

"Is Jake your secret identity? You're like Batman, right? Rich guy - Bruce Wayne by day, Batman by night?"

"Jake is my name."

You frowned, confused. "So Steven Grant is your secret identity. Like Clark Kent?"

"Uhhh...something like that, I guess."

"Why did you help me? Steven Grant hates my family."

"He doesn't, actually."

You groaned. "Whatever...you hate us?"

"No."

Okay, to be fair, Jake was a part of a system. He could explain that to you later, maybe. Steven didn't hate your family. He wasn't very fond of your father, but he just wanted to keep as much of the city out of your father's grip as possible.

Marc, his other alter, definitely hated your father. But Marc held grudges.

Steven found out that someone, a rival group within your father's organization, kidnapped you and planned to blame it on the Grant family - on Steven and his father Elias. He sent Jake after you.

Jake was more than happy to take care of the men who laid a hand on you, especially since they were blaming Steven. Both you and Steven were innocent in all this.

So Jake took them out - all of them. He sent their remains to your father, so he would know his own people turned against him, and hurt you.

"You're probably wondering why I didn't take you to the hospital," Jake told you, after relaying as much of the story as possible in one sitting. "It's not safe. As soon as it is, I'll take you home." He nodded to the clean clothes, and then to a doorway. “Shower's in there. Towels too.”

You stayed with him another day. He changed your bandages, made sure you were fed and clean.

And he told you all about Marc and Steven.

You asked him why and he simply shrugged. "Know your enemy?"

You smiled at him sadly. "You don't seem like my enemy. You saved my life."

"Yes, I did. You're welcome," he said smugly, but he was teasing.

"Does my father really believe the Grants had nothing to do with this? He knows you saved me?"

"Mostly," Jake told you. "Maybe we should tell him together. Try to end all this."

Your eyes widened. "You mean that. Don't you?"

He nodded earnestly. "Our fathers are enemies. We don't have to be."

That's how the biggest enemies in Chicago made peace: with a controversial wedding in early autumn.