Her head lolled onto her folded arms, barely upright at this point, eyes unfocused as she stared at the open prep book in front of her.

“Okay,” he said, flipping a page. “Logical reasoning. Let’s try one more.”

She groaned, voice muffled against her sleeve. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Noooo.”

“Yes.”

“Liam,” she lifted her head, fixing him with a mildly-impressive threatening stare, “I swear to God, I could not tell you the difference between a necessary and sufficient assumption right now if my life depended on it. Like, gun to my head? Not happening.”

Lando blinked, looking at her seriously. “Your life does not depend on it.”

“Exactly,” she declared, tossing down her highlighter. “So I’m making stars instead.”

She reached for the strips of paper she’d been folding absentmindedly for the last ten or so minutes, fingers deftly creasing them into small, perfect origami stars. The table was already littered with them, tiny constellations of her boredom.

Lando leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching her work with a bemused expression.

“I didn’t know you were so easily defeated.”

She shot him a glare. “I’m not defeated. I’m… on strike.”

“Against?”

“My own brain.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Great. Can’t wait to see you argue that in court one day.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled, fingers still working on another star.

Liam stared at her for a moment too long, seeming very judgmental for someone who did not have to do the actual studying part. He narrowed his eyes. “You’re serious?”

She didn’t even look up. “Liam, I cannot study anymore.”

“You said that half an hour ago, and yet, we are still here.”

“I know, and that was the last time I could study. My brain is at maximum capacity. I have reached the limit of human intellectual absorption.” She held up a tiny, folded star between her fingers, as if to prove her point.

Lando sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He should tell her to keep going. Should remind her that this test was important, that she couldn’t afford to slack off now. But she looked tired, and he wasn’t a monster.

“…At least make me one,” he said, nodding toward the paper scraps.

Her head snapped up, eyes suspicious but there was a glimmer of excitement there too if Lando looked hard enough. “You want an origami star?”

He shrugged. “Eh, might as well.”

For a second, she just stared at him, like she was trying to figure out if he was messing with her. But then she grinned—small, genuine, and earnest. Lando wondered what other things caused her eyes to light up like that, what simple pleasures had her glittering with this pure kind of joy.

He leaned forward, interrupting her space by plucking a finished star from the pile and examining it between his fingers. “So… is this, like, normal or whatever? Or is there a cure–”

She gasped, appalled. “Oh, shut up! I just needed to do something with my hands that wasn’t writing or highlighting or underlining—”

Lando flicked the tiny star at her forehead.

She gasped. “Liam!”

“You were talkin’ too much,” he said, leaning back in his chair, smirking. “Consider it a tactical disruption.”

She huffed, flicking one right back at him. It hit him squarely in the chest. Once a concerning number of them were sufficiently scattered about their work table, he reached over and picked one up, inspecting the delicate folds.

“Should I be worried that you can make, like, fifty of these in under five minutes?”

“It’s a completely normal coping mechanism.” She started another one, hands moving on autopilot. “Some people take smoke breaks. I make stars.”

He raised a brow. “Not sure that’s the best analogy.”

She grimaced apologetically, realizing her mistake. Liam had been extra grumpy after recently quitting, despite the fact that he claimed not to smoke in the first place. Even though it resulted in his car smelling nicer, it apparently was still a touchy subject. She shot him an apologetic look before turning back and placing another finished star in a neat little row beside the others.

Lando sighed, running a hand down his face. He should probably tell her to keep studying, but—screw it. She’d worked her ass off. If she needed a break, she needed a break.

He appeared lost in some deep thought, so he caught her off guard when he reached for another piece of scrap paper and attempted to fold his own.

“Wait, are you—”

“Shut up. I’m concentrating.”

She leaned in, curious, watching as he fumbled through the folds. By the time he finished, his “star” looked more like a crumpled piece of trash than anything else. He scowled, huffing as he flipped it over. “I changed my mind. This is stupid.”

There was a beat of silence. And then she burst out laughing.

“Wow,” she wheezed, wiping at her eyes. “That’s horrific.”

She exhaled determinedly and pushed her books away, flexing her fingers like they ached from all the writing. Then, casually, she slid a few extra strips of paper toward him. “Want another try? I can teach you.”

He frowned at the offering. “Nah, I don’t do crafts.”

“Oh, come on. Please?” She gave him a playful nudge with her foot under the table. “Don’t be lame. It’s easy, just fold here—”

She reached over, her hand grazing hers as she tried to guide the paper through the first few folds. When the instructions became too confusing, she decided that they would attempt visual learning instead. Reaching closer to the half-complete star in front of him she gently took his hand in hers as she led him through the final tucks and indentations, leaving behind with a half decent star. It was a little lopsided, but a star nonetheless.

His star.

He had turned to look at her as soon as her hand made contact with his, caught off guard by the feeling of her delicate hands resting briefly against his calloused ones. Her hair had  untucked itself from behind her ear, curtaining her face away from view momentarily. It was only a split second before she fixed it, absentmindedly tucking her back as she’d likely done thousands of times before.

She continued with her explaining and rambling as she focused completely on what she was doing, Lando couldn’t bring himself to follow suit. It was strange, inexplicable – after the split second that her hair had covered her face, Lando suddenly saw her in an entirely different light. Still fixated on her, he barely breathed. It was such a simple thing, barely a touch at all, but for some reason, his body had the nerve to register it like it scalded him, but in a sort of pleasant way.

His skin burned but he didn’t seem to mind, lost in trance while she was focused elsewhere, something about ensuring they did the right number of folds so they could have adequate paper for a neat final tuck.

Makes them cuter, she’d explained.

Lando Norris didn’t know a damn thing about origami or stars. Yet he’d never been paying more attention to something so inconsequential as he did right then. Suddenly, he was struck with the idiotic idea to unravel the star they’d made, just so they could do it all over again.

When she looked at him proudly, he cleared his throat, pulling his hand back before he could think too much about it. “You seem to be quite the expert. Think I’ll leave the paper artistry t’you.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway, and he ignored the way that smile did something weird to his chest. The library stayed quiet after that, save for the sound of her folding tiny stars and him watching the way the light made them glow in her hands.

A few days later, they were crammed in his car outside the testing center, and she was flipping through well-worn flashcards like her life depended on it. She chewed her bottom lip raw, flipping through them with a frantic energy he hadn’t seen in all the time he’d come to know her.

"Alright, last one," she muttered, holding up a card. "If a contract is formed under duress—"

"It's voidable at the discretion of the coerced party," he answered.

She blinked. "You got that right."

"Obviously?” he questioned, pretending to be offended. ”I do pay attention, y’know."

She stared at the card for another second, then groaned, dropping it back onto the larger stack. "Okay. I think I'm gonna throw up."

"Don't do that," he said. "S’bad for morale. Also, I happen t’like this car. Just got it clean, too–"

"Liam."

When she glared at him, she looked like she hadn’t decided yet whether to cry or throw up. Lando can’t imagine giving some stack of papers that much power. 

What’s a score, anyway? Scores could be bought, extorted, bartered or bargained for–

He cut himself off before that line of thought could go any further. It was simply instinct, unfortunately. “Hey,” he reached over, plucking the papers right out of her hands. “You know this stuff.”

She didn’t even try to get them back from him, which should’ve been a sign to take this more seriously. But he noticed the way she fiddled with her fingers, pushing and pressing at her cuticles like it’d sooth her somehow. “This is the admissions test. For law school. What if I don’t?” she blurted.

“You do.” He was still laughing as he rolled his eyes.

She huffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t know that.”

Lando raised a brow. “I do, actually. I’ve been here every night watching you make flashcards and rewrite your notes and—look, if you weren’t already going to ace this, I’d just pay off the testing center.”

She blinked.

He tapped the steering wheel, as if actually considering it. “Or the admissions officer. Or the licensing board, now that I think about it—” His grin widened at her visible annoyance.

Why wasn’t he taking this seriously?

“Liam,” she groaned, shoving his shoulder.

He grinned but softened slightly, letting his voice drop. He turned to face her, and Y/N could practically feel her cheeks burning simply at the intensity of his gaze. Something about Liam always projected, confidence, strength, surety. 

Sometimes she wished she could be as sure as he was. 

But now, bearing the full weight of his gaze and being the sole object of his undivided attention, it felt almost like her heart was stuck in her throat. There was something about those green-gold irises that made Y/N feel like he could see all of her, like he could see right through her.

It made her pulse flutter with something foreign.

“Hey.” His voice was a near-whisper. The familiar smirk flickered, but his eyes held her captive. He gently nudged her chin, tilting her face up so she couldn't look away. "You're going to be perfect. Go out there and make me proud, yeah?"

Y/N was momentarily speechless. His touch, the way he held her in his gaze, left her breathless. She nodded, too caught in the intensity of the moment to form words. A strange mixture of fear and fascination swirled inside her as she exhaled, tension slipping from her shoulders.

“You’re the best,” she said before instinctively reaching out, squeezing his hand for half a second before quickly pulling away.

It was a fleeting gesture—a brief press of warmth—but it sent a shock up his spine, something lingering on his skin, even as she grabbed her bag and stepped out of the car, heading toward the entrance.

He watched her go, his fingers curling into a loose fist.

…Right. 

Time to lock that away and never open it again.

Elizabeth slept fitfully that night and when she got up the next morning she immediately checked the basement again to make sure nothing had been messed with. Everything seemed to be in place. She and Michael would be able to clean up a little bit more that day.

Elizabeth set about making waffles – the frozen ones, not fresh ones – and Michael was awake and in the kitchen before they were even done in the toaster. He usually did wake up when she was fixing food.

"Morning," he said as he sat down.

"Good morning."

Once they were settled in to eat Elizabeth mentioned that she had to work – she'd been working more days, if not longer hours, since Christmas was so close to arriving. People were ordering more food, so she had more deliveries to make – but she still wanted to clean out more of the basement when she got back home.

"No jogging today?"

"I'm gonna be pretty busy doing other things. I think I can skip a day."

"I can pack more things away while you're gone if you tell me what you want me to do with them."

She smiled. "That would be great. Thank you."

He smiled back before taking a bite of a waffle. ---------- Elizabeth made sure Michael knew what he had to do in the basement and that he had what he needed before she left for work. She'd given him permission to go through everything before deciding to give it away. If he wanted it, he could keep it.

There were a few things he knew Elizabeth would want to keep – like her old dishes that she'd had to pack up just to be safe after one of them had been thrown at her head – so he left those alone. There was a box full of art stuff that he set aside because he didn't know what she wanted to do with those. She'd never said anything about being into art, but he didn't want to put it in the trash or donation pile until he was sure she didn't want it anymore.

It was around the half-hour mark that the basement became stiflingly hot and oppressive. Michael knew what that feeling meant now even though he didn't think he'd ever get used to it.

A spark of fear went through him because he was alone. He'd never had to face this thing on his own, not outside of a dream. What if it tried to take him over? Elizabeth wasn't there to bring him back this time.

It didn't try to take him over, but it did try to invade his mind with questions about Langdon moving in. Why did Michael want him there? What was the point?

The answer to that was simple enough: Langdon was helping him learn exactly what he could do. There was also the part of Michael that knew Langdon needed somewhere other than the Murder House to live in, especially after finding out that he might not be safe there, no matter what Langdon claimed.

Why do you care?

Michael shook his head as a very real voice – deep and guttural – filled his head. Elizabeth had told him not to give in the last time the entity had made an appearance. In fact, she'd told him to do the exact opposite of what it told him to do, so he just went back to packing things up.

He tried to ignore the atmosphere of the room, but he couldn't ignore it when a shadow with horns and wings showed up on the wall opposite him and a low growling sound filled the room.

Michael stopped what he was doing and began running to the stairs and up them. The door slammed shut before he could get there and he couldn't open it when he tried to get through. It wouldn't even open when he tried to do it with his mind.

Why do you care? The question was repeated.

"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know!"

Michael covered his ears with his hands and backed up against the door, slid down until his butt touched the floor.

He's just going to replace you.

Michael shook his head. Elizabeth had said she wouldn't let that happen.

She replaced her sister with you because you needed her more. Now he needs her more, so what do you think will happen to you? She won't even let her sister visit. She's going to kick you out just like your grandmother did.

"No." It came out as more of a whimper than an actual word.

Look at you. All her . . . attention has made you weak and soft. It was never supposed to be this way. Honestly, you'd be better off if she did kick you out.

"No," he said again, stronger this time. "Shut up. Leave me alone."

Oh, but you are alone. You'll be even more alone if he moves in. He'll take up her time and she'll forget about you.

Michael fisted his hair in his hands and pulled a little so he could focus on that instead of the words.

"I said leave me alone!"

A burst of energy shot out of him, but he obviously couldn't hurt a shadow. The only thing he accomplished was knocking over the boxes he'd packed up for Elizabeth.

The voice in his head stopped speaking, but Michael almost wished it hadn't when all he heard now was dark laughter at his momentary loss of control.

There was nothing he could do but wait for Elizabeth to get home. ---------- Langdon had just walked up to the front porch of Elizabeth's house with every intention of knocking when he felt something flow over him that was wrong on so many levels that he didn't even know where to start with describing what it was that he had felt.

The best thing he could come up with was that it felt like what he'd let take him over when he'd performed his first ritual. It was dark and dangerous, definitely evil, but he had never felt it outside of himself before.

Whatever it was, it was in the house and Langdon knew that Michael was in there with it – alone, because he'd seen Elizabeth leave for work a short while ago.

Langdon didn't know exactly what had made him want to come over earlier than he normally did, but he thought it might have had something to do with what Elizabeth had said when he'd told her the story about his mom trying to stab him in his sleep in the other world. She'd said that he shouldn't have to stay in a house where he was in danger even if he could defend himself. He shouldn't have to.

And so, he had started over to Elizabeth's house even though he knew she wouldn't be there. Now he was glad he had because he heard a yell come from inside – Michael was shouting something – and Langdon decided to just go in without knocking.

He had to use his magic to open the door because it was locked, but it was easy enough to manipulate the door knob so he could get in. It didn't take long to figure out that Michael was in the basement because that was where his screaming was coming from – and where the dark energy was coming from.

The closer Langdon got to the door the clearer Michael's words became. He was telling whatever was with him to leave him alone. If Langdon were being honest, he knew Michael was telling his father to leave him alone. Langdon had never done that; it was just another reason he and Michael were so different.

Langdon tried to open the door, but it wouldn't budge. Something was obviously forcing it shut.

"Michael?"

There was no interruption in Michael's yelling, so Langdon banged his fist on the door loud enough to hopefully get Michael's attention. He quieted down, at least, though the energy didn't go anywhere.

"Open the door!"

"I can't. It won't let me out."

"Use your magic," Langdon said.

"I did. It didn't work."

"There's two of us now. Try again."

"Okay."

From the time it took for both of them to get the door open, Langdon could definitely see how Michael wouldn't have been able to get the door open on his own. Michael basically fell to his knees when he was free of the basement and Langdon noticed he appeared pale, sweaty, and weak.

"What happened? That shouldn't have affected you that way."

"I got scared and my energy kind of just exploded outward."

That would explain it.

"Wait here."

Langdon went around Michael and stepped into the basement and onto the first step. There was a shadow on the wall that was very familiar to him. In his world, that shadow had belonged to his father, but it had never appeared to him in a menacing fashion, not like it had done with Michael, not like it was doing to him right now.

Langdon could sense that his presence was not welcome at all, so he turned back around and went back to Michael.

He couldn't do anything about the entity in this house, but he could at least try to do something about the traumatized boy on his knees on the floor.

It was a task and a half just getting Michael to function properly enough to get him to the couch, but Langdon was satisfied that he wasn't hurt, at least. It appeared that he'd mostly just been scared and angry, which made sense if he'd lost control as he'd said he had.

He really had no clue what to do in this situation. How should he comfort Michael? He wasn't good at comforting people; he'd never really had to before. He knew what he would have wanted in this situation if he was still Michael's age.

He would have wanted Ms. Mead because she had been his caregiver. Naturally, Michael would want Elizabeth as she was his. Unfortunately, Elizabeth was at work and Langdon had no clue when she would be back.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do here," Langdon admitted. "Do you want me to stay or leave."

Michael was laid on the couch curled up, almost in the fetal position, and Langdon was sitting awkwardly in a chair, waiting for some idea of what to do.

"Don't leave," was Michael's response, so Langdon stayed where he was. ---------- Elizabeth arrived home around five that evening, ingredients to fix hamburgers and French fries in a plastic grocery bag. She knew something was up the second she walked into the house because Langdon was there on one of the chairs, and Michael was slumped on the couch. Cartoons were playing on the TV screen, but neither was paying attention to it.

Michael's eyes were red and the area around them was swollen. He'd obviously been crying.

"What happened?"

As soon as she spoke, Michael shot up from the couch and came to her. He grabbed her in a hug, causing her to drop her grocery bag so she could hug him back.

"What happened?" she repeated when no one answered.

"He had a . . . confrontation with his father."

"What?"

"In the basement."

She released Michael to push him away enough to get a look at him.

"Are you hurt?"

Michael shook his head. "He just wouldn't leave me alone. He didn't try to hurt me."

"Good."

She hugged him once more, briefly, before letting go to take the bag of groceries in the kitchen.

Michael followed after her, and quickly after that Langdon entered as well. She set everything up on the counter so she could begin preparing for her meal.

"Are you staying for dinner?" she asked Langdon.

"Don't I usually?"

"Yeah."

Michael sat at the table, still quiet, still obviously upset.

"When did all this happen?"

"Not long after you left," Langdon answered.

"He locked me in the basement," Michael said softly, voice trembling slightly. "I couldn't open the door."

"What?"

A quiet but huge burst of anger filled Elizabeth at that knowledge. What could have been the point in terrifying Michael and locking him in the basement? What would have been accomplished by doing that? And honestly, she couldn't leave him alone now? The entity had moved onto terrorizing Michael? Why?

"I tried to get out so he slammed the door and wouldn't let me out."

That . . . was unacceptable.

"I made a mess in the basement. I couldn't control it, so everything I packed up is all over the floor now."

"That's okay," she said, stopping what she was doing and going to sit beside Michael at the table. Langdon was just standing in the archway of the kitchen, leaning against the wall. "You can sit too, you know."

Langdon listened, but he didn't say anything.

"You're mad," Michael said. "I can tell."

"I am," she said, wondering if she was just showing her emotions on her face or if Michael was beginning to be able to sense emotions or read minds like Langdon had been to be able to do at one point. "But not at you, I promise. This isn't your fault."

"Okay."

"Okay. And next time we'll clean the basement together."

Michael nodded even as he began to sniffle.

Elizabeth stood up then, went to get him a glass of water, and then came back to him.

"Drink it slowly," she said. "I'm gonna fix dinner now. You'll feel better once you eat something. You can help cut the lettuce and tomatoes if you want."

His eyes brightened a little at the thought of being able to help and take his mind off of what had happened.

"Why are you cleaning the basement?" Langdon asked.

Michael looked at her but didn't speak. Apparently, it was up to her to figure out what to say. She decided to go with the truth.

"We decided to make a space for you here, in case you wanted to stay . . . with us." She sighed. "It was supposed to be a surprise for Christmas, but . . . yeah, that's why we were cleaning it."

Langdon was silent for a good minute before he said, "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would you make a space for me here?"

"Well, several reasons, but the main one is because you don't need to be alone in that house. At least we acknowledge your presence here. You'd be able to feel safe here – or as safe as you can be with that thing here."

Langdon didn't respond.

"You don't have to decide right now. We still have some stuff to do down there, but once we're done . . . it's there if you want it."

“Your shoulder-” he began, trying to begin protesting her decision to run. Instead of listening to him, she ended up kneeling in front of him.

“Are you hurt?” she questioned. “I saw that thing take off with you again, it looked like it pulled you rather hard…”

Ivar laughed a little and nodded. “It did,” he confirmed, and when she seemed about to ask again if it had hurt him, he cut her off by answering, “But I am not hurt. It did no more than startle me.”

This had soothed Asta’s fears, and so when he began to describe to her what the flight had been like, she found herself able to listen eagerly, and curiously. He was always enigmatic when he told a story, and this story was no different. She imagined it would be like this as long as she knew him.

One night, Oleg had Ivar join him and go down into the crypts of the palace, late at night, and so she had decided to go on to bed while she waited on Ivar to return. Laying down without him felt strange, now. She’d grown so accustomed to sleeping beside Ivar, to sleeping in his arms even, that being alone felt wrong. Truthfully, she was actually having trouble sleeping without him. What was this?

Well, whatever it was, it led to her laying there wide awake the entire time Ivar was gone, until he finally returned late in the night- or truly, early in the morning. Her eyes were closed when he came inside, but the sound of his crutch coming into the room made them open.

Ivar mistook this for her having been asleep, and waking when he came in, so he closed the door quietly and shot her an apologetic smile. “I did not mean to wake you,” he said, his voice soft.

The sight of her laying there, the way she sat up a little as he approached, caused a strange stirring in his chest. Not so strange, really, as he did recognize it, but it was more insistent than it had been before. Perhaps because of the conversation he’d just had with Oleg.

“I wasn’t asleep,” she confessed, and he hummed, sitting on the edge of the bed and beginning to undo his braces. She sat up and moved over to him, leaning against him. When he didn’t move away, she reached over to start helping with his other leg’s brace. Ivar seemed to tense when her hands moved to his leg.

“What are you-?” he began to ask, but Asta didn’t stop working on his brace, undoing each buckle until it fell away.

“There,” she said, and smiled up at him sweetly. “Less work for you.”

Ivar smiled a little, even if he still seemed a little tense, and then he nodded. “Thank you,” he said quietly. She returned his smile, and in the moment, she moved to kiss his cheek softly.

Ivar watched her as she moved to lay back in the bed again, pulling the blankets up around herself, and he went ahead and pulled off the other brace on his legs before crawling up to get under them with her. However, something different happened now. Instead of curling up into his side, she wrapped her arms around him, and pulled him into her side. His head rested against her chest, and he noticed he could hear her heart beating beneath him.

"What's bothering you?" she whispered into his hair. "You've seemed off since you returned."

Ivar hummed softly at what she said, his arms winding around her waist. She was right. He hadn't been quite 'right' since Oleg had talked to him about his unfaithful wife, the one he'd killed. Ivar had related too strongly to everything he said, about how often he thought of Freydis, how much he'd loved her, the pain he'd felt when he realized she had been betraying him. The pain he felt when he ended her life, regardless of the mercy he believed he was showing her.

"I have... just been thinking," he confessed, his voice soft.

"Again?" Asta quipped, and Ivar did chuckle a little, nodding.

"Yes," he confirmed. "Oleg told me what happened to his wife tonight." Asta remained silent, looking down at him with compassion in her eyes. "He found out she had been betraying him, when he would leave and go to battle, and he killed her for her betrayal."

Asta knew exactly what Ivar would have been thinking of, and she felt as though her heart broke a little for him. "And you..."

"I hate what I did," he confessed suddenly. "Asta, I killed her. I killed my wife. I was supposed to protect her, to love her, and to stay with her until one of us died, but not because I killed her."

She couldn't help but chew her lip silently. This was... something she knew, something she had been thinking about whenever her thoughts turned to how she missed Freydis. Her heart was broken whenever she thought of her, but hearing Ivar talk like this now, she couldn't help the way her heart broke again at how broken he sounded. She hadn't ever hated him for what he'd done, even if she had been angry- still was, a bit- with him, and so she kissed the top of his head.

"I know she betrayed me," he said, and Asta nodded a little. "But I pushed her to it. I pushed her into betraying me. When Baldur died, I demanded to know if he was even my son. I turned it onto her, I made it her fault, that he died. It was not her fault. How could it have been her fault? She was good."

Asta could tell he was getting worked up now, and so she began to rub his arm, hushing him softly and pressing a kiss to his head again, letting herself stay right there as he paused, recognizing that she was trying to soothe him. She felt him taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself down again. Eventually, he went ahead and continued.

"I am the one who claimed to be a god," he said quietly. "The gods must have been angry with me, and that is why we could not have a son."

"No," Asta said, her voice no more than a whisper. "This isn't your fault, either. It isn't your fault, nor was it Freydis's. Sometimes, things happen which are horrible, and it isn't anyone's fault. Neither of you deserved to lose that child. That's part of the tragedy of it, is that no one involved deserved to lose him."

Ivar nodded a little, but he wasn't quite still. Her hand moved to brush over his cheek, and when she felt the wetness on them, she said, "Oh, Ivar..."

He hated feeling as weak as he did. He'd made a decision, and he'd gone through with it. The consequences of it were now his to bear. If he was stronger, he'd be able to handle them, without making them Asta's problem as well, now. She didn't deserve to have to go through everything with him, and she'd already done enough just in following him from Kattegat.

Ivar started to pull away from her then, and as he did, her brows creased in concern. She shifted so that she could watch him as he pulled back. "What is it?" she questioned, and he shook his head, adjusting so that he was lying beside her, but not looking at her.

"You were good to her until the end of her life," he said. "You don't- you don't deserve to struggle with her death as I do."

"Hey," she said, her voice soft, yet confident as she brought her hand up to cup his cheek. "I know. I loved her, and I won't lie. It broke my heart when she died. I still see her in my sleep, so clearly, it's as if I could reach out and take her hand and she would be here. But then, she's suddenly cold, and she's laying in your bed, and I'm waking up without her. Her death has... broken us both, I think, though in different ways."

The pain in Ivar's chest grew, as he realized that not only had he killed his wife, but the woman who had been nothing but good to them both was hurting now because of his mistakes. He'd killed his wife, and hurt Asta, and what sort of a man did that? What sort of a man caused such devastation where those he cared most for were concerned?

“Then why have you come?” he asked, voicing the question to her now that she’d overheard not so long ago. “I murdered Freydis, I abandoned our son, but when Björn and Hvitserk came to Kattegat, you begged me to run with you. Why? Why did you not let them take me, and punish me for what I had done?”

Her heart felt like it stopped as she pictured Ivar being dragged away by Björn, as she imagined standing there and watching him be hauled out to the people. It made her feel sick, to guess at how he would be possibly thrown at their feet. His voice rang out in her mind, begging her for help as she watched Björn pulling him by the collar of his armor, throwing the door open and quite literally tossing Ivar out the door, to the people gathered there.

“Here is the god, Ivar!” Björn shouted, and the people cheered gladly as Ivar hit the ground, crying out as the sounds of bones cracking filled Asta’s ears. His legs… He couldn’t be thrown around like that. His legs would…

Suddenly, she was moving toward Björn, but was caught by Hvitserk who held her in the Great Hall. “His legs!” she called out. “Björn, his legs! Don’t break them!”

“Why do you care so much about Ivar?” Hvitserk questioned, earning a stunned look from her. “He’s crazy. He was a horrible king. He deserves this.”

“Hvitserk, do you hear yourself?” she demanded, her eyes wide. “He’s your brother! That crowd is going to kill him, if Björn lets them.”

Hvitserk gave a cold chuckle and replied, “He killed Thora. He killed Freydis. He was going to kill Baldur. He killed innocent people, Asta. They should decide his fate.”

She shook her head, looking at him as if he’d just betrayed her. “I’d have thought you’d believe in mercy,” she said, and then she ripped away from him, working her way through the crowd which had gathered around Ivar. They’d become violent, all focused on something in the center, and the knowledge of what was happening broke her heart.

Fighting through the crowd, Ivar’s cries began to become louder, and the pain in her chest only grew. She found his leg braces discarded in the crowd, which could only mean that they’d pulled them from his legs, and if that had happened…

His bones were probably turned to dust in his legs. A crack, they could heal from, but this sort of destruction? Without a miracle, he’d never walk again.

The first thing she saw when she finally broke through was Ivar, curled up on the ground and trying to protect his head from the crowd which was beating him. It didn’t stop until she got down on the ground beside him, screaming for them to stop, and they backed away a little. Ivar was shaking on the ground, and she gently took his hands in hers, pulling them away from his face so she could see him. His eyes were terrified, and she could see the pain of his legs reflected in them so clearly.

“Ivar…” she breathed, and her hands wiped the blood off his face as best she could, before cupping his cheeks gently. He choked and began to sob right there, leading her to pull him into her arms as gently as she could. His eyes were the brightest blue she’d ever seen them, staring up into hers, standing out amongst the blood and dirt caked onto his face.

One look down his body revealed not only his legs would be broken. He wasn’t breathing right, and it seemed every breath caused him pain.

“Asta,” he croaked, and her eyes returned to his immediately. He wasn’t going to live. She could see that, and he knew it. Björn had let them kill him.

“Shh, I’m here,” she whispered, smoothing his hair back out of his face. “I won’t let them hurt you anymore.”

Ivar tried to nod, but he gave a hiss of pain when he tried, which led to Asta moving her hand to support his head, holding him still. He didn’t let out another sob until he felt something wet hit his face. No one, likely, would have expected to see the English Princess crying for the life of the tyrant Viking King, and yet tears streamed down her face, quiet sobs leaving her all the while. That would have been the first moment it really sunk in that he was going to die, and if he thought about it, he’d think Valhalla probably wasn’t meant for men who cried when they were faced with their deaths, even if they were being held in the arms of someone who, perhaps in another life, could have been a lover. And he would have then come to a revelation he’d hate, but be unable to keep from confessing to her. “I’m afraid.”

Her heart broke again at those words, and she leaned down to touch her forehead to his. “You’re going to be alright, now,” she whispered to him. “You’ll be alright.” His breaths were so weak now, and she didn’t think he had much time left. So, she moved, kissed his forehead, and whispered against his skin just before he gave a final breath, “I love you.”

“Asta?”

Well, that wasn’t right. If Ivar was dead, she shouldn’t be hearing him. Nor should she be feeling a hand on her face.

She jerked slightly and blinked, looking down into Ivar’s concerned face as he stared up at her, his head having lifted from where it rested against her chest. “Asta?” he questioned, and she felt his hand brushing over her skin. “Why are you crying?”

The moment she realized she’d sort of lost her concentration, had been picturing something in her mind that never happened, and most importantly that Ivar was right there with her, that he was safe, she wrapped her arms tightly around him and sobbed into his shoulder. She never wanted to see something like what she had just imagined. She never wanted Ivar to be in that kind of pain.

“I can’t lose you,” she finally confessed, and it hit him hard what she had just said.

His mother had loved him, he knew that well, and when he’d gone to England with his father, she’d been afraid for him, afraid he would die. But her fear had caused her to restrict him, had caused her to not let him be like the other boys in his family or the town.

Asta’s fear was different. Her fear was driven by the pain she had experienced, the amount of loss in her life, and her unwillingness to lose him now. Her fear had sent her following after him into the unknown, into whatever waited for them once they escaped Kattegat. Her fear had begged with him to live.

Her fear had saved him.

His arms held her tight as she cried into his shoulder, and he let his fingers run through her hair. “You never cease to surprise me,” he told her.

“I hope that’s a good thing,” she choked out, her voiced muffled by his shirt, and he chuckled.

“It is a very good thing,” he said. “You surprise me by your actions, and your motivations, and I am always happy- eventually- with what you do. Especially with how you have continued to support me. I feel as though, if I could count on nothing else… I could count on you.”

Asta finally untucked her face from him, though her head remained there on his shoulder, as she looked up at him. “You can count on me,” she promised him. Her hand came up to cup the side of his face. “I made Freydis a promise, that even if I couldn’t save her, I would save you.” Something like confusion flickered in his eyes at that. Why had she promised this to the woman who had betrayed him? Could this have been before the betrayal?

He found himself wondering again if Asta saw the future. Perhaps she had confessed a vision to Freydis, in one of those nights she mentioned that his late wife had snuck to her chambers and stayed with her. Maybe Freydis’s betrayal was part of something bigger, some fate that needed to be fulfilled. He couldn’t say, and so instead remained silent, let his hand come up to brush some of the tears away from her cheek.

“You have saved me,” he confessed quietly. “And I hope you never will have to again.”

“As do I,” she agreed, and he smiled softly at her as his hand drifted down to her chin. He tilted her head down and kissed her forehead, a tender thing which made her hands move to his shirt, holding onto him tightly.

“Now sleep,” he told her. “And do not weep any more. I am here, beside you, and I won’t leave you, Asta.”

Her heart and mind felt soothed by his promises, even if she knew they were ones he could not realistically ensure he would keep, but her eyes still slipped shut, and she still pulled herself as close to Ivar as she could. “You had better not,” she still quipped, and he smiled, kissing the top of her head as his own eyes closed.

“I won’t,” he said. “Now sleep.”

His hand began to rub her back slowly, soothing motions rocking her to sleep. And there, wrapped up in his arms, she drifted away feeling as though they were both perfectly safe.

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Beca pushes against the door more firmly. “I swear to fucking god, Chloe, I’ll break this door down if –”

The door swings open without warning; Beca hears herself make a strangled squawk of surprise as she stumbles forward, more or less falling into Chloe’s room. She manages to catch herself in time to keep from face-planting onto the carpet; steadying herself, she turns to see Chloe standing behind her, one hand still resting on the door handle. Her face, drawn into a deep frown, turns Beca’s blood to ice.

“Beca –” Chloe starts, her eyes tired and shining with unshed tears.

“Yes!” Beca blurts, hearing the desperation in her own voice. “I do still want to be with you!”

Chloe stops short, the severity of her expression only wavering slightly as her lips part in surprise.

“I do want to be with you,” Beca continues in a rush, “more than anything in the world, and if you would just – just listen to me for two seconds, you could see that.”

Chloe hesitates, her eyes wide, her hand still resting on the doorknob.

Beca holds her breath; dimly, she registers that if Chloe truly hadn’t wanted to hear what she has to say, she never would have opened the door. Beca holds her gaze for a long minute, anticipation pounding in her chest as she waits for Chloe to either kick her out or to start talking.

The stifling tension between them continues. With every beat of her heart, Beca feels the weight of the past hour settling deeper into her lungs. As she’d done in the car, she starts counting.

At twenty-one, Chloe’s eyes slide closed and she lets out a slow breath. She seems to debate internally, then slowly pushes the door closed with a click. It’s a quiet sound, but to Beca, it screams of hope.

“I’m sorry about the lock,” Chloe breathes, reopening her eyes. “That was kind of… I shouldn’t have locked you out.”

“It’s okay,” Beca says instantly. “You let me back in. That’s what matters. Are you… can we talk?”

Chloe nods slowly and steps away from the door, still keeping a careful distance between them.

“Okay,” Beca breathes. “I – I messed up. I do still want to be with you, Chloe. I do. Please don’t ever think I don’t.”

Chloe’s eyes, full of fire, snap up to meet hers. “But, no, you – when you pulled away – I mean, Christ, Beca, what did you expect me to think?” she asks, her voice rising in volume with every word.

Beca flinches at the harsh tone and shifts her weight. She shoves her hands into her pockets, digging her nails into her palms. “I know, but I wasn’t – I was trying to protect you.”

“By acting like we weren’t together?”

Chloe’s anger stabs through Beca like a knife.

“Chloe,” she replies, fighting to keep her voice even and steady. “Didn’t you hear what that – that asshole said to us?”

Chloe clicks her tongue dismissively. “Of course I heard, how could I not? It was pretty clear.”

“Well, then, you should realize I was trying to protect you from that!” Beca insists, agitated warmth rising in her neck.

“I –” Chloe stops mid-shout and runs a hand roughly through her hair. She glares at the floor, then looks back up. “Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t need protection?” she asks, voice clipped. “That maybe I didn’t care what he thought?”

“It wasn’t just him, though! It was a ton of people!”

“I know!” Chloe says, throwing her hands up. “Did you really think I missed all the looks we got? Or the way the jewelry woman treated us, even though we were probably the best sale she’s had all week?”

“I…” Beca hesitates, surprised that Chloe had noticed any of that. She thought she’d done a good job of hiding it from her.

“I saw it all, Beca, and I don’t care,” Chloe says loudly, shaking her head.

Beca’s mouth falls open in disbelief. “You don’t care? Chloe, those people could really hurt us,” she says slowly, emphasizing every word. “Do you understand that?”

“What, by saying things? By staring? So what?”

Beca gapes. “Not just that!” she manages after a moment. “What if that guy had been violent? What if he’d – he’d waited for us in the parking lot or something? Huh?” Beca asks, her voice cracking with distress at the thought. “What if someone saw us drive up and, like, keyed your car or whatever?”

“Beca, that’s not gonna happen,” Chloe sighs, her shoulders slumping. “You’re being –”

“It might! It happens kind of a lot, actually,” Beca argues. She hears the strain in her own voice, but she desperately needs Chloe to get her point.

“That doesn’t mean we should hide all the time,” says Chloe angrily.

“It also doesn’t mean we should – should flaunt it everywhere!”

“Flaunt? Flaunt?” Chloe half-shrieks, her eyebrows at her hairline. “You think being able to do something like hold hands in public is flaunting it?”

“Okay, look –”

“It’s not like we kissed! Or even hugged! Or anything, really!”

By now, Chloe’s voice has risen enough to echo around the room. Beca’s positive the other girls in the house can hear it – she wouldn’t be surprised if they were arranged outside, eavesdropping, with their ears pressed to the wood of Chloe’s door.

“It’s – it’s not safe everywhere to even touch each other, though!” Beca answers, her own voice spiking in volume in response.

“God, you’re acting like you’re ashamed of it! Of us!” Chloe huffs a humorless laugh, full of pain and disbelief. “You sound like you want to go back to being ‘just friends’ in public when it suits what other people expect. Is that what you want? Huh? ‘Gals just bein’ pals?’” Chloe finishes, gesturing wildly

“What? No, I –” the sarcasm in Chloe’s voice makes Beca’s stomach roll. She has to pause and take a deep breath before she can continue.

“I’m not ashamed, Chlo, Jesus,” she says, again fighting to remain calm. “Never. I’m – I love you, but it’s – we can’t just go around willy-nilly everywhere and not expect to hear some shitty comments.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t care!”

“You – what do you mean, you don’t care?”

“I mean I don’t care what other people think! They don’t matter!” Chloe insists, taking a step closer to Beca.

“If it comes down to safety, it definitely does matter,” Beca replies, crossing her arms.

Chloe breaks eye contact to look toward the ceiling. She shakes her head mutely, lower lip pulled between her teeth, and Beca knows she’s fighting back tears. The realization makes her own eyes sting, but she shoves her own tears aside when Chloe looks back at her.

“Christ, Bec, I – I want to be able to be public with this!” Chloe says, her voice hoarse and tight. “I want to be able to shout it from the rooftops! ‘Beca Mitchell is the love of my life!’ I want everyone to know, because you make me happier than I’ve ever been.” Chloe rakes a hand through her hair, gripping it tightly before releasing it. “So for you to – to pretend we’re not together, for you to be embarrassed enough about me to rip your hand away from mine the second someone says the smallest thing, is – it’s – Bec, why are we even doing this then?”

Chloe’s hands flop to her side and she stares at Beca, eyebrows drawn together and chin wobbling dangerously.

“I… you think I’m embarrassed?” Beca starts, surprise and hurt washing over her in equal measure. “God, Chloe, no, of course not! I love you more than anyone, ever, but – the people out there, they aren’t like what you’ve grown up with. There are people who would hate us just because we love each other, and that’s – it’s horrible, it’s unfair, and I hate that it happens, but it does!” she says, her eyes stinging more than ever. “Chlo, you need to listen to me, it’s not always safe to –”

“I don’t care!” Chloe repeats, speaking over Beca. “I don’t. Let them say whatever the fuck they want, let them do whatever they want, as long as I have you. At the end of the day, I don’t care about anyone else, Bec. I just… I want you,” she finishes quietly, her shoulders lifting in a small, almost sheepish shrug.

“You have me.”

“Do I?”

“Yes!” Beca replies instantly, her anger and frustration spiking abruptly, threatening to boil over.

“Oh, really? Because you were sure quick to pull away from me!”

“Because I was trying to protect you!” Beca shouts, her voice ripping through her vocal cords. “How many times do I have to say that?!”

The air between them crackles and sparks; Chloe takes a step back, her eyes wide with shock. Beca instantly regrets losing control and lifts both hands to link her fingers behind the back of her neck. She breathes in slowly through her nose, trying to calm herself down.

“I didn’t mean to yell,” she mumbles after several breaths, not quite meeting Chloe’s eyes.

“It’s okay,” Chloe whispers after a beat. “Bec, what…”

The sound of her nickname acts as a security blanket, wrapping Beca in calm. She draws another shuddering breath and says, “I was trying to protect you. I wasn’t thinking, and I was scared, and I was trying to protect you. I wasn’t – ashamed, or embarrassed or any of that you said, okay?”

She half-expects Chloe to yell more, to start up the fight again, but no. Instead, Chloe moves forward cautiously and into her personal space, her eyes locked onto Beca’s. She reaches forward slowly, fingers quivering, and eases Beca’s hands from the back of her neck to link their fingers together. Beca’s eyes flutter at the first contact they’ve had since leaving the mall and some of the tightness in her chest releases.

“I know,” Chloe breathes. “You’ve always protected me. I should have – I shouldn’t have said those things. I was scared of – of losing you,” she adds, eyes shining. “I’m sorry.”

Beca nods, a lump forming in her throat. “I’m sorry, too,” she says. Chloe’s hands in her own anchor her, reassuring her with a gentle squeeze.

“I just... I want you,” Chloe whispers. “No one else, just you.”

“You do have me,” Beca promises quietly, squeezing Chloe’s hands in her own. “You have every particle of my being. Don’t you ever worry about that.”

Chloe relaxes immediately, her expression transforming into the loving, tender one Beca has grown accustomed to. She raises a hand to touch Beca’s face, running her thumb down over Beca’s cheek and cupping her jaw lightly. Beca leans into the touch reflexively, pressing a kiss just below Chloe’s thumb.

“Okay,” Chloe sighs. “I… you’ve got me, too. Always.”

Beca exhales shakily, relief washing over her and draining the tension from her body.

“That’s why,” Chloe continues, “I don’t care about anyone else, Bec. Their opinions don’t mean a single thing to me.”

“Still –”

“Still,” Chloe cuts her off, “that’s something we need to talk about.”

“Yeah,” Beca agrees, almost apologetic. She wishes they didn’t need to have this conversation. It’s so unfair.

Chloe smiles tentatively and leads Beca by the hand, guiding her to sit on the edge of Chloe’s bed. It’s automatic, the way Chloe pulls Beca’s hand into her own lap and how Beca scoots close to her side to rest her head down on Chloe’s shoulder.

“So, what are we gonna do about this?” sighs Chloe, briefly resting her head on top of Beca’s.

Beca’s eyes drop to Chloe’s lap, where their hands remain intertwined. She focuses on the lines of Chloe’s knuckles and the elegant way Chloe’s fingers wrap around her own.

“Well,” she huffs, thinking carefully, “I think we – well, we need to decide how we’re gonna do things in public. There are people out there that would hurt us, Chlo. You realize that?”

“I – yeah, I’m starting to, yeah,” Chloe sighs again, sounding tired. “I’ve never… I guess I’ve never really had to think about that kind of thing before.”

Beca lifts her head so she can see Chloe’s expression. Chloe’s eyes blaze at her, full of a fiery determination that rocks Beca to her core.

Chole continues, “It makes me sad, and angry, because the idea that someone could – that they’d hurt you because they see us together is – it’s –”

“I know,” Beca says, swallowing hard. “It’s not right. But we have to consider it and keep in in mind, because there are those people. It makes me sick, but we need to think about it.”

Chloe’s face twists, and Beca winces in sympathy. “Yeah, that’s… I don’t like it,” she says. “But what if… we kinda play it by ear? Like, I still want to be able to hold your hand, but… maybe not in certain places?” her voice lifts at the end, making it into a question.

“Yeah…” Beca agrees slowly, trying to calm her maybe slightly paranoid fears. “And, like, if we feel like there are a lot of people looking at us funny, maybe we should, you know, be more careful.”

“You’re right. It’s – I want us both to be comfortable going out, so maybe if it happens, we should try to, like, communicate whether it’s okay or not. Like today, I should have seen you were uncomfortable and done something different.”

Beca nods in encouragement. “Okay, and, um, maybe we need to accept that sometimes people will say things and there’s nothing we can do. And,” she adds, “if someone does say something, we’ll show them we don’t care. I won’t let go of you again,” she promises, lifting Chloe’s hand to her lips to press a kiss against her fingers.

“Yeah, it’s… I forget sometimes,” Chloe huffs.

“Forget what?”

Chloe shrugs, looking lost. “I forget that not everyone is… I forget that people are like that. I’m really sorry. I don’t like that we have to do this,” she says in a small voice that tears at Beca’s heart.

“I know. I don’t like it either.”

“Maybe in a few years it’ll be different?”

“I hope so,” Beca says, trying to lift the mood. “Like, a lot of people don’t really care. The Bellas don’t care.”

“Right. I guess we should focus on that,” Chloe says, sounding marginally happier.

Beca hesitates, then says, “And in New York… it’ll be different there, too.”

“Yeah,” Chloe says in a strange tone, looking down at her lap.

Beca waits patiently, looking around Chloe’s room, still unused to how barren and plain it looks without many of Chloe’s possessions. The familiar pang of sadness at moving on hits her chest, along with a new fluttering of excitement for what the future might hold for them.

“You really scared me there, Chlo,” she whispers after a moment, eyes fixed on the opposite wall. “When you wouldn’t look at me, I thought…”

“I know,” Chloe sighs, her hand squeezing Beca’s reassuringly. “I’m sorry. I was… really, really hurt that you would pull away like that. That you’d pretend we weren’t together.”

“I didn’t want to do it,” Beca replies quickly, glancing over.

“I know that, now. You were trying to make things better. But Bec… everyone there had already seen. They already knew, so there was no point,” Chloe says gently.

“Yeah, I… yeah.”

Chloe’s fingers trace over the back of her hand, smoothing over her knuckles. She leans into Beca more heavily, pressing into her side.

“So…” Chloe murmurs. “We okay?”

“Yeah,” Beca breathes, running her free hand through her hair in relief. “We’re okay.”

She feels the words as she says them, the little click of their rightness falling into place and settling within her.

They’re okay. They still love each other, and they’re okay. Something as insignificant as a stranger’s ignorant and undeserved hatred isn’t enough to ruin what they have.

Chloe grins properly, sending warmth tingling from Beca’s heart all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes. “Good,” she says, “because I’d really like to kiss you now.”

Beca hums in agreement and tilts her head in time for Chloe’s lips to crash into her own. It reminds her of the first kiss they’d shared, hot and blazing but still tender and careful. They’re relearning each other, rediscovering what it’s like to be connected as one. Beca takes Chloe’s lower lip between both of hers and tugs at it gently with her teeth; Chloe sighs into the kiss, parts her lips, and curls her tongue around Beca’s.

There are hands on Beca’s waist, then on her back and in her hair; she pulls Chloe closer, still closer, but it’s not enough. They end up lying in Chloe’s bed facing each other as they kiss again and again. Chloe’s lips dance like sparks across her own, leaving a burning desire deep within Beca’s stomach.

Beca presses herself to Chloe, tangling their legs together. Chloe hums in the back of her throat and shifts her hips, pushing herself against Beca’s thigh at the same time she fits her own thigh tightly between Beca’s legs. Beca’s hips jerk against Chloe, but she slows down, forcing herself to concentrate instead on how Chloe’s inviting lips feel against her own and how Chloe’s warm body feels under her hands.

She runs the tips of her fingers down Chloe’s back, along her spine, making Chloe sigh and arch forward into her. They’re as close as they can be, a mess of tangled limbs and entwined bodies, but it’s still somehow not close enough.

Chloe’s lips turn relentless against Beca’s, impatient and hungry, though still careful and loving.  Her movements honed by a skillful practice, she parts Beca’s lips with her own. She hooks her tongue around Beca’s and pulls it into her own mouth, sucking on it, forming a knot low in Beca’s stomach that makes her hips jolt. It’s hot and dirty and enticing, and it wrecks Beca. She’s simultaneously overheated and chilled, and all she can think to do is press still further into Chloe, raising her thigh still more firmly between Chloe’s legs.

Chloe breaks the kiss with a gasp, drawing a shuddering breath that reminds Beca it’s been a while since she’s inhaled. But to stop doing this for something as silly as oxygen… she licks her lips, takes two breaths through her nose, then pushes forward until Chloe’s flat on her back half-underneath Beca.

A surprised “Oh!” escapes from Chloe, and then Beca leans forward to drop her lips to Chloe’s neck, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses against Chloe’s delicate skin.

“Bec, that’s – god, Bec –” Chloe chokes out, clinging even more tightly to Beca and angling her head to expose more of her neck.

The sound of her name falling brokenly from Chloe’s lips urges Beca to make her kisses firmer, to lick longer stripes up Chloe’s neck, to press into her with her thigh again, and again, and again, until they’re rocking together, the sound of Chloe’s ragged breathing filling Beca’s mind with her favorite music.

Then hands appear in Beca’s hair, tugging gently but insistently until she finds herself lifting from Chloe’s neck in favor of looking into her darkened eyes. Their movements slow, but don’t stop completely; Beca doesn’t press up, but Chloe’s hips continue to rock slightly against her leg as if she can’t stop them.

Chloe pushes on Beca’s shoulders back ever so gently, creating just a hair of space between them that Beca has to force herself not to close. The reason for the space becomes apparent as Chloe’s hands fall out from Beca’s hair, sliding around her shoulders and between their bodies, down over her breasts and stomach to land at the button of Beca’s jeans.

“Do you want to…?” Chloe asks, still breathing hard as her hips continue to roll minutely against Beca’s thigh.

Beca’s body contracts above Chloe and her eyes flutter; she has to force them open and take a breath to collect herself before she can answer Chloe’s question.

“Take me,” she breathes, already hearing how hoarse her own whisper has become.