#tflao3

It isn’t much, but he grabs his stuff — shoved into a backpack that has seen him through nearly every grade, and a duffel he stole from his dorm’s lost and found on the last day of undergrad — and makes his way to the second bedroom. She warned him on the way over that it isn’t anything fancy, just a bed and a dresser and a little nightstand, with beige walls and a tiny bathroom that should work.

Considering he’s gone from sharing a room with his older brother, to shitty college dorms, to an unsavory apartment with more roommates than was technically legal, to a hospital bed in an abandoned inpatient wing, a bedroom to himself in a building that isn’t also his place of employment is a considerable upgrade.

Within a pitifully low number of minutes, everything he owns is put in its rightful spot. Venturing back into the kitchen, he goes straight to the fridge and finds the leftovers amidst nearly empty shelves. Opening cabinets at random makes him feel like an intruder, but by some miracle, the bowls are in the third one he checks.

He fills one up for her, and then one for himself, doing his best to make sure he isn’t taking any more than he’s giving. Already he can feel his stomach straining, desperate in a way he’s grown used to. Patience is a virtue, though, and it’s one he’s always had in spades, so he takes the bowl and throws it in the microwave, staring at it for every second it spends spinning behind the glass.

While he waits, he thinks about her name. He can’t help it. Old habits are easy to cling to when there’s nothing else to hold.

Saint Trinity. Grandma would be beside herself.

The beeping startles him, knocks him out of his head and back into reality. Grabbing the bowl, he cheats right at the end, abandoning his self-proclaimed virtue for a scolding bite of rice, beef, and vegetables he can barely even taste.

By the time she walks into the room, wet hair leaving damp spots on her hoodie, he’s on his last mouthful. Her eyes go wide, and he braces for the comment, but she says nothing, just walks up and grabs the other bowl. A minute later, she’s suffering the same consequences as him, letting her tongue bear the brunt of the heat in a worthy sacrifice for hunger’s sake.

There’s a kitchen table further down, but neither of them make a move to sit. They both stand on opposite ends of the counter, nearly empty tupperware and a thousand unspoken questions filling the space between them.

“I’m going grocery shopping tomorrow.” He looks up at her, but she’s staring down, studying her food like it has something to say. “If you’re off, you can come with, otherwise just text me a list of what you want.”

“I don’t need anything, I can manage with whatever you don’t—“

“Whitaker.” Her eyes pin him in place, cut his words off with efficient brutality, but there’s something delicate in them. Something careful. “I can afford this. I wouldn’t offer if I couldn’t.”

It’s something he knows he’ll never ask, but he wonders how it’s possible, the same way he’s spent years wondering how anyone his age on his track survives when there’s no pay and no time for anything that would.

Rich family, maybe. That seems to be the answer for everyone else.

“Okay,” he relents. “I’ll go with you.”

“Now, was that so hard?” She teases, before grabbing her bowl and tossing it unceremoniously into the sink. “I’m gonna go put on the stupidest show I can find. I’ve used too many brain cells today. I’ll keep it quiet if you’re gonna call it a night.” She’s on the other side of the half wall when she adds, “Or, I guess you can watch, if you really want.”

Does he want to call it a night? Two hours ago he was exhausted and ready to collapse, but now the thought of turning the lights off and lying down with nothing but his mind to keep him company is unexpectedly daunting.

“Sure, I’ll watch.”

She puts on Keeping Up With The Kardashians. He’s proud that he does, in fact, know who they are, but his knowledge starts and ends with general name recognition.

It fascinates him, mostly from an anthropological standpoint. They are unlike anyone he has ever seen, perhaps anyone who has ever existed. It can’t all be real, he’s not that naive, but enough of the behaviors feels too genuinely ridiculous to be fake. He tries to sit and observe in silence, hardly moving a muscle to avoid shifting too far into the gap on the couch, but curiosity gets the better of him, the way it has his entire life.

“Wait, why is this guy so important? Is he another celebrity?”

“He’s a basketball player. Or, was.”

“Oh. And they’re dating?”

“At this point, but this is an old—you really never heard about them?”

“Never been a pop culture guy, I guess. Or a reality TV guy. We didn’t get a ton of channels back home. Why, was it news or something?”

Santos grins at him, and the sight makes his palms sweat. “Oh, Huckleberry, you have no idea.”

—

The next morning, they go grocery shopping, and after pointed glares and a threat to simply guess what he might eat, he makes his necessary selections: off-brand cereal and milk, sandwich bread and deli meat, frozen nuggets, a box of pasta, granola bars, and a bag of potato chips.

She tells him she doesn’t know how to cook for one, but if he doesn’t like whatever she’s having, he can make something else. He’s not a great cook and he’s not picky (beggars and choosers and whatnot), but he’s decent at baking, so he offers to make up for the meals with sweets, which is how flour, eggs, sugar, and butter get added to the cart.

“Last thing,” she says as they walk into the frozen aisle. An overwhelming selection of pints stare back at them. “You’ll need your own. I don’t believe in eating ice cream any way except directly out of the carton.”

“Whatever flavor you like is fine.”

“Huckleberry,” she groans. “Aren’t we past this?”

“Fine,” he says quickly, reaching in and grabbing one from the top shelf.

Santos leans over his shoulder to see. “Mint Chip? Are you deranged?”

“What’s wrong with Mint Chip? It’s a classic!”

“It’s toothpaste! You’re eating toothpaste for dessert.”

“It is not! It’s delicate!”

“It’s disgusting.”

“Mint and chocolate are complimentary,” he protests as she reaches in and grabs one from the bottom. He peeks at it, then scoffs. “Rocky Road? Really?”

She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “What’s wrong with that?”

“That’s kid stuff!”

“What are you talking about? Rocky Road is the fucking best.”

“It’s, like, seven toppings slammed into one! You’re shaming Mint Chip when you eat the whole kitchen sink covered in chocolate. At least mine’s a real flavor.”

His eyes go wide at his own words three seconds after they’ve left his body. She’s buying him groceries he can’t afford, to take back to her apartment that he’s living in for free, to make something she’ll allow him to eat at no cost, all while asking for essentially nothing in return, and he’s bickering with her?

It’s impossible. He’s polite. He’s respectful. He doesn’t shoot gift horses in the mouth by insulting their taste in ice cream. How could he turn so quickly into the version of himself that only used to exist with three very specific people, all hellbent on riling him up?

An apology is halfway out into the world when her laughter cuts him off. “Damn, dude,” she says, “if I knew that’s what it took to break your little soft and sweet act, we would have stopped here first.”

She grabs the cart and starts moving, not looking back to see if he’ll follow.

Before she can try and object, they’re each taking an arm, easing her to a sitting position. They move slowly, their handling of her careful but not hesitant. She’s acutely aware of it, in spite of the haziness still lingering in the corners of her vision and mind. 

Rarely does she allow anyone to tend to her with such delicacy. Not when she’s like this, guard in tatters and walls crumbling quicker than she can build them. Instinct tells her to pull away, but she’s tired. And sore. And she can’t remember why she’s meant to avoid it, so for once, she leaves the rubble alone and simply embraces their touch. 

It’s soothing. Intoxicatingly so. Better than battle, leagues above performing. Every point of contact is so simple, so casual, yet electric in its euphoria. One hand moves constantly, up and down her face, her arms, her torso. Another rubs tiny circles on her shoulder, the rhythm of it steady and reliable.

Her usual string of worries subsides, succumbing to the calm with a soft surrender. In their absence is one truth, ringing out with bittersweet clarity: she won’t be able to settle for half of them anymore. Not the way she used to, letting them hold her only after she already pieced herself back together, keeping them at arms length even with their arms wrapped around her. 

It’ll never be enough. Not now, when she knows them in their entirety. It’s a wonder she’s managed without it all this time.

Panic rushes in suddenly, violently. It counteracts the comfort, smothering it until there’s nothing left. Frantically, her eyes scan the room, scan her girls, looking for some kind of threat, something to explain the adrenaline, something undeniably wrong—

Until she sees it.

They’re touching her arms. 

Her patterned arms. 

In full force, the memories come flooding back, unclouded and unrestrained. Idol awards. Backstage. Begging. Glowing. Patterns expanding and exposed. Ripples of damage at her hand, by her voice. Weapons raised, Jinu—Jinu—

“Rumi?” It’s Mira who notices first, who always notices first. Mira, who knew something was wrong, Mira, who begged her to tell the truth, Mira, who stepped back and held up—

The sound that comes out of her can only be described as undignified. Pulling her knees to her chest, she curls up as small as she can, buries her head in her lap, and tries to reenter the dark. 

In the depths of her mind, a dam that’s held strong for nearly all her life threatens to give way. Not at the sight of the patterns, or the reminder of everything she’s lost. That pain, she can endure. Any pain, she can endure. 

It’s the gentle touch still resting on her shoulder and the hand slowly rubbing her back that threatens to undo her.

“Let it out,” Zoey says softly. 

“It’s okay,” Mira agrees. 

And it’s too much, this kindness she knows she doesn’t deserve. She lacks the strength to fight it. To reject it. To run and hide and fall apart in isolation. When the dam buckles again, Rumi does what she’s always been too afraid to do: she lets it go.  

Heavy, ugly, all-consuming sobs overwhelm her instantly, leaving her shaking with effort. Any semblance of control vanishes, and she fights the urge to desperately crawl after it. Reminds herself there’s no need. Nothing more to lose.

It’s hard to put into words what’s behind the tears. Harder to say what isn’t. It’s everything. A boiling point for a lifetime of shame, of spending night after night terrified of waking up like this, overrun by evidence of her otherness. 

In the calm and quiet of the morning, without the adrenaline and anguish turning her vision red, it’s as if she’s seeing them for the first time. Worse, in a way, because now she’s distinctly aware of every implication, even in victory. Freedom from her body doesn’t exist. Will never exist. They might accept her, might embrace her, but they’ll always look at her and know she’s different. Know she’s wrong. 

Even if she wants to, she can never go back. 

Guilt wrenches another wail from her exhausted lungs. Something sharp digs into her arms, and she doesn’t have to look to know that her nails have abdicated their humanity. Good. Let them break skin. Let her bleed herself dry. Make up for all the blood on her hands. 

She’s lied to everyone she’s ever known. To her girls. Every single day of her life, she’s lied and lied and lied. And for what? In the end, none of it mattered. None of it helped. Everything that came to pass, every soul they lost, is hers to atone for. Her failures. Her damage. 

Faults and fears. For a while, that’s all there is, all she can feel. The pain from her faults; the pressure of her fears. Each one on full display. 

It was easier to vow not to hide them when she wasn’t sure she’d make it through the night. Easier to be strong when the alternative was death at the demon king’s hand. The battlefield, the stage, they’ve always been where her confidence hit its peak. She knows her purpose there, knows what’s expected of her and how to accomplish it. 

Here, in the aftermath, doubt and uncertainty lurk in every corner, and she wonders if she’s as brave as she claims to be. If she’s anything she claims to be.

She cries for herself, then, without meaning to. She cries for the version she’s lost forever, and the one she’s left with now. She cries because she’s never been able to feel this much at once, not without the risk of her body’s betrayal. It’s equally as freeing as it is petrifying to release it. To simply be inside her head, unburdened by her own constraints. To grieve it all. 

She cries for her mother, something she hasn’t done in a very long time, and she cries for her father, something she’s never done. 

She cries because she misses her girls, even if they’re right here. She cries because she loves them, more than she ever thought herself capable of, and because she owes them, more than she can ever repay. 

Mostly, she cries because it hurts. Because it has always, always hurt. 

—

Relief, oddly enough, is what breaks through after the heartache has run its course. Years of missing out on moments big and small, of living in a constant state of stress, are over. Yes, her nightmare came true, but with it, there’s a quiet consolation: nothing worse can happen now. 

It’s enough to coax her back to the present. The world comes slowly into tune, returning her senses one at a time. She hears Zoey humming softly. Sees a discarded ice pack on the table. Feels the warmth of the sun through the window, the strands of hair falling out of her braid. The hands still holding her together.

They stay by her side until her tears dry and her breaths even out. As soon as she stops trembling, Mira brings her a glass of water while Zoey gently wipes the blood off her arms. She clings to them, to these tender acts, these simple comforts, even with the unanswered questions polluting the air. 

The threat of finality looms in the silence. That they might turn their backs on her once everything is out in the open is still a possibility, one that cannot be ignored, regardless of how badly, how desperately, she wants to. Knowing should make her curl inward, retreat until she’s safely behind walls, but she can’t help herself. Can’t slam that door shut now that it’s been blown to pieces. 

Even if she could, she won’t. Refuses to. If she’s going to lose them when all is said and done, she wants to savor these moments. She wants to remember how it feels to be cared for.

“Sorry,” she croaks when her body seems as settled as it’s going to get. “I don’t know—“

“Nope. No apologizing. Not for crying.”

“Yeah,” Zoey agrees. “This is a judgment free zone. Everyone gets to feel their feelings, remember?”

It was one of their first declarations when they’d formed their group. One of the foundations to their bond. To their family. They’d sworn it in this very room, hands held and eyes shining with the glow of limitless potential.

“I remember,” Rumi says with a soft smile. Bringing the glass to her lips, she catches sight of her hand again. The patterns — iridescent instead of purple, but still unmistakable — wrap around her skin, stretching further than they’ve ever dared to before. Her heart lurches, a reaction she can’t quite shake. 

“Why don’t you take a shower?” Zoey says quickly. “I think that’ll help. It helped me, at least. Refresh and reset.”

Absentmindedly, she wonders where she found the time. Both of them, since neither are wearing what they’d worn last night. When she looks around, really looks, she notices there’s no mess of clothes on the floor. And there are dishes sitting on the table that weren’t there when they left. And the sun is fully risen, which doesn’t make sense because when they’d gotten home...hadn’t it been…?

“How long have I been out?” 

“Not long!” Zoey says.

“About two days,” Mira says at the same time. 

“What?”

“Might be closer to two and a half, actually,” Zoey practically winces as she corrects her. 

“Two and a half—?“ Rumi rubs a hand over her face. It creeps up on her, slow and swift all at once: the restlessness. The sudden need to run, to get out of this room or this world or this skin. She tries to fight the bursting feeling that’s clamoring inside, begging for release, but it’s like her body isn’t hers, has never been hers, will never be hers. 

Shallow breaths sneak into her calm, each one threatening to derail her completely. She needs to turn her head up and away, to find something simple to stare at until her lungs remember how to properly expand and contract, but her traitorous eyes find Mira’s instead. 

Half a second is all it takes. Recognition flashes like a lighthouse beacon, the expression illuminating her world for one lifesaving blink. One calm, easy exhale. It’s gone just as quick, a mischievous grin dispatching it with ease, leaving her questioning if her salvation is nothing more than a desperate, hope-soaked mirage.

“I don’t know how Zoey didn’t wake you,” Mira says, nudging her slightly as she looks past her. “She was so loud.”

Zoey gasps in disbelief and leans forward. “I was not!”

“She dropped, like, three different pots.”

“Only two, and one of those times was technically your fault!”

“The only way you could have been louder is if you’d brought the drum kit in here. Which you threatened to do.”

“I was obviously joking.”

“Mmm, I don’t think you were, though.”

“Rumi, don’t listen to her, she’s just trying to distract you from the fact that she sat on the couch the entire time you were asleep. I had to practically force her to eat, and to stand, and to change. She didn’t even want to go to the bathroom.”

Mira’s face flushes red. “It’s not like you went very far, either.”

“Well, of course not, but at least I was productive while I—“

Zoey stops abruptly. Rumi isn’t sure what interrupts her at first. Laughter. Someone’s laughing. No, she’s laughing. Uncontrollably. Cupping both hands over her mouth does nothing but make it worse, the giggles escaping and growing louder at the attempt to suppress them. 

Nothing’s funny. God, she knows nothing’s funny. But it’s so them. So ordinary. And she’s here, and she gets to hear them bicker about her of all things, and a little while ago she thought she’d lost that forever. 

Zoey joins in first, Mira a beat later, their infectious, manic, magnificent laughter echoing across the living room. It’s the most beautiful sound she’s ever heard, the best music they’ve ever made. All of her earlier panic dissolves into it until only the joy is left.

Right here, where the sun is shining and she has her girls and nothing else matters, is the kind of perfection she’s spent her whole life striving for. She wants to bottle the feeling, wants it to always be just an arm’s reach away. Before the conversations are had, before things change for better or worse. She wants to live in this moment forever. 

She can’t, of course. It doesn’t last. Nothing ever does. 

Fear creeps in side by side with silence, the pair as strong as they’ve ever been. There are confessions she can’t avoid any longer. Pain she has to own. And nothing about it will be funny.

They can tell. Or maybe they’re feeling it, too. She isn’t sure. She isn’t sure about anything.

“Go,” Zoey says. “Take your time. We’ll be here when you’re ready.”

Mira squeezes her hand and nods. Rumi does her best to ignore the apprehension in her eyes, the flicker of uncertainty in Zoey’s tone, the anxiety burrowing deep in her own chest. 

Standing quickly, her balance wavers, but only for a second. They catch her, the way they always have, holding her steady until the room stops spinning. Even then, they’re hesitant to let go. She’s hesitant to let them. If this is the last time they ever put their hands on her, she doesn’t want to be the one who breaks away. Not again. 

But someone must. And Rumi has always done the dutiful thing first, no matter the cost.

—

Zoey’s right. It does help. 

She spends an egregious amount of time standing in the shower, eyes closed and hands still. The water runs scolding hot against her skin, and she relishes the burn, letting it remind her that she’s here. She’s alive. 

It’s the one thought that survives the heat. Everything else melts away. 

Only when it starts to run cold does she step out. The threat of her reflection waits, as it always does, locked behind the protective shield of condensation. She stands in front of the fogged up mirror, taking her place in this daily dance of theirs, knowing if she waits too long, time will make the decision for her. 

Even now, she can feel it nipping at her heels. Urging her to run. To see if she’ll be fast enough to outlast it before the image clears. 

She won’t be. Not now, not ever. Knowing doesn’t put the feeling to rest, it just makes it heavier. 

It’s why she never found showers relaxing. As soon as it was over, the rush to piece herself together began, a frantic race to cover up her patterns before she came into view. It ruined anything calm that preceded it, dyed it in dread and left it bitter in its aftertaste. Even now, she can’t rid herself of the stain. 

For a long time, it seemed a worthy sacrifice. It was a bit ridiculous, she knew that, but it reaped its own rewards. Success meant she could pretend there had never been another body in the mirror. That she won some tiny victory in the war she’d spent her whole life waging. That the patternless girl staring back was not her reflection, but her future. 

Slowly, she reaches forward and wipes the fog away. There will be no hiding out there; no point in trying at it here. 

The patterns aren’t what startle her, although she’s drawn to them first, to the way their reach now extends over every inch of exposed skin. No, it’s the exhausted look in her eyes that gives her pause, leaving her hand hovering outstretched, suspended in place.

Has it always been there? Hiding behind the masks and makeup? It must have. She can’t remember a time when she wasn’t tired. But still, she thinks, surely this is a mistake. Surely her real face is not so sunken, her expression not so defeated. Surely it’s a trick of the light, or a consequence of battle, or anything except for the obvious.

More concerning is the possibility that this is her normal. Her standard. Two days of sleep hasn’t washed the weariness away; it’s possible nothing ever will. 

There’s no way to know. New or old, temporary or permanent. She made sure of that with her silly games, always avoiding the truth of herself for worthless victories.

Who might she have been if she’d just given up? Let herself lose for once in her life, before it all spiraled out of her control? Where would they be now if she’d ever been allowed to consider the option? 

Dead. She’d be dead. There were reasons for all this, she remembers. She can’t quite think of them, but she knows they’re out there, brewing inside her mind, bouncing around with the other thoughts and feelings currently demanding more attention than she has available to give. 

Transfixed by the face staring back at her, it takes longer than usual to properly bury them. To box them up and push them down until she can’t hear them beckoning, tempting her to take a peek, to lift the lid and let them out. It’s not forever, she thinks to herself halfheartedly. Just for now. 

She can only handle so much in one day.

A sound from the kitchen pulls her attention, reminds her that she has yet to see this through. Her girls are waiting. Turning away from the mirror, she grabs her softest pair of shorts and a tank top, not bothering to protect herself from the wet hair hanging loosely down her back. 

They both look over when she walks in — Mira stirring a pot on the stove, steam clouding her glasses, Zoey at the far end of the bar, notebook open and pen in hand — but they don’t say a word, and Rumi knows whatever grace period she’s been given has run its course. 

Starting now, everything changes.

The chair squeaks beneath her as she sits, the noise adding weight to the quiet somehow. A thousand calculations run through her head. How much distance this position gives them from her. How direct of a path she has if she needs to run. Whether the determined and slightly guarded expressions on their faces means she should settle in or hover right on the edge of her seat. 

If they notice her assessing, they give no indication. Mira cleans her glasses, and Zoey closes her notebook, and Rumi wonders if she’s supposed to start first, or if she’s supposed to let them go at their own pace. Celine never prepared her for this. Never even imagined it.

“I think we need to talk about everything that happened.” 

It’s no surprise that Mira breaks the silence. Conflicts don’t agree with her, not when they sit beneath the surface. That she could find the tension so unbearable despite being vehemently opposed to her own vulnerability is an irony she’s always found slightly amusing. 

Less so, right now. 

“I agree.” Hoarse as it is, her tone is still too formal, the one reserved for meetings and interviews. For outsiders. Never for them. But this is business as much as it's personal, and the last thing she wants is to be misunderstood. Taking a steadying breath, she straightens up, rolls her shoulders back, and opens her mouth. 

“I’m so sorry, Rumi.” Mira beats her to the punch. “I never should have drawn my weapon on you. It’s unforgivable.”

It’s the last thing she expects to hear. She’s the one who’s meant to apologize, isn’t she? She’s the one who spent all their time together hiding behind a lie. She’s the one who ruined everything because she couldn’t give them the same trust they gave her. 

“What? No, Mira, I’m sorry—“

“Just let me say this!” she says sharply, before taking a breath. “Please. Please let me say this.”

Mira looks at her with intention. Silent conversations have always been theirs, a kind of intimacy she hadn’t even known to envy until she already had it. In her most sacred memories, alongside the rush of performance and the thrill of the hunt, higher even than feeling the vibrations of the Honmoon for the first time, is the moment she realized how little it took for her to be heard. 

Like everything else, it’s different now. Marred. Mira’s eyes hold a frantic desperation, a pleading, painfully twisted message. Rumi can’t translate it. Not entirely. But she understands enough. 

She swallows her words back and nods.

Mira returns the gesture before turning away, speaking more to the table than to either of them. “It wasn’t even the patterns. Not really. I mean, that wasn’t, like, a fun surprise, and I didn’t understand it. I still don’t, but that’s not why I…I mean, it wasn’t what made me…” 

Her hands are in fists at her sides. Rumi wants to walk over, to find a way to rid her of her frustration, but it’s not a privilege she has a right to anymore. 

Already she misses their touch, wishes she never left the couch. Never let them let go.

“I spent most of my life surrounded by people who used words and appearances as weapons,” Mira starts over. “No one just said what they meant or how they felt. Nothing came without a cost. Conversations were transactional, relationships were glorified alliances, and everyone pretended it wasn’t, even though they all knew it was.

“You couldn’t trust anyone with anything real. Couldn’t be sure you weren’t being manipulated into someone else’s plans for you. I never understood it. Never liked it. That’s why it was so important to me that we put honesty first.”

Guilt echoes in her heart, the knife that settled there when they’d agreed to be completely truthful with each other digging deeper into her flesh. Another failed vow. An important one, too, because it had been obvious as soon as they’d met how infrequently she let people in. How much she treasured it when she did. Earning her trust in the first place had been hard; earning it back might be impossible. 

“You kept saying that nothing was wrong. That you weren’t keeping things from us. But you were. It was driving me crazy that you wouldn’t just talk to me. When it started affecting your fighting, I got scared that…that something really bad was going to happen. All because you wouldn’t let us help you.”

Close calls flash by in quick succession. The train. The alley. She’d been so distracted, so conflicted. It hadn’t even crossed her mind to consider what they’d seen. What they’d feared. That her inner turmoil would do enough harm without Gwi-Ma needing to utter a single word. 

Your fault, a voice in her head reminds her. No question now that it’s entirely her own. Their pain is your fault. 

“When we talked before the Idol Awards, I thought we’d put it behind us. That it was just the pressure of being so close to succeeding that was getting to you. But I realized when we saw you on stage that you never actually said that. You never said anything about what was wrong. Just hid behind a bunch of words that didn’t mean anything. And I fell for it. Again.”

Her voice cracks. Her eyes squeeze shut, her shoulders rise and stay there for one, two, three seconds, before dropping down and starting again. One breath. Another. Another. 

Rumi does nothing but watch, and wait. 

“Then the Honmoom flickered,” she eventually continues. “And you were going on about Jinu, and it hit me that you trusted a demon instead of trusting us. Instead of trusting me. He was the enemy, and you picked him.”

She wants to deny it. Wants to say she’s wrong. 

She doesn’t; she can’t.  

“All I could think about was myself. How betrayed I felt. I wondered if anything you’d ever said had been true. Whether you’d cared about me at all, or just used me to get what you wanted. And if this was all a lie, then maybe…maybe they were right, and nobody would ever…” She wipes at her face quickly. “It felt like my worst fear was coming true, and I couldn’t see past it.”

“Mira, I’m so sorry.” The words spill out before she can stop herself. “I never meant to hurt you.“

Her head shoots up, surprise bleeding into the contorted expression on her face. “No, Rumi, I’m not—my point is, I should have been thinking about you!” 

“What?”

“I should have known better. Shouldn’t have doubted everything we’d built. Doubted you. If I hadn’t gotten so defensive, so wrapped up in my own shit, then maybe—“

“No, Mira, I’m the one who lied to you. To both of you. It’s my fault. All of it is my fault.”

“It doesn’t matter! You were hurt and scared and begging for me to stay. And I lifted my gok-do.” The anguish in her voice cuts deeper than any sword ever could. “I’ll regret that for the rest of my life.”

“Me, too.” They both turn toward Zoey, who stares at them with wide, glistening eyes. “We spent all this time being told what the enemy looked like, and then suddenly, there you were. I didn’t know what it meant. I didn’t know whether it had all been a lie.” Quieter, she adds, “I’ve never known.”

Rumi watches her whole body go tense. Arms wrap around her stomach, as if her grip alone might be enough to hold herself together. A soft tapping plays on repeat beneath the table, excess energy finding any possible outlet. She’s fought by her side long enough to know the signs, to tell when she’s bracing herself. Protecting herself. 

She’s just not used to being on this end of it.

“And I know that’s my fault. I’m well aware that I’m too trusting, and I assume the best of everyone, and I jump into things without thinking them through. Growing up, I was always told it was a weakness. That I’ll get exploited or taken advantage of if I don’t change. I try not to listen, but it doesn’t always work. Probably because they’re right.”

It’s an old wound tearing open. Rumi can see that, can understand it, but it’s still her blade slicing through the scar tissue. Her pain to own.

“As a kid, I took everyone at their word, and it always ended with me getting hurt. They didn’t care, or they thought if they pretended they did, they could get something out of me. Sometimes, it was all a big joke. Like, it was funny that when they said they liked me, I believed them.” 

“Assholes,” Mira mutters under her breath. Zoey almost smiles, but it doesn’t break through. Instead, she shrugs, every part of her deflated. It’s jarring. She can’t help but try and blink the sight away. Her Zoey, brighter than the sun and the stars above, isn’t meant to look so drained. 

She should fix it. Wipe away her tears, or put a comforting hand on her shoulder, or hold her close and wait to let go until she breaks away. But what good would her touch do now? What good has it ever done?

“It’s still hard to trust that anyone around me has good intentions. That when they say they love me, they mean it. I assume they’re lying, even if I know they’re not. Even when I don’t want to. It’s, like, my default now. Maybe it always will be.” 

She lets her gaze fall to her lap before adding, “You guys were the only ones I could ever rely on, without question.”

Were. Past tense. One word knocks the world off its axis, rips the air out of her lungs and leaves her heart faltering, stuttering as it tries to get back into rhythm. Across the kitchen, she can practically feel Mira flinch, can see the tension tighten every muscle in her body. Tiny movements send shockwaves between them. A hitched breath here. A stagger backwards there. A shared glance that needs no translating.

Restraint is a labored effort, but a necessary one. A selfish one. Reaching for her now runs too high a risk of her pulling away, and there are things she simply isn’t strong enough to bear witness to again. Even if sitting still and doing nothing feels like an abandonment of its own. 

“When I realized you’d been lying to us about something so huge, I was afraid you’d been using me. Making me think I had a place to belong, just to tear it all apart when you didn’t need me anymore.”

The thought puts a rancid taste in her mouth, so vile she nearly chokes on it. “Zoey, I would never do that to you.”

She peeks up at her. “I know you wouldn’t. Really, I do. I just couldn’t see it. Couldn’t slow down long enough to figure it out. For weeks, you’d been struggling, and Mira was fixating, and nothing I did made any of it better. I felt so helpless. So frustrated.”

At some point, she’d picked the pen back up, and now Rumi watches it dance between her fingers, drumming to an anxiously fast tempo. 

“I should have let you talk. Should have waited long enough to get answers for all my questions. Instead, I let my hurt feelings hurt you back. I hid behind my shin-kal like a coward. I’m sorry, Rumi.”

None of this makes any sense. They aren’t supposed to be asking for forgiveness — she’s the one who holds the blame! Her pain doesn’t matter when she’s responsible for theirs. 

Except, it had hurt. To see them step back. To watch them play out her worst nightmare, even as she acted out theirs. The ache pulses again at the thought, memories needing nothing more than a crack in her dwindling defenses to come flooding in. Horrified looks illuminated by the glow of their weapons. Zoey raising her voice and Mira turning hers inward, all of it opposite, all of it wrong. Recoil at the sight of her sending them backwards slowly, cautiously, like she was an animal. Like she was a threat. 

Celine was right — they didn’t understand. The realization had gutted her. And as she ran, mixed in with the terror and hurt and frustration sat the sting of betrayal, its claws as sharp as hers and cutting just as deep. 

A dull throbbing still reverberates within her chest, a thread of lingering resentment keeping a steady pace. She didn’t think she was entitled to it. Didn’t think she was allowed to feel it at all. She’d braced for an ambush when she sat down, not for apologies. Not for permission to tend to the wounds they’d inflicted, the ghosts of them still piercing beneath her skin. 

Time, her old friend, her old foe, races forward, taunting her with the familiar threat of losing this game she’d been born playing. It doesn’t matter that she’s slept for over two days — the thought of running after it again is exhausting. But amidst the dread and derision, a pathetic part of her begs to go, to patch up the holes in her armor and don it once more. To see if it still fits.

How is it so strong? How, when she knows the answer now, knows she’s meant to embrace what she’s always tried to hide? How is she still longing to chase after it, even when the race is over? 

She looks back and forth between Mira and Zoey, as if the explanation might lie in the space between them. Their eyes are rimmed in red, proof of the toll their words have taken, yet their feet remain firmly planted, their bodies unmoving. Without knowing anything more, without a single explanation, they sat at her bedside and held her while she shattered. They stayed. 

She doesn’t know how to do this. How to be close to another person without always holding something back. How to be honest without keeping the truest of truths locked away. How to reckon with every complicated thought and feeling sitting in this room and come out the other side in one piece. 

Leading is what she’s used to. What she was made for. The burden she holds gladly, gracefully, especially when it comes to them. But they’ve gone ahead and taken steps forward, are staring back at her expectantly, and she doesn’t know how to follow. 

No, that’s not true. She knows what she’s meant to do; she just doesn’t know if she’s capable of it. 

Fear. It’s always been fear. The root of her problems, the fatal flaw that made their Honmoon goal unachievable: she’s as terrified of losing them as she is of having them. 

Like the cat’s fate left in perpetual limbo so long as the box stays shut, the cost of one is tied to the risk of the other. Safety exists only in the delicate balance between the two, and so, she’s always lived in the inaction. To have them completely would require opening herself up. Making a choice that can never be undone. Asking them to betray all of their training for her, with nothing in return.

Lined up with every demon they’ve ever faced, it is still the most dangerous thing she can imagine. 

A sensible voice internally rejects this notion, argues that they would never hurt her, even when faced with the entirety of her. But they did. And now, when the evidence leans in its favor yet again, she can’t get herself to listen. Can’t hear it over the constant brigade of her cowardice’s questions, each one striving to push her further and further into the familiar shell of herself:  

What good is she alone? What point is there to her rotten life if she can’t complete her mission by their side? If she can’t protect them? How could she possibly believe they would understand, would stay by her side, would apologize, if they knew the truth? 

What if she gives her whole heart to them and they still choose to run? 

In the glass behind Mira, her reflection stares her down, pointed and unrelenting. The confusion and hurt in her eyes hasn’t gone away, the exhaustion from earlier still settled in beneath it, but this time the sight insults her. It’s revolting, the idea that she might be resigned to this fate, that she would simply roll over and give up. Even in her lowest moments, even at her worst, she’s never been so pitiful as to not even try. 

Waiting is all she’s ever done. Avoided the truth at all costs. Delayed and delayed and delayed the inevitable, desperate to keep herself safe, and what did she get for her efforts? Her agency stripped away. Her secrets revealed without her consent. Her body violated by hands and patterns and eyes on the biggest stage, the place she used to feel most in control. 

The box is opening whether she wants it to or not. That much is clear to her now. Until they know the truth, she’ll always be afraid of them leaving. She’ll never be free. That pathetic part of her will always want to chase. And she’s so fucking tired of running.

She’s dreamed about losing that game before, knowing deep down, she didn’t have it in her to intentionally fail. But maybe there’s a difference between letting it win and refusing to play. Choosing to forfeit, to call it quits before it takes anything else from her. Even if it might still cost her everything. 

Rumi closes her eyes and starts at the beginning

It’s harder than she thought it would be, letting go of the words she’s held so closely to her chest. Secrets she’s never told anyone before. No matter how many times she envisioned this moment, it’s never looked quite like this. 

In her perfect world, she told them when the Honmoon turned gold and her body was entirely unscathed. They’d laugh about it, a silly thing of the past that no longer held any weight. 

Nobody’s laughing now. 

She confesses to nearly everything she can think of. A childhood in the shadow of giants. The secret of her heritage. The spread of the patterns, from her heart to her arms to her neck. Celine’s reassurance that they’d manage to be rid of them, her insistence that nobody could ever know until then. The fear in her eyes when she saw them; the fear in her own eyes growing in kind. Every milestone, from forming the group to their first Idol Awards, clouded by this secret mission, this desperate, golden hope she’d clung to. 

How it all went wrong.

“I thought I could fix it,” she admits. “I thought if I did, then all the worrying and hiding would finally be over. I could be normal. But I got so caught up in saving myself that I lost sight of the bigger picture. I lost sight of you two. I’m so, so sorry.”

Neither of them speak for a while. Rumi can’t tell what they’re thinking, what they’re feeling. Her breath catches in her throat, balance shifting forward, her body trying to prepare for whichever way this might go. 

They hadn’t known what they’d been agreeing to when they’d formed a Honmoon together. Who they’d been standing beside. What they’d been standing beside. That was duty, a higher purpose, a greater need; this is just her. They have every right to refuse her now, to take back their apologies in the face of the truth. To look at her and see a monster. It’s only a matter of how kind they’ll be about it, how long it might take for their hurt to subside. If it subsides. 

She hopes it will. Even if she has no right to, she pleads with the universe to let their anger toward her recede eventually. If they’re destined to leave, maybe they can be destined to come back. Whatever they have to say now, she can take it, so long as it’s not the last thing they ever say to her. 

Silence stretches onward. Patience is a painful thing, a hunger in her bones that can’t be satiated. It devours her, consumes her. Tests her in ways that even she, with her lifetime of training, is unprepared for. Necessity holds strong, keeps her sitting when all she wants to do is stand, keeps her quiet when all she wants to do is scream. 

Every truth is laid bare before them. Walls are nothing more than dust at her feet. And with no lies left to hide behind, she knows with absolute certainty that she was right: facing Gwi-Ma was nowhere near as terrifying as waiting for them to decide what to do with her. 

“You’ve been carrying all of that? Alone? This whole time?” The fury in Mira’s voice isn’t a surprise, but she’s not ready for it to be on her behalf. 

“Huh?”

“Oh, Rumi,” Zoey sighs softly, not an ounce of malice in her tone. 

It doesn’t make sense. They shouldn’t—not after she—

A metallic taste fills her mouth, blood and bitterness blending together, and it’s silly, really, because she should be rejoicing. She should be grateful. Except there are pillars to this life, things she knows with certainty to be true, and this reaction contradicts the foundation that her very existence is built on. It’s too confusing, too confounding, too much. 

She stands up quickly, her chair screeching against the floor. “I don’t understand why you guys aren’t mad at me. I’ve been lying to you for years! The entire time we’ve known each other! I went behind your backs and kept you in the dark about something that was important to all of us. To our mission. I put your lives at risk because I was so distracted by my own problems!”

“Yeah, and that all sucks.” Mira takes a step forward. “And it hurts. And maybe I am angry. Or, I was. I don’t know. I spent the whole time you were asleep trying to sort it all out, and I just keep coming back to how much I care about you guys. How much I need you in my life.”

“I betrayed you.” The words tear her up, slicing into her heart, her throat, her skin. “You trusted me, and I let you down.”

“Yeah. You did. But you came back for us when we needed you. You’re telling the truth now. That counts for something, Rumi.”

“Plus, we get why you didn’t tell us earlier,” Zoey adds. “I wish you had, but if it was me, I don’t know if I could’ve. I mean, that’s…a lot. For anyone, really, but for a Hunter?” Pride and pity swirl into something new when she speaks. “I don’t know how you managed it this long.”

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t— I don’t deserve this.”

They both push forward. Mira gets to her first, cupping her hands around her cheeks, making sure there’s nowhere else she can look. “Did you mean what you said?”

“What?”

“In the song. Did you mean it?”

“Yes.” Her body answers before her mind can catch up. She thought she’d understood singing from the heart when they’d strengthened the Honmoon, but it was nothing compared to creating their own. Magic itself seemed to reach into her soul and weave the lyrics and melody together, needing nothing more than her permission, her willingness to let it see every part of her.

She’s never felt more vulnerable than when she walked down that aisle alone; she’s never felt more complete than when they met her in the middle. 

“Yes,” she says again, more confident this time. “Yes, all of it.”

“So did we. This is the fire, Rumi. We’re not leaving you to face it by yourself anymore.”

“No matter what,” Zoey adds, moving closer. “We’re staying together. Just like we promised.”

Rumi tries to shake her head, but Mira’s hold won’t let her. 

“It’s my fault,” she argues meekly.

“We love you anyway.” 

She says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. To love so freely. To forgive so quickly. It isn’t. For any of them. But maybe it could be.  

Tears wait in the wings, and she doesn’t try to stop them. Wrapping her arms around Mira, then Zoey, she pulls them close, clinging to their bodies desperately, forcefully. Like they’re the only thing keeping her on solid ground. 

The urge to commit every detail of this moment to memory hovers impatiently, but she casts it aside. Today, for the first time, she can hold them without worrying it’ll be the last. Without wanting to stockpile the remnants of their love for later.  

Tomorrow, she’ll need a plan. Something actionable. Steps they can follow to form a newer, stronger foundation. Trust rebuilt, boundaries adjusted. A way to live up to the promises they made on stage. But standing here, with her head resting against their shoulders, she isn’t afraid of the journey waiting for them. Of their future. 

More than that — she’s excited. To let them know all of her. To live freely, openly, unabashedly, all by their side. Sparks bloom into a fire burning bright and loud, coursing through her veins, washing every inch of her in relief and rejuvenation. Making her anew. 

Zoey gives a small gasp. “Rumi,” she says breathlessly, stepping back. Mira follows suit, and she watches her eyes go wide. “You’re glowing.”

She looks down, her arms still extended in front of her. Instead of the harsh pink she’s grown used to fearing, her patterns shine. They’re nearly white, but flashes of each shade remind her that it’s not one color, but all of them blending together. Harmony, she thinks, a smile tugging at her lips. 

Instinct still tries to bring panic up to the forefront, but her girls are faster. “It’s beautiful,” Zoey gushes. “Like a painting come to life!”

“Yeah, you look majestic as fuck right now,” Mira agrees, and she’s no stranger to compliments, but not like this. Not for this. 

It’s transformative, the power of a single word. Of a sentiment free of veils and implications. They have seen all that she is — all her mistakes and transgressions, all her flaws and faults, her monstrosity and fragility. For them to still look at her with such wonder, to call her beautiful? 

She’s left with no choice but to believe them. 

“It is pretty cool,” she admits, admiring the glow until it fades. 

Behind them, a timer goes off. “The food!” Zoey shouts, and Rumi laughs as she runs to the stove. 

“Leave it,” Mira calls after her. “It’ll be fine.”

“Rumi hasn’t eaten in days, Mira! She could topple over any second!”

As soon as she says it, her body realizes it’s true. Her stomach contorts itself to get her attention, and she must not hide it well, because Mira takes one glance and says, “Go ahead and start a new pot for us, Zo. I think Rumi’s got dibs on this one.”

She’s so hungry, she can’t even pretend to protest. Zoey stands over the stove while Mira leads her back where they started, easing her slowly onto the floor in front of the table. They hover and dote on her, neither leaving her side for more than a few seconds. 

Again, she lets them. Again, she savors them. 

The bowl they place in front of her is full of tiny signs of affection. Noodles cooked the way she likes, broth seasoned with her taste in mind, vegetables only she eats scattered throughout. If she had any tears left, she might have cried at the sight of it. 

They settle in beside her, eating in comfortable silence. Sitting between them, their shoulders brushing against hers, Rumi can’t hold back a sigh of contentment. 

“I think you guys were onto something with this couch thing,” she says.

Zoey scoffs indignantly. “This barely counts. We’re not even on the couch!” 

“We’re near the couch.”

“You don’t even have a robe on! Or slippers! Really, Rumi, that’s couching 101.” 

Rumi laughs, and Zoey laughs with her, and it’s everything, everything. 

“This is probably a good time to mention that I told Bobby we’re on break for, like, a century,” Mira says. “Maybe longer. The point is, we have time to teach you how to actually relax.”

“Oh!” Zoey turns toward her. “The fans think this was all an elaborate performance art piece about idol worship. We told Bobby to keep it vague but also not to tell them they’re wrong. Knowing our fans, they’ll give us the perfect excuse to explain all of this. Also, they kind of think we’re geniuses, which is fun, although I guess that might complicate things moving forward, but—“

“Let’s not talk about the fans,” Mira says softly, hand reaching for Rumi’s and squeezing lightly. “Let’s just be us right now. Not Huntrix. Not Hunters. Just us.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Rumi admits. It’s surprising how easy it is to say, in spite of the weight on her chest, the lingering tendrils of fear clamoring to hold the words back. 

Mira shrugs. “Neither do I.”

Zoey leans in, resting her head against her shoulder. “Maybe we can learn together.”

With her free hand, she reaches out for Zoey’s. “I’d like that.”

She doesn’t know how long they sit there. Enough for Zoey and Mira to each doze off, enough for the sun to get closer and closer to setting, the moon drifting into view in its absence. Rumi watches it, watches her city, eyes drawn to the translucent lines stretching out as far as she can see. 

So much of her time wasted dreaming of gold. Part of her wishes she could go back, let herself know there are better hues out there. That the real magic is found in the soft sounds of sleep coming from the people she loves, in letting her body go stiff in the effort not to wake them. In the small ways they tell her they love her, too. 

That girl wouldn’t believe it. This one hardly does, but she thinks she’s starting to.  

When they do wake, they move only to get her more food, placing her under strict orders to stay put and rest. She could argue that she’s plenty rested after sleeping entire days away, but instead, she lets them run around her, trusting they’ll find their way home. 

“I know we said no Huntrix talk,” she says when they’re at her side again, “but I think we should adjust our Official Huntrix Decrees.”

“I still can’t believe you call it that,” Mira complains, but the smile on her face gives her away. 

“What else am I supposed to call it?”

“Nothing! You act like we wrote in a scroll and signed it with blood. We just said some words.”

“We made a promise! A sacred vow! We held hands and everything!”

“Oh, well if we held hands, then it’s legally binding,” Mira teases, laughing as Rumi shoves her. 

“I like it!” Zoey says, coming to her defense. “It’s so official sounding.”

“We’re trying to get Rumi to relax. Decrees are not relaxing.”

“Decrees are very relaxing!” Rumi pushes back. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say relaxing,” Zoey admits, and Rumi gives her an exaggerated gasp.

“Et tu, Brute?”

“Hey, I said I liked it!”

“That’s fine, I can think of something better.” She pauses for just a second in exaggerated contemplation. “‘Testaments To Our Everlasting Bond?’” 

“Oh my god, you’re such a grandma.”

“We’re the same age, Mira!”

“It’s about your spirit. It can’t compare with my youthful one.”

“‘House Rules?’”

“Too stuffy.”

“‘Core Values?’”

“Boring.”

“Ok, well, what would you call it then?” She says, playfully impertinent.

Rumi expects her to dismiss it. To point out that it was never as deep as it felt when they were teenagers, getting ready to debut, transfixed by duty and purpose and the bright lights. That Rumi proposing they make promises to each other was nothing more than a dramatic show of her poorly disguised sentimentality.

Instead, she turns her head, thinking in silence for longer than Rumi expects her to. “How about ‘words to live by’? No commands or anything. No rules to follow. Just something to strive for.”

“Ooh, I like that!” Zoey says. “Leaves room to grow.”

“Then I officially declare our first ‘Words To Live By’—“

“You’re missing the point, Ru.”

“—no hiding the hurt.” They both pause, and she can feel the gravity of them in the quiet. She turns her head slightly, left then right then back again, making sure they can see it in her eyes when she speaks. That she means it. “From now on, we do our best to put things out in the open, no matter how big or small it might seem. No burying our pain.”

“No suffering in silence,” Zoey adds. 

“No going at it alone,” Mira nods. 

She squeezes their hands, and they reach for each other, closing the circle they’ve formed a thousand times before. As soon as they do, Rumi swears she can feel the Honmoon, their Honmoon, settling softly into the fabric of the world, sending ripples of calm in every direction. 

It feels content, if such a thing is possible with no song or adoring fans. Just the three of them, sitting side by side, vowing to try and be better to each other. Better for each other. Better for themselves.

The girl turned around, hand dramatically clutching her heart. “We’re not in church. And don’t sneak up on me like that! I could have killed you.”

“It’s cute that you think that.”

Ava rolled her eyes, glanced down at the duffel sitting between them. “I didn’t realize your trip to the other side would make you the OCS’s official pack mule,” she said as she bent down and opened the zipper. “You know, we really ought to get you a bell or something.”

Anger simmered as Ava sorted through the weapons and passports. After everything that had happened, she’d have assumed Ava would finally start taking herself and this job seriously. But she was exactly the same person she’d been before their entire world had crumbled around them: a naïve girl who would never be able to handle the responsibility thrust upon her.

“Some gratitude would do you good,” Lilith snapped. “Where’s Beatrice?”

“Asleep. And keep your voice down — I wanna keep it that way. It hasn’t come easy these past few days.”

“It hasn’t come easy for any of us.” 

Technically it was true, but it felt like a lie coming from her. Their bodies would catch up with them, would shut down if they didn’t stop. They were still human. 

She hadn’t noticed, at first. That entire days had passed since she’d eaten a meal. Had a dream. Had a nightmare. Ever since her return, it was as if her body was energized entirely on its own, as if time itself moved differently. The rising and setting sun no longer held any kind of control over her. 

It wasn’t just the stars that had lost their grip. Her handle over her own heart had all but disappeared. She’d long ago learned the lesson of where feelings were meant to be kept: buried deep, away from the view of anyone who sought to take advantage of them. That kept her safe. That gave her an advantage. But now, every emotion threatened to drown her, invigorated in the same way her body had become. 

Anger was the only one that was manageable. It still burned as bright as it ever had, if she gave it any air. It didn’t seem confined to the same rules as the rest of them. It was comfortable. Familiar. The sole part of her that felt unchanged. 

Lilith suspected that said less about where she’d gone, and more about who she’d always been.

Stoicism was easier. Numbness was easier. Closing her mind and heart off from any potential trigger starved off the threat that she could feel constantly lurking in the shadows of her mind. Allowing even the slightest hint of some other feeling to sneak out could set them all loose, could leave her as unhinged as she’d been at the Vatican. Lilith would rather die again than lose her composure now, when the only person who knew how to put her back together was still lost. 

Mary had promised to help. Figure out what had changed and put the pieces into place once more. But Mary was gone. Beatrice was on the run. Shannon was dead. And the halls of Cat’s Cradle were filled with whispers that were never quiet enough, each one carving out space in the back of her mind. A poor imitation of the voices she’d lost. 

Her sisters no longer offered her purpose or direction — all they had to give were questions. Where she’d been. 

What she was. 

Whose side she was really on.

The answers were unknown, but one thing was agreed upon: her resurrection was anything but holy.

“Hey, are you…good?” Ava’s question stopped the derailing train of thought. She, at least, looked at Lilith the way she always had: with annoyance and a healthy amount of distrust. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, a couple weeks ago I watched you disappear into a black hole while impaled by a demon monster.”

“Yes, I was there, Ava. I recall.”

“Ok, but like, that’s a lot to deal with? And now you’ve got these powers and gray hair and—“

“And what?”

“I don’t know, I just thought maybe you’d want to talk about it.” 

Lilith rolled her eyes. “Even if I did, why would I want to talk to you?”

“Because I kinda understand what you’re going through? I mean,” she added, “I know it’s not the same, and I don’t know if you technically died, but—“ 

Ava’s rambles faded away, overpowered by the sound of her own heart pounding. Ava, who held her birthright in her back, thought they were the same? The Halo had given her everything. Life. Family. Freedom. Purpose. Lilith’s rebirth had taken all of that away, had corrupted something inside her so decisively that she was beginning to suspect it could never be reversed. Their bodies may both have healed, but only one of them was left with scars.

“—anyway, I guess I’m just saying that if you want to—“

“Ava.” For Beatrice’s sake, she forced her voice to stay at a near whisper. “Stop.”

“I—um, okay.”

Lilith ran a hand over her face, let her eyes roam around the room, searching for anything but the obnoxious, ungrateful girl in front of her. 

They landed on scraps of paper, spread haphazardly on the desk beside her. “What is this?” She said as she reached for them. “You know you guys aren’t supposed to be communicating—“

“No! Give those back!” Ava lunged for her, but Lilith phased backward, just out of reach. 

The sheet was covered in words, written sloppily, but not illegibly. Scanning the paper, she noticed the repetition. Every line contained the same name, written over and over: Beatrice, Camila, Mother Superion. Even her own. 

A sarcastic comment about her penmanship evaporated when she saw the final name. It took over three lines at the bottom, as if the excess could counteract the absence. As if the effort could bring her back. 

“I miss her,” Ava said, and the rage came quickly, because how could she? How could she feel the gap of her when she’d hardly known her? She hadn’t seen Mary love. Hadn’t seen her grow. She hadn’t felt the weight of her arms around her, holding her close, dragging her out of the void and back into herself. 

All that time they’d wasted chasing Ava, the three of them acting no better than petulant children. Fighting over her. Dying over her. And for what? A halo that had never been holy. An angel that was nothing of the sort. A girl who had never believed in it. 

“It’s my fault,” Ava whispered. “Maybe if I’d practiced more, or if I’d been stronger, I…”

The anger was inclined to agree, but logic held the words back. Lilith knew the truth. Only one of them had been compelled to whisk the group away, back to the safety of the OCS. Only one of them hadn’t been strong enough to bring everybody with her.

“Mary taught me to shoot.” She wasn’t sure where the words came from, where they were going, but she let them out anyway. “My mother thought guns were ugly, classless tools. Too common to be dignified. But Mary saw beauty in the danger. Weapons gave her an advantage, a way to protect herself and those she loved. And then she gave that advantage to me.”

Ava didn’t say anything, an occurrence almost as rare as Lilith’s nostalgia. She tried to savor it, but all it did was add to the unnatural air that seemed to follow her everywhere she went, the inescapable awareness that they were all transforming into something new. Something unrecognizable. Ava speechless, Beatrice restless. It wasn’t right.

She had an unrelenting suspicion that it had nothing to do with their loss or with Adriel, and everything to do with her. It had all started before the Vatican, right after she’d returned. It only seemed to happen when she was nearby. There was one simple conclusion: corruption by association. Her continued presence was enough to ruin them.

And yet here she stayed. Maybe she truly was selfish. 

“For a long time, nobody cared to come back for me,” Ava finally said in response. “Not any of the distant family members I have scattered around the world. Not the prospective parents who saw me as a sob story instead of a person. Not even the asshole who put me in that orphanage in the first place. But Mary did. She kept coming back. Even after I pushed her away. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

The familiarity of the sentiment beckoned emotions that Lilith fought off. Memories flashed through her mind, each one offering glimpses of a life that would never again belong to her. They were gone as quickly as they arrived. She forced herself into the safety of detachment, the sanctuary of the dreaded silence. 

“I never understood why,” Ava added. “Why did she keep trying? Why didn’t she just give up like everybody else?”

Why, indeed? Why spend all that time fighting her, after a year of slow-growing distance and glares that lingered long enough to be intentional, only to then hold her close when she needed it most? Why believe in her only when she was already beyond saving? 

She’d spent days searching for answers. Her only hope in finding them seemed to be in finding Mary herself and demanding an explanation for what she’d seen in her, because Lilith had spent long hours staring into the mirror and had yet to see anything worthy of that kind of devotion.

“Mary always has been stubborn to a fault,” Lilith eventually answered.

“I think some people might call that loyalty.”

“Same difference.”

“But why me? I hadn’t earned it.”

“Why any of us? Mary is just like that. She commits to people and refuses to give up. You aren’t special, Ava.”

Ava thought for a second. “But she is.”

Lilith nodded. It wasn’t reassurance — if either of them had sought that, they wouldn’t have come to each other. But it was something. Recognition, maybe, of what they shared. Of what they lost. 

“You should know that Beatrice promised to keep training me.” Lilith waited for the joke, but Ava’s face remained entirely serious. “I’m going to fix this. Next time we fight, I’m going to be ready.”

“Nobody’s ever ready; they’re only prepared.” The words came out automatically. The dutiful student still lived somewhere inside her, still remembered their lessons and stories. Lilith wondered how much longer that girl could last in a body that now defied the very gospel it had been promised to.

“Then I’ll be fucking prepared. I know I don’t have the experience that Shannon or any of the others had, but I can still put in the work. I can still fight.”

It was a different kind of ache, knowing that if Shannon were here, none of this would have happened. Lilith would still be herself: second in line, fighting off a different kind of whisper behind her back, the one that assumed it was jealousy making her ungrateful for her role. It wasn’t entirely a false assumption, but nobody knew what it was like to be next. To stand behind her friend and be constantly reminded that in order for her own legacy to begin, Shannon’s would have to end. 

She’d always thought that Shannon was her final lesson. That when the Halo did eventually pass onto her, she’d have learned everything she could from her predecessor. But Shannon had known something was coming, and she’d chosen not to prepare her for it. 

Lilith wasn’t sure if she’d naively assumed she’d have more time, or if she’d known, somehow, that the Halo would never be hers. If she’d seen something in her, some otherness, some darkness, that had pushed her to secrecy. After all, Lilith had spent countless hours studying and observing, and it was Ava who’d found an evil none of them noticed. She’d seen there was wickedness in their sect, and her foresight had nothing to do with what was resting in her back. 

It was her heart that led her to the truth; Lilith had frequently been accused of lacking one of those.

At the end of the day, the reason didn’t matter. What mattered was that Shannon was gone, and she had left her education unfinished. There was no one to lead her now.

“Do you still hear them?” She finally gave into her curiosity and asked. Ava looked at her, face scrunching in confusion. “The other Warrior Nuns,” Lilith clarified. “Shannon. Areala.”

“Oh. Not so much anymore, thankfully.”

“You’re happy about that?”

“Uh, yeah. They only showed up to tell me that their life was shit or warn me that I was destined to die a horrible death, so I can’t say I miss it.” 

Lilith nearly scoffed at the insolence. If it had been her, she never would have insulted their predecessors. She never would have dismissed the knowledge they carried, and the constant reminder that the scars on her back meant she would never be alone. Not in history. Not in her own mind. Not ever. 

For a moment, walking through the halls of the Vatican, she’d wondered if she’d found that feeling after all. It wasn’t as distinct, not quite a voice in her head, but something similar. A puppet master pulling the strings, giving her a new path, new orders, and not waiting to see if she’d listen before taking control.

It had scared her, at first. Realizing that her body, her actions, were not her own. Knowing that someone else, something else, had taken over, had led her to the boy, and the tomb, and then forced them to retreat. But every choice she’d made had turned out to be the right one. For a moment, she’d even let herself believe that God might have come back for her, despite her apparent damnation. 

But the silence spoke loudly enough. Whoever had taken over had used and discarded her like she was nothing. They’d turned her into a disciple and given her no one to follow. They’d abandoned her. 

“You should try and contact them.” Her voice was hushed, quiet not out of courtesy but necessity. “They may know more than they suspect.”

“Okay, fine. Maybe I’ll try when we get there. Wherever ‘there’ is.” 

“When you guys make it to your next location, remember not to tell anyone. It’s safest if nobody knows where you are.”

“Will do.” Her eyes lit up as she added, “Honestly, I don’t even care where we go. I’m just hoping Bea and I will have a chance to experience something new. I’ve hardly had any time to see the world, you know? I wanna make the most out of it.”

Envy flared, lingered for half a second more than she usually let it. She wasn’t sure what exactly she was longing for. The gift of being wowed by the simplest of sights? The freedom to take advantage of a second chance at life without the burden of impious transmutation? Knowing that in all of it, Ava and Beatrice would be together, side by side at every step?

Or maybe she still ached for the Halo. For the responsibility it brought. The power. Maybe nothing had changed, except now she wanted something that she knew would reject her.

“Oh! Speaking of something new,” Ava said as she ran into the bathroom, returning with a box of brown hair dye. “You can have this one. I was gonna use two of them to go incognito, but Bea said any darker and it’ll look unnatural.”

Lilith grabbed it, turning it over in her hands. She knew it was another part of why everyone stared. Up until the Vatican, her hair had always been hidden underneath her habit. A non-issue by default. But though the doors to the OCS were still open to her, she hadn’t put the familiar garment back on. It didn’t feel right anymore. 

Her grip on the box tightened as she fought the rush of feelings itching to break through the surface. Even a hint of them felt unbearable, went against everything she’d ever known. Her heart did its best to overwhelm her, taking her episode at the tomb as permission to establish a new normal; Lilith did her best to bury it. The concept wasn’t new, it just required a fortified effort. Total commitment. She forced her mind to detach itself from reality. She felt nothing. She was nothing. And she would not break. No matter the cost.

“If you want to disguise yourself,” Lilith said after a moment, her voice reflecting a casual indifference she fought to hold onto, “you should probably do more than just dye it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did they not have haircuts at the orphanage?”

“Oh.” Ava walked back into the bathroom, and against her better judgment, Lilith followed, placing the box down as she stepped in behind her. She watched Ava watch herself in the mirror, anxiously running her hands through her hair. “I never really thought about it, but I think the last time anyone cut it was a little while after the accident. For surgery or something. They shaved it all off.”

“Definitely don’t do that. You don’t have the proper bone structure.”

“Gee, thanks. That’s a real confidence booster.”

“If you go for less drastic measures, I can take care of it now.” She wasn’t sure why she was offering. Ava was infuriating, and childish, and every conversation threatened her hard earned self-control. But something was cementing her feet to the ground. Something made her stay when she knew she should go. 

Maybe it was because her heart was still racing. Maybe she didn’t trust it to ease when she was back on the hunt, or in Cat’s Cradle. Maybe it was the sense that this hotel room, this conversation, existed outside of regularity, outside of time itself, and the moment she left, everything would go back to the way it was. To the way it would always be. 

Or maybe this was nothing but a proper distraction.

“You would do that?”

Lilith shrugged. “I have no other pressing matters to attend to. Not yet, anyway.”

That wasn’t true. She had leads to follow. A friend to find. But the words felt honest nonetheless. Like just saying them made it possible to delay everything else on her agenda for another few minutes. 

“I don’t know,” Ava hesitated. “Should I? What if I cut it and I look like a ten year old?”

“You already look like—“

“Shut up, I’m serious! This is a big deal!”

To hear the Halo Bearer stress over cosmetics while Mary was missing and Adriel walked among them should have brought the rage back to the surface. Part of her longed for it. Better it than something she couldn’t predict. Couldn’t reign in. But Lilith knew, at least in this moment, that her hesitation was about the decision itself. Having control. Agency over her own body. She more than most could understand how important the mundane choices felt when they were all you had. How stressful they became when you had no practice at making them. How tempting it was to relinquish that responsibility to someone, even if they chose wrong.

But, still. “It’s just hair, Ava.”

She looked up at her, vulnerability in her eyes, and Lilith was reminded once again of just how different the two of them were. Ava showed everything. She felt everything. Fear. Awe. Hope.  Lilith wasn’t sure how she hadn’t crumbled under the weight of it all yet, how those insatiable feelings hadn’t bled her dry. 

“It’s just hair?”

“It’s just hair. But it is up to you.”

Ava looked back at the mirror. She took a deep breath, before squeezing her eyes shut. “Ok,” she said. “Do it.”

Lilith didn’t give her time to change her mind before letting her nail grow sharp. In an instant, she ran it through the ends of her hair, watching the stands fall to the ground as she commanded the claw to retract.

“There. Done.”

Ava opened her eyes, and gasped. Lilith held back an eye roll. Everything was always so dramatic. 

“Oh my god, that was so much.”

Lilith glanced down. “It was at most four inches.”

Ava had already moved on, standing up so close to the mirror that Lilith wasn’t sure how she could even see herself reflected. “Wait, it actually looks super cool!”

“Then I suspect incognito won’t be a problem.”

Ava’s eyes narrowed. “Although, it’s a little uneven.”

“I don’t run a salon.”

“Yeah, but—“

“Beatrice can fix it for you in the morning.”

Ava blushed, just slightly, still staring forward. “Oh. Yeah, I guess she can. I mean, if she wants to. It’s not a big deal if she doesn’t, it’s only a few uneven ends, and it is just hair, but—.”

“Lord above,” Lilith mumbled under her breath. “I’m leaving.”

“Wait!” 

Ava reached behind her and grabbed the bottle again. “I know it’s just hair, but it might help to look like yourself again. Or, whatever version of yourself you wanna look like.” 

She handed it back. Lilith didn’t offer any kind of agreement or thanks, but she did accept it without protest. 

“Plus,” Ava added with that insufferable grin, “now you can’t say I owe you one.”

“I quite literally gave my life for yours.”

“You did try to kill me first, though.”

“Technically, I just tried to take the Halo.”

“Which would have made me dead again.”

Lilith shrugged. “That’s your problem, not mine.”

“Ah, Lilith. Always so considerate.” Her voice mimicked exasperation, and Lilith knew there was some truth to it, but that’s mostly what it was. Mimicry. 

They would never be friends. Not the way she was with Beatrice or Mary. But she would take this tolerable truce as victory enough. 

“Okay,” Ava said, her voice turning serious. “I know we’re supposed to go no contact, but you’ll let us know if you find her, right?”

Her hands formed fists, her nails threatening to break skin. Again, she buried anything that wasn’t indignant rage. Logically, some part of her knew this couldn’t be healthy, but it was effective, and right now, that mattered most. That’s what could save her.

It was impossible to ignore all her missing pieces. Awareness wasn’t the problem — the issue was that she couldn’t put the shards of her own soul back together alone. Couldn’t help the others until she did. And if there was one person that could set off a domino effect to fix all of them, it was Mary.

She’d spent a lifetime watching Warrior Nun after Warrior Nun give their life for their sisters. Waiting for her turn. Working hard and having patience and trust and faith. She’d never received the Halo, but she’d lost a life all the same to the dedication. But her next, no matter how short, wouldn’t be wasted. She would find Mary, even if it killed her.

“The next time you hear from me, I’ll have an answer,” Lilith vowed. 

A weaker person may have been startled. But she had been conditioned to never reveal when she was caught off guard. To never allow someone to know they had the upper hand. To never give it up in the first place. There were only a few people who still managed to surprise her, and she was staring at one of them. 

Beatrice’s eyes remained closed for another moment, before she opened them. There was no judgment in her gaze. No anger, either. Just calm, as if Lilith’s presence was expected. As if it was normal. Not many people looked at her and saw normalcy anymore. 

Lilith stepped slightly out of the shadows. “I know.”

In the silence, she saw it again, a flicker that disappeared as soon as a shadow crossed her face. Beatrice pushed herself up into a sitting position, and although Lilith still towered over her, they felt more on even ground. 

“At least you’re brief,” Beatrice conceded. “Camila won’t stop doting.”

The corners of her lips tugged up, just slightly, before she remembered that Camila hadn’t seen her since her many transformations. Would she still approach her with tenderness when she witnessed the monstrosity she’d become? 

“She asked about you,” Beatrice said, reading her mind for the second time in as many minutes. 

“What did you tell her?”

“That you’re…different, now.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Not all of us have wings.”

Lilith shrugged. “Ava took the halo, I had to adapt.”

For a few seconds, Beatrice smiled, and everything was exactly as it used to be. When Beatrice had first arrived at Cat’s Cradle, she’d been drawn to her immediately. Like recognized like, and she was so clearly a kindred spirit. Someone who understood discipline. Another warrior who valued hard work with the same ferocity that she did, who had ambitions that complimented rather than competed with hers. Someone who spoke her language, who could handle her intensity and her icy looks and the empty space where her heart was meant to be. 

The reality of Ava’s absence crept in quickly, snuffing the humor out too soon. For an instant, Lilith came face to face with the very image she’d sought to avoid, before Beatrice schooled her features into compliance. 

Even if she hadn’t slipped, it wouldn’t have mattered. The way she’d stared up at her, standing in front of the vacant Arc, hands empty and words spoken too late, was burned into the back of her eyelids. She felt the heat of it as intensely as she had when Adriel had gifted her Sight. She needed no reminders, no triggers, to see it again.

“Have you…I mean, can you tell if…if she…”

“No, I can’t.”

Beatrice nodded, biting her bottom lip. 

Neither of them spoke. The quiet crept in quickly. Silence unburdened by voices used to unsettle her. Lilith had thought herself weak then, constantly falling victim to derailing glimpses into the past, each one intent on leading her to distraction, to ruin. 

She’d thought it was someone else’s doing. The influence of whatever being she’d come into contact with on the other side. In reality, the absence of direction had simply driven her mind to desperation. It was she — her own wretched brain — who had filled the gaps with memories. He had taught her that. 

It stopped once she’d joined his side, once she’d succumbed completely to the voice in her head, the one that returned after Jillian’s experiment. But now they were warring, the voices and the memories, each fighting for ownership of her limbs and mind, her conscious and unconscious. 

In an effort to hold onto herself, to not become a tool at something else’s disposal, she’d stopped fighting the urge to look back. It had left her burdened with flashes of the life she’d once led, with no way of filtering which moments she witnessed. 

She’d never considered how much suffering she’d endured. She saw her childhood, heard her mothers demands and felt the consequences of her own failures as if she was reliving them. Mary getting dragged under a pile of bodies while she phased away unharmed. Beatrice’s face at the Arc. Ava’s screams as her knife slid into her back. 

They built on top of one another, growing heavy with fear and fury and regret. There were days when Lilith doubted she’d have the strength to carry them all. But the pain helped keep her focus on her past life rather than give in to the future something else wanted from her. It could kill her, so long as she died herself. Not a slave to someone else’s bidding. 

Like clockwork, treasured moments of relief came just as she feared she was reaching her limit. Days spent in Cat’s Cradle with Beatrice, Mary, and Shannon. Nights as a child creeping out of bed, finding glimpses of joy away from watchful eyes. Training with Mother Superion and beating the shit out of a newly haloed Ava. Camila at the piano. 

So many of her thoughts led her back here. Like a shadow she couldn’t shake, Cat’s Cradle was where her mind went when it had nowhere else to go. There was a reason it was where she’d phased to upon reentry. A reason she’d come back after her first massacre. 

Despite the blood that soaked through to her skin, the wound that refused to flake away, and her failure at apprehending Vincent, her first instinct had brought her here. She’d materialized into the courtyard, unconcerned with appearances or judgment — she’d just wanted to go home. 

The place had been clearly abandoned. She’d walked the halls frantically, finding no evidence of what happened, no indication of where survivors — if there were survivors — may have gone. Camila. Mother Superion. The other sisters. They’d vanished. 

Panic threatened to set in, but an odd sense of calm had washed over her. She couldn’t find them until she fixed her shoulder, a voice that sounded suspiciously like her own had whispered. Better to handle one problem before moving onto the next. 

Something had felt wrong, though. She didn’t want to be fixed — she wanted to feel safe. So she’d tried again, another version of home, and part of her knew she wouldn’t find the feeling there, but the desperation was hard to resist. She’d spent a lifetime searching for it in those walls, trying to earn it with awards and accolades. That desire wasn’t something she could simply turn off. 

When she’d stormed out, when the rage had run its course and forged another new path in her heart, the voice beckoned again. Despite the fact that it sounded less like her and more like a stranger, she complied. Went to Jillian. Received the message from the others soon after. But by that point, the fearlessness and desperation that had led her to Cat’s Cradle had dissipated. In its place, she’d found a fierce determination: when she saw them again, she would be coming to their aid. They needed her to answer the call. To protect them from whatever had sent her team running. And when she did, she refused to be broken. 

The portal changed everything. Even now, her memories of it were brief. Long hours under an unforgiving sun. Faces that flashed by too quickly for her mind to hold onto them. Voices coming from somewhere she could not see, making decisions she had no input in. Decisions about her.

Everything got fuzzier once she came back. For months, she had longed for the sound of someone offering a command, a direction to take. When the voice returned, beckoning her to his side, she relented. In truth, she reveled in it. It had not led her astray before — if it needed her at his side, then that was exactly where she’d go. 

The cost of listening was greater than she’d ever have anticipated. 

“Where has your mind gone?” Beatrice‘s voice broke through the reverie. Lilith blinked a few times, until the bedroom and her friend's face came back into focus.

“Nowhere.”

“I know what you look like when you’re lost in thought. All that silver can’t hide you from me.”

Denying anything was fruitless. Beatrice would see right through her, as she already had. 

“I keep going back to one moment,” she told her, inching closer to delicate territory. The more she spoke, the more likely it would lead to conversations she wasn’t sure she was prepared to have. And yet, she kept talking. Not through another’s will being imposed on her, but because she chose to. It was easier to speak when she knew the words no longer belonged to someone else. 

“I wonder,” Lilith continued, “whether it may have changed everything, had it gone differently. Had I…”

“I know what you mean.” Her face remained steady, her tone unwavering, but Lilith could feel the shift, the emotion that most would never notice. “I keep imagining what might have happened,” Beatrice continued, “if we’d only walked away when he showed up. If he’d still be alive if we had. If she’d still be here.”

It took her a second to draw the connection. The Salvius boy. He’d been largely irrelevant to her, a blip in her radar. An obstacle to be removed. 

She didn’t remember pulling his heart out of his body. She knew she’d done it, but it was as if she was watching it through a haze, puppet master pulling the strings so completely that the motions themselves didn’t feel like they belonged to her at all. 

Part of her felt the need to apologize, but how could she explain her callousness? Her disregard for him even now, when she felt grounded in herself? He wasn’t one of them. He didn’t matter. And he was always going to die.

At least, that’s what she’d been told. The voice had called him a problem. A threat. It was only after, when the portal had closed, that she’d questioned who it was that he was a danger to.

“What about you? Which moment won’t let you rest?”

Before, she would have rather someone killed her than admit to any weakness; now that she had actually experienced death, she knew there were worse things than vulnerability. 

“I kept expecting one of you to come looking for me,” Lilith confessed. “At the lab. At Adriel’s. I’d find myself staring at the door, waiting for someone to bust it open and demand I return.” 

Beatrice’s face tightened, the pain present in every line. It was a bit of an unfair ask. She’d known something had happened, something catastrophic enough to send them into hiding, but she’d still thought that perhaps she was valuable enough to warrant a rescue attempt. An asset worth fighting for, if not a sister worth protecting. 

“When nobody did,” she continued, “it felt easier to stay. Harder to fight against the pull that I knew, deep down, didn’t belong to me.” She hoped her words sounded more like a justification than an excuse, although she hardly intended them as either. It was simply the truth. “I’m not sure who I’d be now if I hadn’t gone down that path.”

“We tried. After we regrouped, we tracked you to Jillian’s. Camila was furious that she’d let you leave when you were…not yourself. Made quite the scene on your behalf.”

The image of Camila scolding Doctor Salvius made the corners of her lips inch up, just slightly, before she remembered where she’d gone next. “And after that?”

“After that, things got…complicated. I think we all just figured wherever you were, you could handle it.”

The ache of incompetence crept in, doubt not far behind. Was it trust they’d had in her, or disregard? Had she failed them, or had they failed her?

“I’m sorry, Lilith.” She looked up, and for the first time all night, Lilith didn’t have to search to find what she was feeling. The guilt and sorrow were presented openly, blatantly, obviously. “We should have done more. We should have seen…I should have seen that you needed us. I was distracted, and I let you down.”

It was what she’d longed to hear. That she was right. That they’d left her, abandoned her at her greatest moment of need. That it was not her fault she’d turned into a creature so unearthly that all her years in service of god had been reduced to ash.

But now, hearing the words, seeing the regret on Beatrice’s face, she didn’t feel the triumphant sense of vindication. She felt exactly the same as that moment at the Arc, when she’d watched Beatrice flinch away, unsure if Lilith was friend or foe: ashamed. 

All she’d wanted to do was fulfill her duty and help her friends. She’d died for it. She’d spent months lamenting on the inequity of it all, the lack of fairness in her sacrifice being for naught, consumed by fear and anger that she pretended weren’t there. And what had she received in return? Where had it led her?

In a way, she felt as though she’d ended up exactly where she’d started a few months ago. Her feelings still felt too heavy to handle, her mind constantly slipping away. She had no home. No sisterhood. And yet she knew, deep in her core, that she had changed yet again. And while it couldn’t be worse than who she’d been at his side, she wasn’t sure if it could ever make up for all the damage she’d left in her wake.

She’d given herself completely to the man who’d killed Mary. Lilith may have deserved an apology, but she was beginning to believe she owed one as well.

“You were in love,” She finally responded. “As far as distractions go, I suppose that’s a worthy one.”

Beatrice shook her head. “I wasn’t—that’s not—“

“You can lie to yourself and everyone else if you’d like, but you can’t lie to me.”

It was as if her words set something in motion, because the tears in Beatrice’s eyes appeared instantly. The sight was rare, though growing more common with each passing day, something else Lilith knew she could take ownership of. 

The helplessness returned. Her strongest friend was falling apart, and Lilith had no idea how to piece her back together. All she had to offer was herself, and it was not enough.

If Ava were here, she’d kill her for putting that look on Beatrice’s face, and then let her heal so she could do it all over again. She’d yell and swear and embarrass herself all in the name of bringing a smile back to Beatrice’s face. And her effort wouldn’t even matter, because the simple act of being by her side would fix what Lilith helped to destroy. Mary had been right all along — she could train and study her entire life, and it wouldn’t change the fact that Ava had heart. Lilith did not. After her trip to the other side, Lilith suspected she never would. 

“I miss her,” Beatrice whispered, her voice raw and fragile, another anomaly to add to the list.

In an instant, she was back at the Arc, Ava disappearing to the other side. The side only she knew about. Beatrice had looked up at her, eyes begging for any kind of relief, and Lilith had nothing to give. 

It wasn’t just the desperation in her gaze that had left her haunted by that moment — it was the fact that, as soon as the portal closed, she’d felt the words echo in the back of her mind, in a voice that was not her own: well done. 

All the pain she’d caused. All the damage she’d done. The heartbreak on her face, and Lilith couldn’t say with confidence that she knew why it had to happen. Whose orders she was operating under. Her eyes may have been enlightened, but in all the ways that mattered, she’d been blind. 

“She’ll come back.” Lilith said. Her words were calm, her voice emotionless to anyone who didn’t know her. But Beatrice had always heard what she could not say.

“How do you know?”

“Because she has to.”

If she found any fault in the logic, she didn’t speak on it. 

The dreaded silence returned, except it wasn’t exactly quiet. If there was anything she’d learned in the past few months, it was that the world was still alive at night, still very much in motion. It was just harder to hear. The insects communicated in hushed tones. A handful of birds still spoke, undeterred by the late hour. The wind created all sorts of sounds, from the rustling of leaves to the rattling of windows. Like an orchestra, each element came together to form something cohesive. Something beautiful.

She glanced to her right, noticed the slight gap above the windowsill. Just enough room for sound to sneak in. Lilith didn’t know how she hadn’t noticed it earlier, couldn’t be sure whether it was for her sake or Beatrice’s, but either way, it served as a balm to the harsh reality of their individual sorrows. 

She turned her attention back toward the bed in time to catch Beatrice’s failed attempt at holding back a yawn. Her eyes were drooping, shoulders sagging. Despite her best efforts, exhaustion could only be delayed, not denied.

Lilith was the only enemy it seemed to lose to. Sometimes it was easy to forget that she was the exception. The night may be awake, but most people were not meant to hear its symphony. 

“I’m sorry I woke you,” Lilith said, preparing herself to go anywhere else. “I should let you sleep.”

“I can’t.” The words came quickly, like a secret that snuck out before its time. Lilith looked at her, watched as she closed her eyes and took a break before continuing.

“In Switzerland,” she explained, “we shared everything. An employer. An apartment. A bed.” At the sight of her eyebrow rising, Beatrice added, “I balked at the thought of it initially. The…impropriety. But Ava refused to let me sleep on the couch.” 

She fought off the smirk. Ava was smoother than she’d given her credit for.

“I worried that it would be uncomfortable, or awkward. But Ava has a way of finding joy in everything, in making the most mundane prospects seem like thrilling adventures.” Beatrice chuckled as she added, “She said it would be like a sleepover every night.”

“Of course she did.”

It didn’t take long before her smile faded and her eyes shifted out of focus. “The bed feels too lonely now. Too big. Every night I dread the sight of the sun setting. Every morning I turn to my right, expecting to see her sprawled out next to me. All I ever find are cold and empty sheets. The wrongness of it all is….” She shook her head. “You apologized for waking me. But the reason I knew of your visits is because I can’t sleep without her. Two months, and my body no longer remembers a lifetime of solitude.”

The anguish is palpable. It’s suffocating. More than that, it’s familiar. 

Mary had always been the protector of their group. It was one of the things she’d admired and envied most about her. Lilith knew the feeling, but her instinct had never looked right, had always come through in disguise, so as not to reveal whom she valued enough to save. All this time on her own had left that feeling mangled, caught up in the twisted efforts of him and whoever had brought her to his side. She’d thought she was protecting them by following commands. All she’d done was cause more pain.

She had never known how to fix herself. How to heal wounds she could feel but not see. Not before her death and certainly not after. But if she could just help her friends, if she could rid them of the feeling she knew all too well, then perhaps her own pain would have a purpose. If she could protect Beatrice from the betrayal of her heart, it may make up for the absence of her own.

The answer was clear: she needed to find a way to bring Ava back, and to prepare the world for the battle she’ll be walking into. That was how she fixed it. But right now, a simpler, more temporary solution would have to suffice.

“Scooch over,” Lilith sighed as she slowly stepped forward. She spoke it as a command, but part of her still waited for the recoil. The revulsion. 

It never came. Instead, Beatrice just nodded and shifted to her left. 

She quickly removed her shoes before lifting the covers and laying down next to her. The bed didn’t offer a ton of space, just the smallest sliver keeping their arms apart, but she found comfort in it regardless. 

The phenomenon shouldn’t have been new to her. She spent her entire childhood attending private catholic boarding schools. Bed sharing was a long-standing ritual that many of the other girls had partaken in, despite the rules against it. But she’d never been invited to join. Never trusted anyone enough to allow them into her most vulnerable, private space. 

Lilith finally understood the appeal. Lying side by side, facing the dark of night alongside her, it was so much easier to dismiss the thoughts that argued she’d be locked in loneliness forever. There was evidence she could point to with the simple turn of her head to show that, at least for now, she was not alone. 

“Can I ask you something?” They were both still staring at the ceiling when Beatrice broke the silence. 

“Of course.”

“You always come in the middle of the night, but you never stay. Not even in your own room. Why?”

From the moment she first spoke tonight, Lilith suspected this question was coming. Answering was easier in this position, when she could confess without having to face scrutiny. 

“I can’t anymore. Sleep. Rest. My body doesn’t remember how, either.”

Beatrice took no more than a beat to process the words. Lilith wondered if she’s already figured them out. If her answer was merely confirmation. She’d always had a way of seeing through her, of catching what she thought was hidden in plain sight. It was another reason they’d worked so well together — she saw what Lilith never would. 

“I’m sorry this has happened to you,” Beatrice responded. Lilith felt her body turn, but she kept her eyes glued to the ceiling. “I’m not sure if I ever said that.”

“It isn’t your fault.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been difficult. I hate to watch you suffer. I hate not knowing how to help. Neither our scripture nor our history prepared us for something like this.”

“You mean they don’t warn about scales and wings in the story of Jesus’s resurrection?”

“They fail to mention that part, no.”

“Well then, I will be filing a complaint with the church for false advertising.”

Beatrice chuckled, and Lilith wondered if it wouldn’t be too hard to make room in her newfound plan, to add regularly hearing that sound to her long lists of tasks to accomplish.

Something else has to come first, though. She knew what she was meant to do, but the words still seized up, getting stuck in her throat until she nearly choked on them. Part of her wanted to bury the sentiment and their shame forever, but if Beatrice could admit to her shortcomings and give her an apology, the least she could do was return the favor. 

Lilith took a breath. “For what it’s worth—“

“I know.”

She finally turned, leaning back slightly so she could see her face. “You know?”

“You don’t have to say it. It’s okay.”

It was not. Okay only existed in her memories, in moments she could look back on. Atonement was what she had now, and it started with words she’d never liked to say. Words she knew were owed.

“I’m sorry. For everything I’ve done. And for what I may still have to do.”

Beatrice broke the threshold between them, grabbing her hand without hesitation. If she feared the claws that hid beneath, she didn’t show it. “Just promise me that whatever comes next, we end up on the same side.”

“I can’t—“

“No. I don’t care about your ominous warnings. You are still my sister, Lilith. I will not fight against you. So promise me that you will not fight against me. We face the future together.”

If she were a stronger person, she would tell her that she may not have the luxury of picking a side. That the warring inside her head, the voices arguing over her fate on the other side, may once again prove to be more than she can handle. It was why she had to lay the groundwork now, travel in the shadows and cross lines without hesitation. Unlike the war that awaited them, her fight would not be holy.

But Beatrice called her sister. She saw every depraved part of her, and still wanted her by her side. That, more than any ability she may have developed, was truly, biblically, miraculous.

“Okay,” she said. “Together.” She silently prayed — to whom exactly, she was unsure — that it was not a lie.

Beatrice exhaled, before turning onto her back. From this position, she could practically hear her heartbeat. The sound calmed her, eased her mind in a way she hadn’t felt since before her rebirth. Everything that was coming, everything that had to be done, it could all wait a few hours. She was in charge of her mind and body, at least for now. 

“There you are.” Rocket’s voice broke through her rumination as he took a seat next to her. “How’d you get stuck on babysitting duty?”

“I volunteered.” 

Any of the others may have laughed at her, or questioned her sanity, or even her motives, but Rocket just shrugged. “Who's got next shift?”

“Me.” Unlike everyone else, she didn’t want sleep to come. She didn’t want to see what it would bring. 

“Nebula—“

“You all need rest. I don’t. And apparently, neither do they.”

“Yeah,” Rocket sighed. “These guys don’t seem to be getting the memo, either.” He nodded down, and it was then that she noticed the four faces peeking out from inside his pockets. 

It was instantaneous. The wires connecting, her eyes seeing one image and associating it with another. It didn’t matter how much she longed to burn the memory away — her wretched mind would never let her forget. 

She did her best to bury it. To keep her expression neutral and her thoughts her own. The last thing he needed was to know what she’d seen. What she’d always see. 

“You’re never going to believe this.” Nebula forced her eyes to meet his. “When I found them, there was a sign on the cage. Turns out I…I am a raccoon.”

“That’s not surprising. You’ve been told that many times.”

“Yeah, whatever. But did you know I’m from Quill’s fucking planet?”

That made her eyes go wide. Rocket laughed, and she could hear the forcefulness in it, but it was laughter, and it was his. That was good enough. 

“All the time we spent down there, and no one on that shithole ever told me.”

“They were probably too stupid to figure it out. It would be like expecting a newborn to do calculus. Those idiots hardly knew other planets existed.”

“Dumb as rocks. Good music, though.”

Nebula hummed in agreement. They hadn’t spent a ton of time on Earth — preventing the galaxy from combusting had kept them busy enough. Neither of them did it out of some sense of honor or innate goodness. They weren’t heroes; they simply had nothing better to do. 

They’d made a good team, though. Prior to Thanos, she hadn’t given any of the so-called Guardians much thought, so expectations had been drastically low. But Rocket had surprised her. She’d known he was smart, but she learned he was funny, too. Sarcastic and witty, constantly sneaking jokes into places they didn’t belong. 

He never made fun of her when she missed one. She wasn’t sure she had the words to tell him how much that meant to her.  

It had been his idea to try and do what they’d already been doing. To travel through space, solving problems using shades of gray. To answer calls from humans who wanted updates on parts of the galaxy they could hardly even fathom. To call themselves Guardians. It was Rocket who’d given her the title; she’d yet to feel like she’d properly earned it.

They’d settled into a routine rather quickly. She hadn’t had one of those since her childhood training sessions, and even then, her father had made sure to never allow her to get comfortable. But despite the effort it took to avoid lingering on the empty seats in the ship, or the desperation in the calls they received those first few years, she grew almost fond of the pattern they fell into. Hell, she even started looking forward to their check-ins with Earth. 

It would have been a lie, however, to say she’d maintained hope. Nebula had accepted early on that those who were gone would never return. Even when they got the call, when the plan fell into place and the math argued in their favor, she’d still spent most of her time waiting for it to fail. It wasn’t until they made it back to Morag that she’d allowed herself to consider the possibility of success. 

The universe had promptly punished her for that.

Even their victory hadn’t felt like one. It had seemed especially cruel that, at the end of it all, the only people who remained lost were the ones she’d cared for. But Fate had never once extended its kindness toward her — she had stopped expecting that to change a long time ago.

“I nearly called them,” Nebula confessed. She felt his eyes on her. She wasn’t typically the one to break a silence. “They’re primitive, but they have a habit of finding the right answers eventually. Thought for a second that might have been something we would need.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“You didn’t have that kind of time. And they wouldn’t have had technology advanced enough to help anyways.”

“Probably for the best. You know how they get. Everyone’s gotta sit around and drink tea and take their stupid notes and cry about everything first. No one can get anything done until they all talk about their feelings.”

She knew it was bullshit. She did. She could hear it in his voice, could tell that he was projecting something onto them that wasn’t entirely deserved. But again, her mind had already made its association, and even though it was supposed to be the antithesis of who she was as a person, she found her own reflection in his words. 

Now that the battle had ended, she had time to feel embarrassed about it. Nebula didn’t cry. She didn’t break down. She didn’t allow herself to be that fucking weak in front of anyone, but especially not the only person who would know exactly what she was feeling. 

But hearing his voice, knowing that he was okay…it had set her synapses on fire. There was no other way to describe it besides a total systems failure. 

The abnormality of it all must have caused it. That was the only logical explanation. She didn’t get to be relieved very often. It was usually loss after loss after loss. Natasha. Tony. Her sister. Herself. People died more often than they lived if they got near her. It was a fact of nature she’d come to accept ages ago.

Knowing only made the last few days worse. She’d been desperate to make sure he wasn’t part of that list, but every minute that passed had been precious, and the running clock in her head had expired while they were standing on the edge of that monster’s ship. And as she raged against the door, against Drax and Mantis, she’d been certain that they’d failed him. She’d failed him. 

Maybe that was why she was so unprepared. So…overcome. Hearing him speak, it was like a weight had been lifted off her chest, like a valve inside her had been turned a full ninety degrees, and she was powerless against it. All she could do was let the emotion rush through her. All she could do was feel it. 

“I heard you called Gamora.” There was a seriousness creeping back into his voice, a shift in direction she had hoped to avoid. “That had to have been hard.”

She buried the musings beneath the familiar layer of indifference, and did her best to ignore the sprouts of emotions that grew through the cracks. “It’s easier for me than it is for Quill. She still knows me.”

“Not really. Not who you’ve become.”

It took more effort than it should have to hide her discomfort at the sentiment. Nebula didn’t feel very different. The battle with Thanos, with herself, had proven otherwise, but at her core so much felt the exact same. She was still cold and callous and angry. Still unsure of what the future looked like. Still made up of more broken parts than whole ones. 

Gamora was the only one who looked at her the same. Or, at least, almost the same. The suspicion was there, always, but the resentment of their past had faded, replaced with something that, on rare occasions, looked like respect. 

Every other expression was reassuringly familiar. Frustration. Arrogance. Indifference. Skepticism. Nebula could handle a bit of doubt — it meant someone else questioned what the group saw in her. Someone else saw the truth.

“She knows enough.”

Rocket didn’t seem satisfied with her answer. If anything, he looked as uncomfortable as she felt. “All I’m trying to say is that I’m…I'm grateful, you know? You all gave everything you had to save me. I owe you guys.”

The guilt was as overwhelming as the relief had been earlier. He wouldn’t feel gratitude toward any of them if he knew what lines they’d had to cross. He wouldn’t sit this close if he knew what image was permanently programmed into her consciousness. 

“Okay, I know it’s a bit mushy, but you don’t have to look like you’re about to hurl—“

“We saw your file.” The words came quickly, too quickly to hide how she felt about them. To attempt nonchalance. Her eyes were glued to the kids, desperately trying to hold onto the image in front of her instead of the one waiting behind her eyes. “It was the only way to figure out how to deactivate the kill switch.”

“Ah. So that’s why you all keep looking at me like that.” 

She knew whatever expression he was talking about was likely the one she was currently wearing, so she kept her head forward, did her best to ignore his tone. 

Maybe it was because she’d spoken to him and hardly anyone else for five years. Maybe they just understood one another on a level that could bypass her own ineptitudes. Whatever the reason, she’d always recognized what he was feeling in a way that never quite clicked for the rest of their team. She could hear the sadness and embarrassment trying to hide behind indifference. She could hear resignation in his attempt at deflecting the seriousness of her confession. She could tell it was a lie. 

It was almost worse this way. Despite what she knew, she couldn’t figure out how to fix it. 

“I’m sorry, Rocket. For all of it.” She looked at him, tried to show the sincerity she suspected her voice wouldn’t, but now it was he who stared straight ahead instead of meeting her eyes. 

“Yeah, well, can’t be a Guardian without a tragic backstory, right? Just another part of the job.”

“No. It’s incomparable. What you went through, it’s worse than any of us.”

“Come on, Nebs. We’ve all suffered. I’m not special.”

“You were just a baby.”

“So were you.” His head turned quickly, the look on his face like an electric shock. He was angry now, and he wasn’t hiding an ounce of it. “You wanna compare childhoods? That’s fine. We can do that.”

“Rocket—“

“You think it doesn’t drive me crazy thinking about what he did? Finding fried nerve endings during each repair? Tracing his cruelty through every piece of machinery you never needed?” 

Nebula shook her head. “It’s not the same.”

“You’re right. It’s not. Thanos took so much more time from you. I got out young. I got to make my own choices. They were mostly stupid choices, but they were mine.”

“I wasn’t brainwashed or anything. I made choices, too.”

“You made decisions; you didn’t have choices.”

“Same thing.”

“No.” He was preaching now, invigorated with righteousness she couldn’t comprehend. “The difference is free will. Once I was out, I could go to whichever planet I pleased, do whatever I wanted. You spent nearly your whole life trapped in his shadow. Everything you did was because of him. It was all what he wanted.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I do.” There was an intensity in his voice, a passion that she hadn’t prepared for. “I may have been the one locked in a cage, but you were a prisoner, too, Nebula.”

He was trying to defend her. To defend her honor, her actions. The very ones that had led her to attack them, that had made her complicit in the deaths of so many people. It made her feel sick to her stomach, made her gears turn wrong and her sensitive flesh ache. 

“It’s not the same,” Nebula repeated, stubborn and defiant and desperate to make him understand.

“How? How is it not the same?”

“You didn’t deserve it.”

There was pain in his eyes, she could see it, but even though hurting him was the last thing she wanted to do, he had to know. He had to understand why they were so different. 

“Thanos never put a kill switch in me. I’ve checked. All that time he spent rewiring my body, and he never thought to wrap my heart in barbed wire like the High Evolutionary did to yours. Do you know why?”

“Because Thanos was a narcissist and not nearly as smart as he thought he was?”

“Because he knew he’d never need it.” She hated the desperation in her voice almost as much as she hated the truth of her words. “He knew I would never betray him, and that even if I did, even with all my enhancements, I’d never be strong enough to beat him. And he was right.”

It still haunted her. So many people dead, and if she’d been just a little better, a little faster, she could have prevented it all. She could have killed him where he sat, completely unexpecting, and watched as the shock and regret and pain flickered over his face before he finally bled out. She could have been worthy of the status they kept trying to place on her. She could have earned the look of admiration her old Gamora had left her with.

But she’d failed. The way she always had. Close, but not close enough. Nearly successful. An eternity of almost was once again stronger than her need for vengeance. 

Everything that followed was on her. The Terrans had looked at her and seen a savior, an ally, but only she had known it was a lie. Nebula had never saved anybody. All she’d done was delay the inevitable. 

“He was wrong.” Of all the responses she expected from him, that wasn’t one of them. 

“What do you mean?”

“You did betray him. You did beat him.” 

“Gamora betrayed him. Tony beat him. All I did was force Gamora’s hand.” 

It would have been better if she’d been broken. If she’d confessed. But she hadn’t known about the camera. She hadn’t known that he could see everything she could. That he’d robbed her of her privacy when he’d taken her eyes. It was the first thing she’d had Rocket remove when he was finally gone for good. But even that had been too late.

When Gamora had walked in, her first thought was that her sister would have succeeded. Once again, she’d found herself in the same place she always did: failures on display, her father staring at her with a smug kind of disappointment while Gamora watched from the safety of his shadow.  

They were different, though. Better. So she’d tried. She’d tried to ignore every instinct she had that screamed for her to remain silent. She tried to speak, to tell her to keep her mouth shut, to convince her sister that she wasn’t worth it. She’d tried to tell her to let her go. To deny him the one thing he’d always wanted, even if it went against everything they’d been raised to believe. Even if she was the cost 

Defiance was more difficult than she’d expected, especially considering she was relatively new to the concept. Torture, however, was not. She’d had plenty of practice with it. In between screams of agony and stretches of solitude, the same words echoed inside her head, keeping her grounded with purpose greater than her own survival. Even when her vision went blurry and her mind begged for relief, when her heart shuddered under the strain of sustaining whatever parts of her remained alive, she’d almost been able to withstand it. 

Almost.

But by the time her body remembered how to speak, they were already gone. 

All she was left with was the feeling of her sister’s hand gently holding her face. Every time she looked at this Gamora, every time they were forced to confront their tangled realities, she remembered one final moment of kindness. One she hadn’t deserved.

“It’s my fault he got the soul stone,” she said, her voice hoarse and hushed. “It’s my fault the snap happened.”

It was this consequence of her own inaction that stole her peace of mind and left her with fitful sleep. It was why she kept insisting that Gamora was alive and well when she knew it wasn’t that simple. There were questions she could not afford to answer. Not if she wanted to keep her. Keep them.

But Rocket deserved to know.

“I’m the reason she’s dead.”

It was the first time she’d said those words since their battle against Thanos. The first time she felt the weight of them. The truth of them. 

Attempting to hide the physical effect of her revelation would be a wasted effort. Rocket saw right through her, as he always did. He reached over, placed his hand on her shoulder, and Nebula did her best to not recoil at his touch. 

“That’s not your fault.”

“It is.” 

All this time they’d been traveling together, and she’d spent most of it waiting for them to put the pieces together. Waiting for one of them to throw the blame where it belonged and kick her out once and for all. To see right through her. A tiny, desperate part of her was still crying out, begging her to stop, to keep the truth buried and her position secure. But she’d never known how to do what was good for her. Self-preservation had always been her sister’s area of expertise. Heroics had been, too.

“I gave him everything he needed to bring his war to their doorstep. And when he did, I couldn’t even try and stop him. I was too busy stopping myself.”

“Nebula—“

“I didn’t beat him. The only person I beat was a more pathetic version of me.”

That was another sight she longed to avoid by starving off sleep. Sometimes, in her dreams, when the shot went off, her own chest began to bleed. Sometimes all the blood in her body was replaced with gears and bolts and wires, all spilling out of her with reckless abandon. Sometimes the younger version of herself begged for forgiveness, for mercy. Nebula never gave it to her. And she always woke up alone.

“I’m not talking about the battle. I’m talking about all this.” Rocket motioned around him. “He spent your whole life telling you that you weren’t good enough, or that you could only do what he wanted. But he’s gone. You’re not. And you’re thriving, Nebs. You’ve got a family. You’ve got your sister. You have everything, and he’s nothing more than a pile of dust polluting Earth’s atmosphere. You won.”

Nebula wanted to argue. She’d always had an image in her head of what winning looked like. Winning meant standing over another, blade held to their neck. Winning meant pinning the enemy to the ground, feeling the air slowly leaving their body until their muscles went limp. Winning was a physical, visceral thing.  

His description didn’t match. So either he was wrong, or she was. 

“You truly won,” she told him. “You got to fight him properly.”

“Eh. I had help.” He nearly smiled as he said it. Like it was already a fond memory. She supposed it was, in a way, although tonight would never be just another fight. Not for any of them, but certainly not for her. 

It was less the battle and more its location that was hard to shake. Every detail of that atrocious ship remained, even after its destruction. Dark, cold, tiny cells. Constant supervision, constant neglect. It was bad enough imagining a young Rocket in that kind of environment; it was unbearable considering the fact that it may have been worse. 

“Do you remember it?” She almost didn’t want to ask. If she didn’t, she could pretend the answer was no. She could live in blissful ignorance and believe he got to hold onto something she never would.

Rocked nodded. Nebula tried not to memorize the haunted look in his eyes, but she’d never had a choice. Everything always stayed forever. “I remember all of it.”

The rage simmered quietly. She did her best to keep it contained. “How do you stand it?”

“I don’t know. Try to focus on the good, I guess.”

“There was good?” Her voice cracked slightly, but she didn’t have it in her to care. All night she’d been drowning in sorrow, in waves of damaged pasts and presents and inevitable futures, but with one sentence he’d thrown her a lifeline. She clung to it desperately. 

“Yeah,” he said, and for the first time all day, his eyes lit up. “There was a lot of good.”

“Tell me about it.”

He didn’t hesitate. They’d spoken about their pasts before, bragged about conquests and enemies defeated, alluded to scars they each refused to share, but she’d never heard him speak with such bliss before. Such fondness. 

She learned how he met his group. Lyla and Floor and Teefs and him. Friends. Survivors. The ones who had no idea they were never supposed to make it, but who found joy in the life they were given anyway. 

Staying true to his word, he focused only on the good. Inside jokes and moments of comfort. The games they’d play to pass the time. The laughter found in the corners of cages and dreams of a world that was waiting for them. 

As he spoke, she swore she could see it. Four heads coming together. Metal fused to bone, linking them all through the bars. A ship flying away into a clear and infinite sky. And in the center of it all was her best friend, amidst the horror and agony of an experiment’s existence, loving and being loved back. 

She didn’t ask what happened to them. He didn’t need to say it. The unspoken words were loud enough.

“I always thought that I’d never had a family until Groot. Until you guys.” There was a distant look in his eyes, like some part of him was still staring at those who weren’t here anymore. “But maybe I did.”

It flared then, before she could compel it away. The jealousy. Green and ugly and tainting something beautiful.

She’d always wondered how it had been so easy for them to form this stupid little family of theirs. How her sister had fit in so quickly, so flawlessly. How Quill and Drax could understand something she couldn’t. But now, the pieces were all falling into place, and she could finally see what separated them from her:

They had all been loved. 

No wonder it had been so hard for her to carve a space out for herself. No wonder she’d needed Rocket’s help to do it. She was deficient. They’d all had a blueprint, and she was walking in completely blind. Worse, what she lacked was something so intrinsic that nobody had ever thought to search for its absence. 

Or maybe they had. Maybe that had been the driving force behind the hesitation, the looks of suspicion that greeted her upon their return from the dust. Maybe they’d all known that she had never learned how to love properly. How to be loved. Maybe that was why they hadn’t wanted her.

“I wouldn’t have made it without them,” Rocket said, and the far off look was gone, replaced with something much more determined. “That’s how I know I couldn’t have survived what you went through. I couldn’t have survived alone.”

“I wasn’t alone.” Even when she knew it was technically the truth, it still felt like a lie.

Rocket let her have it. “Do you remember your life before him?” 

“Not really.” She’d always known it was intentional, that he’d given her an infallible memory by wiping nearly everything except his own arrival. He’d told her as much. Said it would help her focus. Help her win.

What remained were flashes, mostly. Faces like hers. Skin that was monochromatic. Someone’s hand squeezing her own. Her body, despite lacking the part in question, still recalled the sensation, sent phantom feelings through her metal fingers. It remembered that, at one point in time, when she was made up entirely of flesh and bone, and machinery was something she used instead of something she was, someone had held her. 

She liked to imagine it was her brother. She liked to pretend she’d had one of those. It made Gamora’s rejection easier to swallow as a kid, to picture someone else out there, a real sibling, waiting for her to come home. 

She’d stopped dreaming about him after he took her hand. Part of her always wondered whether her father had known, somehow, what images her subconscious had conjured up. Whether he’d cut that fantasy out of her, too.

“Have you ever looked into it? Tried to go home?”

Nebula shook her head. “Even if it’s still standing, I can never go back. It’s…I’m too different. I’m not one of them anymore.”

“He doesn’t get to decide that.” He reached into his pocket and grabbed one of the tiny raccoons. “I may not be able to communicate with them, or understand them, but I’ll always be a raccoon.” Nebula watched as it crawled up his arm and around his shoulder. It moved like it belonged there. Like it knew it was safe. “I spent a lot of time convinced that I was an anomaly. Told myself it made me special instead of lonely. But it’s nice, knowing where in this dumb galaxy I came from. Knowing that I’m not alone.” 

He smiled, puffed his chest out just a bit, and added, “Even if there still ain’t no thing like me, except me.”

She’d always liked when he said that. She’d thought it was one thing they shared. The proof she had of her own value. But he couldn’t face judgment from his species. He didn’t have to be afraid of losing home for a second time. He wasn’t to blame for his alienation.

Nebula wanted to believe him. She wanted to think that she could find some kind of catharsis in following her roots to a life she never got to live. But she’d always known she wasn’t the only one of her kind. Her individuality, as he called it, was meant to justify her continued existence; she was supposed to be the best of her people because she’d been changed. 

Isolation from them was the point. Without it, she risked discovery of one of two possible truths. Either her people were weak, and he had been right to tear her apart, or they were strong, and her deficiencies were entirely her own. 

Neither would give comfort. And nothing would be healed from knowing.

That was why she’d stayed. Her people wouldn’t understand, but she thought he had. She thought they were the same, twin reflections of their makers’ mistakes. But maybe the only thing Rocket’s words proved for her was her inevitable loneliness. Maybe all this time nodding her head in agreement was just another one of her pathetic attempts to convince herself that she was more than damaged parts. Maybe she’d taken this mantra he’d held close to his chest and corrupted it so deeply that it was now unrecognizable, its meaning lost somewhere in translation.

Maybe everyone who’d ever called her a monster had been right.

“Do you hate yourself?” 

He choked on her question. “Damn, Nebs. That’s what you took from my whole speech?” 

She did her best to ignore the whisper that said she’d done it wrong again. Listened wrong. Responded wrong. Failed. Like combat, conversation was another field Gamora continued to best her in. The sting of defeat echoed even now. 

Part of her wanted to abandon the effort entirely, but the restlessness would never fade if she didn’t see this through. “Answer the question.” She hesitated for half a second, before adding, "Please.”

Rocket didn’t speak for a while. Nebula didn’t mind. She could be patient when she needed to be. 

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “Maybe. Do you?”

“I didn’t think so. I thought I hated everyone else. But Mant said we all do, except Drax. Now I’m not sure.”

“I wanna say she’s full of shit, but it’s hard to argue with the fucking empath. She’s probably right.”

That had been her thought process as well. It had been distressing, thinking only of herself as the subject of Mantis’s observation. It had felt like another loss, somehow. But she was used to losing. 

What she hadn’t considered was the understanding that came a little later. The implication that she was not the only one stuck beneath the crushing weight of self-loathing. Quill as of late had been impossible to ignore, but Rocket was supposed to be better than them. He was supposed to be happy. And yet even now, when the dust had settled and everybody had made it back home, he refused to deny it. He wouldn’t even try to convince her otherwise.

On the ship, she had accepted the truth of Mantis’s words without much of a fight; now, however, the admission of defeat she’d prepared tasted like ash and burned just the same.

“Rocket?“

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want her to be right about this.”

Rocket stared at her, intense look in his eyes, and when he spoke, she believed him. “Me, neither.”

The quiet came back, interrupted only by the occasional chatter coming from the children. There had always been a kind of comfort to it. With no distractions, she could hear someone sneaking up behind her. She could always be prepared to fight. 

He’d asked, once. When it was just them. Rocket had been the one to cave, to take Quill’s device and fill the ship with music. While she’d offered no resistance, she’d had no qualms about the quiet. He’d questioned it, eventually, so she’d given her logical response: silence was safer.

It was true, even if it wasn’t the entire truth. 

But how could she confess to living her whole life in something the others found so off-putting? She couldn’t tell him that it was easier. That she didn’t have to know the right thing to say if nobody ever spoke. That she could blend into the shadows, melt into the quiet best she could, so that nobody could spot her faults. So that nobody could punish her for them.

Nebula suspected he’d figured it out anyway, because more than anybody else, he indulged her. In spite of his Quill-level attachment to that tiny music machine, he gave her moments like this, with nothing to do but stare straight ahead and not make a sound. She knew it drove him crazy after a while, but he always stayed. He never made her live in it alone.

A kid ran up to them, breaking their shared solitude. Nebula watched her mime something, repeating the same motions and incomprehensible phrases. 

“Rocket,” she asked quietly, keeping her eyes on the kid, “you don’t happen to speak this child’s language, do you?” 

“Nope.”

“Of course not.”

Something in her face must have communicated her lack of understanding, because the kid ran off, only to return with another girl in hand.

The theatrics began again, the girls looking at her with an abundance of hope and excitement. It was grossly misplaced. “I have no idea what any of that means, kid.” 

She turned expectantly toward Rocket, but all he did was shrug. “I’ve got nothing. This language isn’t like anything I’ve ever heard.”

“Really? You could understand the tree, but not this?”

“Hey, I’m not the one with a computer in my head. It’s not my fault nobody programmed this language into you.”

“You’re the one who's been updating my systems, so that is technically your fault.”

Whatever he was going to say back was interrupted by the kid. Nebula turned toward her, and this time, something in the mimicry clicked. “You want me to braid your hair?”

In place of an answer, the kid just turned around and sat excitedly on the step in front of her. 

Nebula hesitated. What should have been simple was, as most things were, infinitely more complicated. But the kid turned around, a confused and slightly impatient look on her face, so she reached forward and began going through the motions.

“You know how to braid hair?” Rocket asked, not attempting to hide his surprise.

“Yes.” She answered with more confidence than she felt, considering her knowledge was only theoretical. 

She used to watch Gamora braid her hair all the time. Whenever they were alone, whenever they were getting ready to fight, she was always moving her hands so quickly, turning each strand into something beautiful. Something her own.

It took a little over six months before she finally caught her watching. They were still kids, and she’d yet to master the art of subtle reconnaissance. Rather than cower out of guilt, Nebula had found the bravery to ask how she did it. 

Gamora had snapped at her. Made some snide comment about her not even having hair, so why would she want to know how to braid it? 

I wasn’t always like this was what she’d longed to say back. But with Gamora, her words had always seemed to disappear when she needed them most, so all she’d done was storm off and prepare to fight again, confident that this time, she would be victorious. 

She was not. But when she woke up on the operating table, she found Gamora sitting in front of her. Braiding. Her movements were slower, more deliberate. Intentional. Despite having nothing in her own hands, Nebula found herself copying her sister. 

The next day, the moment had been forgotten. Dismissed, as if it never happened. Gamora still glared at her, still held nothing back. Offered no mercy. Their whole childhood was made up of those constant contradictions. 

No wonder this family shit was still so hard.

Pleasing the kid was much easier. One simple braid down her back had the girl squealing, and suddenly she had a line of expectant eyes.

She should have said no. It was her nature, after all. Her tolerance for this kind of thing was historically low. But now that she’d tried it, she was beginning to understand why Gamora spent so much time on her hair. There was something calming about it, in the same manner as cleaning a weapon or adjusting her hand. The repetition, the simplicity, the singular object of her focus, it made her shoulders feel less tight and her mind less cluttered. She didn’t want to stop.

Staring at the children, Nebula was reminded of a conversation she’d had years ago. A vow she’d made, one she’d thought completed with the death of her father, even if it didn’t come at her own hand. But perhaps she’d been premature in declaring that oath officially fulfilled. Perhaps there was still work to be done.

A path began to fork before her, two possible futures lying in wait. With it, a decision to be made: return to what was, or try and see what could be. 

No. Not a decision. She silently conceded to Rocket’s earlier argument as she realized that this — for possibly the first time in her life — was a choice. A choice about where to go. What to do. Who to do it with. A choice entirely untouched by her father, or her sister, or anybody else. It was hers alone to make.

If she picked wrong, there would be no one to shoulder the blame. No sister to resent or teammates to berate. No fault to give to anyone but herself. 

Nebula wasn’t afraid. Fear wasn’t part of her programming. But she hadn’t felt this vulnerable, this apprehensive of her own potential actions, since her standoff with herself. 

One road called to her, beckoned toward a life that used to be completely inconceivable. But it offered no assurances. No guarantee that it wouldn’t end in disaster. No proof that it was the right choice. 

More than that, she had no reason to believe that the act of choosing for herself wasn’t simply another one of her many shortcomings. As a child, she’d been too imaginative, wasting her time with dreams of sisterhood and family eagerly awaiting her return. She’d suffered greatly for it. What was to say that she wasn’t doing the same now? What trust could she put into a future she envisioned, when her mind had often been the cause of her perpetual downfall?

No. Her entire body stiffened as she forced the barrage of questions to come to a screeching halt. This was doubt. Nothing more than the erosive effect of insecurity, determined on dragging her back with each step she tried to take forward. She could taste its familiar bitterness, could identify it as a lingering side effect of her time spent under her father’s suffocating grip and her sister’s relentless judgment. 

Diagnosing the feeling didn’t rid her or it. Some part of her still longed for a command. Still trusted the word of others over her own. Still believed in the faults he’d claimed to see in her. He was gone, but she was not truly free. The shackles remained.

Rocket didn’t see her that way. He believed she’d survived captivity. He saw her as liberated. More than that, he saw her as victorious. Like so many things in this world, she didn’t understand it. 

But she wanted to.

“Do you think it’s possible?” For the second time, she broke their comfortable silence. 

“Do I think what’s possible?”

“This.” She motioned around her. “Getting over ourselves. Proving Mantis wrong. Building a life here.”

“Honestly? I’m not sure. But you and I should be dead a hundred times over by now, and we're not. So maybe anything’s possible.”

Nebula didn’t say anything, just continued braiding. Rocket leaned against her side, his own babysitting duties no longer needed as the tiny raccoons cozied up in his lap. She didn’t know how long they sat there, her braiding and him watching. Long enough for the restlessness to ease. For more kids to have braided hair than not. For the sound of his relaxed breaths to replace each labored one she’d cherished and dreaded hearing over the past few days. 

She kept expecting him to leave. To get the rest she knew he needed, or find someone else who could offer a better distraction. But he stayed. And in the midst of the tranquil monotony, she silently thanked her uncanny endurance for allowing her access to a moment like this. 

Eventually, the first girl came back. “I did you already,” Nebula told her. But now the kid was tugging at the very hair she’d just knotted together. 

Rolling her eyes, Nebula nudged Rocket. “Start taking them out,” she told him as she passed the kid to her left. 

Rocket looked at her blankly. “I don’t know how to do that.”

She wasn’t sure what happened next. Another error of her systems. A possible side effect of spending nearly seventy-two hours awake. A complete break in sanity. Whatever the cause, Nebula immediately began laughing. 

It was uncontrollable. Irrational. Loud and off putting in a way she couldn’t exactly describe. She half expected him to stare at her incredulously, or ask if she needed her wires adjusted somewhere. 

But instead, he joined her. The kids followed suit, even though they had no way of knowing what was so funny. She hardly knew herself. But maybe the only thing that mattered was the sound, not its cause. 

“You’re telling me,” she said when she finally caught her breath, “that you can build anti-gravity shoes without breaking a sweat, but undoing a braid is too complicated for you?”

“Hey, that’s not what I—“

“I thought you were supposed to have this fancy big brain. Isn’t that what got us into this mess in the first place?” 

“You know, I don’t think you’re allowed to make fun of me on the day I almost died.”

“You lived.”

His sarcastic smile melted into something sincere. “Yeah. We all did.”

Even though she knew she didn’t have a choice, she decided that if she did, she would commit that sentence to memory. 

“Give it your best shot,” she said as she shoved the kid in his direction. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” 

Rocket rolled his eyes, but sure enough, he managed to quickly take out the knot at the bottom and detangle the hair. The braids were tight, but his hands were small and moved quickly, and soon he had his own line nearly as long as hers. 

Nebula looked down, paused midway through the braid. These hands — which were cut off and rebuilt for one purpose, which were covered in blood and burns that could never scar, which longed for the sensation of a ghost's touch — they were still able to bring joy. 

She smiled again, only this time, she knew the reasons for it. She smiled because she’d proven Gamora wrong. She smiled because she knew, even with the lingering doubt, what path to choose. Mostly, she smiled because she was beginning to understand Rocket’s theory about winning. Each surgery had been done with specific intent, but maybe this was the reason she kept failing in spite of them. Maybe her father had been wrong. She was not made to kill, or fight, or win, but simply to braid and unbraid a child’s hair, unburdened by fatigue or pain or the passing of time. 

Lilith paused mid-stride when she felt it. Another heartbeat. Another body. She crept forward slowly, let her nails grow in anticipation as she moved toward the back of the hall. 

She found her lying on the piano bench, right next to where her picture had been. Her eyes were glued to the ceiling, completely oblivious to the fact that she had company. 

Lilith exhaled, moving forward with a little more weight in her step. 

“Camila.”

She gasped, nearly falling off the bench as she turned toward her. 

“Oh! Lilith.” She seemed to relax as she recognized her. Lilith wondered how long that would last, how much time she had before the sight of her invoked feelings of fear rather than comfort. “I didn’t know you were back.”

“I got in late,” she said, her words not entirely a lie. “Didn’t want to wake anyone.”

“Does that mean no news?”

Lilith shook her head. Camila’s face dropped, the glimmer of hope gone as soon as it arrived. 

“I’m heading out again in the morning,” she told her. “I’m going after Vincent.”

“You think you can find him? My tracking algorithms haven’t had any luck. It’s like he jumps into sight out of nowhere, does some stupid ritual, and then disappears again.”

“I’ll find him,” she promised. “He may be able to hide from the rest of the world, but he can’t hide from me.”

Camila nodded. She’d moved to a sitting position now, back to the old piano. The one she’d played for Shannon. Its keys were rotting, its strings not properly strung. The music that came from it could hardly be called such a thing, not with every note ringing wildly out of tune. And yet, when she’d sat there, when she’d added her voice to it, the beauty had been undeniable. 

Had anyone played for her, she wondered, when they’d thought her lost? Had Camila looked at the crowd with tears in her eyes and a sad smile on her face? In the midst of what was surely a period of upheaval, of frantic shifts in power and plans made from little more than desperation and prayer, had they found time to miss her? 

“You said you’re heading out in the morning?” 

Lilith nodded, refocusing on Camila. It was happening with more frequency. The dissociation. Losing small moments of time along with the big. Succumbing to the thoughts that slipped into her brain, thoughts that may or may not belong to her. It was impossible to tell anymore. The knowledge that someone else had taken residence before left doubt lingering after every image and instinct her mind conjured up.

“Then how come you’re still awake?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she said in place of an answer. “Don’t you have morning service in a few hours?”

She’d meant it as a deflection, but the wrongness of the moment began to dawn on her. Camila only made it to morning service if she was dragged, and didn’t genuinely begin to wake until at least halfway through the sermon. 

“Yes, and I’m already up and ready to go. Aren’t you proud of me?”

Camila smiled as she spoke, but now that she was looking, Lilith could see right through her. It didn’t reach her eyes, which were surrounded by dark circles, etched too deeply to be the consequence of one sleepless night. 

“Camila,” she said slowly, “are you alright?”

“Of course I am.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

She tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out mangled. “Truly, I’m fine.” 

“People who are fine don’t sit in the dark at three in the morning.”

“You do.”

“Exactly.”

Self-preservation told her to hold her tongue, but she couldn’t help it. Camila wasn’t meant to look like that, light in her eyes so dim she could hardly find its shine. 

“It’s nothing,” she conceded. 

“Dreams?”

Camila bit her lip, which answered her question well enough. 

She’d already guessed the culprit — the problem was that Lilith was ill-equipped for this particular scenario. She’d never trained for it. Lacked the innate comfort found in Beatrice’s tone or Mary’s steadfast gaze. Hell, even Ava could be delicate when the moment dictated it. 

But she had always been sharp edges and harsh words. Providing comfort felt more unnatural to her than anything else. It was one of the only scenarios where her confidence wavered, where she looked to others for guidance. Mimicry had saved her countless times before, given her the answers she’d have never found on her own.

But Camila was still staring at the ground, hands fidgeting at her sides, and Lilith didn’t know what the right move was, but she knew she couldn’t stand there and do nothing. 

“Do you…want to talk about it?”

Camila shook her head; Lilith did her best to hide her sigh of relief. “No, I just…I just need to get out of my head, is all.”

That was something she could understand. “Sparring usually helps. It requires complete focus. No room for distraction.”

“It’s the same with playing.” She nodded to the keys behind her. “As a kid, I used to play at night a lot, whenever my mom worked late. Made the house feel less empty. Made me feel less alone.”

The image of a young Camila desperately clinging to music for companionship threatened to cut her hold on reality. Lilith forced herself to fight off the memories, to stay grounded in this moment, not get lost in any other.

“So play, then.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s the middle of the night. I could handle the neighbors complaining, but I’m not going to wake the whole OCS. Not over something as pathetic as—“

She cut herself off. 

“As what?”

“Nothing.”

“Camila.”

“I can’t stop seeing it.” She spoke quickly, like she’d lose the words entirely if she paused for too long. “Mary drowning in all those bodies. Every time I close my eyes, I see it. And we’re all just standing there, completely helpless. And then we’re gone, and she’s...”

Oh. Somehow, she hadn’t considered that it would be her fault that Camila was up tonight. That they would both be haunted by her actions.

“And over all of it is that damned sound of Adriel laughing. Even when I wake, I still hear him. It’s like he’s in my head.” 

She was staring at her now, desperation in her eyes. Lilith had seen horrors that even her own mind hid from her, but nothing as upsetting as this anguish she knew was hers to blame.

Camila was the exact opposite of her. Kind where she was cruel. Gentle where she was rough. Lilith was the one who deserved sleepless nights and guilt that sat heavy on her shoulders; this pain was not meant for Camila to carry. 

Without thinking, she walked up to the bench. “Don’t panic,” she said as she wrapped her arms around her and willed them into the in between.

She could see exactly where they needed to go, and in the blink of an eye, there they were. Part of her was still slightly awed by her own ability, even if the otherworldliness was something she knew she should fear. Her mind echoed some parable about taking care of wishes lest they come true, but Lilith couldn’t help it — her entire life she’d fought to be remarkable. Now she finally was. 

Her body still clung to the rush that accompanied phasing no matter how many times she traveled. It was as if every one of the cells in her body was still vibrating with movement, energy that demanded a place to go. It was unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. Exhilaration in its purest form. 

The sight of her destination snuffed the feeling out rather quickly. The room was entirely unchanged since the last time she’d stepped inside. Cellar walls poorly disguised with hideous wallpaper. Chair in the corner that had never been used. Certificates in frames and medals on display, all for nobody to see. 

Despite its forthcomings, the baby grand sitting right in the center of it all commanded attention. Lilith wasn’t sure if anyone had maintained the tuning, but no matter the state, it had to be better than what they’d left behind. 

“Where are we?” Camila asked, eyes wide as she took in her surroundings. To her credit, she seemed unfazed by the mode of transportation.

“Somewhere you can play.”

Lilith watched her walk up to the piano slowly, as if it might disappear if she startled it. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s out of practice.”

“That doesn’t take away from its beauty.”

Camila lifted the cover, let her fingers move delicately above the keys. 

“What’s it doing, hiding down here?”

“The walls keep the sound contained.”

Camila turned back toward her. “Who would ever want to trap music?”

The same woman who deemed it unnecessary despite her growing proficiency. The one who pulled her from her lessons, replaced her sheet music with fencing swords and her theory textbooks with Latin and Greek. Who didn’t hate the success, but simply struggled to see its value once it had taught her discipline and patience. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she finally answered. “Nobody will be bothered if you play down here.”

Slowly, Camila sat down. If she noticed the name engraved on the metronome to her left and the trophy to her right, she gave no indication. Even if she had, it wouldn’t be one she’d recognize. The girl who’d won those awards had stopped existing long before this body left this earth. 

Lilith supposed she’d mourned herself twice already. When she’d joined the OCS, when she’d disregarded who she’d been before, she’d thought she was evolving. Moving on to the next stage of her life. Becoming something bigger than she was. Not a death, but a rebirth. 

The irony was not lost on her. Nor was the awareness that, by her own standards, abandoning who she’d been should have been easier. It wasn’t as if it was a new phenomenon. She’d spent her whole life preparing for another transformation. It was the sole purpose of her existence. Her mother had always made that very clear. 

She wondered what she’d thought when she heard the news of her unfortunate death. Whether she’d felt anything but disappointment. It wasn’t like she hadn’t considered the possibility — according to her, it was better to have a meaningful life than a long one. How else could she justify the fact that they came from a family of martyrs?

At least Lilith could still claim to have fulfilled some element of her destiny. Mother had never even been in consideration for the Warrior Nun, let alone laid her life down for her. She’d hardly seen combat at all — her priority had been on maintaining appearances, on acquiring funding while keeping their secret. Desk work.

Lilith had never understood how she managed the contradiction. Demanding a life she’d never lived. A sacrifice she’d never given. But what confused her most was knowing that even now, when she could see the outrageousness of her mother’s expectations, part of her still longed for approval she knew she’d never get. 

The sound of a C Major arpeggio commanded her attention. Camila was staring at her. She wasn’t sure how long she’d spent looking, what she’d seen when Lilith’s mind had slipped into a vault of memories, burdened by thoughts she used to have the strength not to linger on. 

She stared back, waiting to see if her face would change. Waiting for the final shoe to drop, for her to see through her and discover exactly what she’d become. For her to run. Even the slightest of movements, the tiniest inkling of disgust, would confirm her descent into wickedness, would make certain that her very being was irredeemable. If Camila couldn’t see good in her, there was certainly none left.

Instead of revolting, she seemed to ease into her position when she realized she’d regained her attention.

“I take requests,” Camila said with a smile, looking like herself for the first time all night. 

When she’d offered before, using a tablet in Jillian’s lab, Lilith had been similarly lost in her mind, searching desperately for memories she had no access to. Her head had throbbed and her hold over herself wavered every moment. She’d snapped, but when Camila didn’t back down, she’d given in, drank the tea and tried to relax. Let herself smile for a few seconds.

She’d been promptly punished for it. Fire burned in her side the instant she’d let her guard down, hurting and healing the wound that killed her. 

The pain had faded since then, but her mind remained untethered. She should have learned her lesson, but still she longed for the relief, for the inexplicable comfort that came with Camila’s company. Lilith wanted to smile again, even if her body would take its revenge.

“Play something happy,” she answered softly.

She expected sarcasm, a joke at her expense, but Camila just stared at her and said, “I can do that.”

Her hands began moving quickly, plucking out a lighthearted melody. Lilith backed up and sat in the chair in the corner. The oddity of it was almost distracting — this room existed for the sole purpose of not having an audience. Her seat was intended to be mere decoration on the off chance guests wandered where they didn’t belong. But the pleasant sound grounded her, let the thoughts come and go without taking her with it.

Part of her was tempted to close her eyes, to allow the music to wash over her undeterred by her other senses. But to do so would mean losing sight of Camila, still smiling, eyes glued to the keys and hands moving freely across them. 

Her technique was unpolished, her path to each note made harder than it needed to be. The instinct to correct her was there, itching to come out, but she refused to listen to it. Not when she could be listening to her.

When she played, there was a freedom to her spirit, one that eradicated the presence of fear entirely. Lilith was certain she’d never felt the sting of a ruler against her knuckles, never felt the glare from the audience anticipating mistakes. She played with flaws, and yet instead of hindering the performance, they only made it better.

The piece came to its natural end, but Camila allowed only a breath of silence before she began again. The next one sounded much like the first, with bright staccatos accompanying an airy melody, but after a few moments it transitioned into something somber. The melodic line remained, but it had lost its energy, its joy. And when it returned, although she could tell the notation was unchanged, it no longer had the same quality that it had at the start.

If she still believed in omens, she’d have called it such. 

Eventually, that piece came to a close as well. Rather than cutting it off, Camila held the final chord, and Lilith wasn’t familiar with the song but she could recognize that the length was unwritten. The sound wouldn’t last forever, but Camila seemed determined to give it more time than it was meant to have, more importance than it deserved. 

Her efforts, however noble, were in vain. Silence won in the end, as it always did. 

“Do you want to play something?” Camila asked, turning toward her. 

“What makes you think I know how?”

“The way you looked at it.” She said it casually, but there was a sadness in the way she spoke, as if she could tell from just a glance that it was something she’d lost. 

Lilith thought about what it might feel like. She hadn’t played a note since her school days. Her sheet music had likely been thrown out, her muscle memory nearly nonexistent. There was no reason why she should say yes.

Despite herself, she still hesitated. Her mind remembered the effect that playing used to have on her. For a period of time, when her mother abandoned the lessons and she’d been forced to play in secret, creeping down on nights exactly like this one, it had been all she’d had. The one thing she did where she sought no one’s approval but her own. There had been something freeing in that. 

Staring at the piano, it was easy to imagine it now. She could practically see herself sitting there, playing for Camila, welcoming back that feeling of ease and satisfaction. Allowing this body to grab hold of that sensation, to familiarize itself with what it meant to be truly at peace. 

The temptation to say yes nearly overwhelmed her, but the longer she pictured it, the more reality crept in. She imagined long, dark nails leaving scratch marks all over the keys. Entire sections of the piece played without her recollection. Her hands jumping through space to reach the next notes. Music ruined, becoming another thing she could never return to. 

“No,” she answered. “You keep playing.”

“Alright,” Camila conceded without pushback. “But let me know if you change your mind. I don’t mind listening.”

She turned back, began playing something Lilith suspected was a pop ballad. Camila sang along this time, and although there was a tragic nature to the lyrics, she was still certain that it was a love song. 

Lilith usually hated those. For as long as she could remember, and much to her mother’s dismay, she’d preferred the harsh, brutal, unapologetic honesty found in punk music. They expressed emotions she’d never been allowed to, with confidence she sought to emulate. But with the soft cadence of her voice, the ache and awe no less raw or real, Camila could convert anyone.

The lyrics had depth to them. No grand statements, no simple pleasantries. The love it spoke of was a quiet kind. The asks were not big, but significant nonetheless. It was a concept she found both entirely foreign and yet strikingly familiar. 

Again, the song ended all too quickly. She waited to see how she’d respond, what she’d play next, but Camila just sat there, staring at the empty space where sheet music usually stood. 

“Hey, Lilith?” She said after a moment, turning to face her. 

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Lilith couldn’t fight off the smile. “Play that one again.”

Camila’s grin widened, and she went back to the beginning, the initial chord progression returning as if it never left. 

In a few hours, Camila would be back in Cat’s Cradle. Despite her inexperience, she’d be leading them, working side by side with Mother Superion. Surrounded by faces who looked up to her, who saw talent with a computer and crossbow coupled with unbreakable spirit. She belonged there, in a way Lilith never had and never would again.

Come morning, Lilith would be hiding in shadows, following whispers until they led her where she needed to be. She would be giving in to her depravity, allowing it to become an asset, wondering when she’d finally cross a line she could not come back from. 

Her words were dripping with sarcasm, but her hands betrayed her again, trembling at her sides. She quickly brought them back together and squeezed until they stilled.

Lilith was no stranger to rumors. To whispers and snide comments said just loud enough for her to hear. She’d never been well liked. Ambition often acted as the antithesis to niceness, especially when found in women. That was fine. Being liked wasn’t as important as being respected. And even when they’d hated her, they’d always respected her. 

But she used to garner their envy alongside their respect. Their admiration. Their awe. She’d had a place among them, sitting front and center in those pews, cross around her neck and hair hiding beneath her habit. 

Before the OCS, her devotion had been a lonely one. Mother standing guard beside her, never letting her watchful eye waver. The words themselves had hardly meant anything to her back then. It wasn’t until she heard them here, surrounded by her new sisters, each member of the collective adding their voice to form one unified community, that she finally began to understand the appeal. 

Even so, Lilith wasn’t a child anymore. She could bear the solitude. She could put up with the speculation. She could handle knowing that the feeling she’d once had walking through those halls would never return.          

What bothered her was the thought that, if she had to put their debate to the test, she wouldn’t bet in her favor. 

Mother Superion clicked her tongue, the only kind of response she seemed ready to dignify that rumor with. “Well. No use in just sitting here, is there? Get up.”

They started with the same drills they always did. Stretching. Conditioning. Form correction. Going through the motions calmed her. The sound of her pulse, steady and unchanged, filled the noiseless void in her head.

As the sun rose higher and higher, they transitioned into honing her new technique. Phasing wasn’t the right word for it — it wasn’t quite like what Ava could do — but it was the only way she could think of describing it. Allowing her body to travel between the pockets of space that she could sense but could not describe. Jumping through them, like the distance didn’t exist. 

At the Vatican, it had been unnatural, her body moving under someone else’s control. Now, she could slip away at will. She could coordinate her movements around the absence. And she could use it like any other skill in her arsenal.

The longer they went on, the more eyes she felt tracking her movements. The attention used to give her a rush, make her push harder to prove that she belonged not just among them, but leading them; now, she knew her efforts would be in vain. No matter how well she mastered phasing, they would still stare at her in horror, hands forming the sign of the cross not as a blessing, but as protection. 

She kept her head down, dodging Mother Superion at every turn, but her traitorous mind kept returning to the crowd. The only one whose gaze used to make her falter was Shannon. No one else’s opinion, not even Mother Superion’s, had mattered more. 

It wasn’t even the act of watching. It was the way Shannon used to look at her that made it difficult to focus. Once she got the halo, once Lilith became second in line, she was no longer simply a friend — she was a symbol of her inevitable mortality. Even the bravest among them struggled to face that head on without allowing self-preservation to sneak in sometimes. Lilith could understand the weariness in her face, even if it hurt to witness. 

But Shannon never would have stared at her in disgust like they did. She’d have stopped the whispers and the sneers the minute they started. And if she couldn’t, Mary would have threatened anyone who still questioned her place among them. Even when her own trust wavered, when her eyes narrowed in a poorly disguised attempt to determine whether she was now a threat to Shannon (by definition, she was), she wouldn’t tolerate that treatment from anyone else. 

Mary’s words echoed in her mind, her reassurances that she was still herself. Still her sister. But nobody else seemed inclined to agree. Nobody else called her sister anymore. Not even Mother Superion. She was only Lilith. 

She should have expected it. Despite Mary’s protests, it was obvious that she’d changed. But her words had given her this fleeting moment of hope, and even now a part of her was desperate to cling to it. If she did everything right, couldn’t some things go back to how they were? Even with her claws and her phasing, her heart locked in a cage of her own making, couldn’t she still be divine? 

As she phased around the next attack, she felt a rush of air by her right shoulder. She phased again, jumping back in an obviously delayed reaction. Her arm shivered with its innate knowledge that it had only nearly avoided injury. 

Mother Superion tsked at her, stopping their sparring in its place. “You can’t let your movements become predictable,” she commented as she leaned forward and smacked the spot she’d just nearly missed with her baton. “When you phase, you’re leaving yourself vulnerable on your reentry.”

Lilith paused, pretended to catch her breath. She should have been winded by now — exerting herself was still supposed to take a toll. 

After what seemed like enough time, she responded. “That’s assuming anyone can track my movements long enough to read them.”

Another hit, this one lower on her arm. “Always assume they can! Always assume your enemy is smarter than you. Better prepared than you. In our line of work, arrogance is the kiss of death.”

She’d heard the phrase more times than she’d like to admit. Before, she’d taken the comment in stride, if not always in practice. But the sun was beating down now, hot and oppressive, and the crowd was inching closer, sucking all the air out of the open courtyard.

“How could anyone possibly prepare for this?” Her tone flirted with disobedience, but she couldn’t hold it back. “There’s nothing in the world like me.”

“There’s nothing like the Warrior Nun, either, yet they have faced defeat countless times.”

“That’s not the same.”

“If you go into a battle underestimating your opponent, the end result is always the same, no matter who you are or what you are fighting.”

“But—“

“But what? You think this trick makes you special? You think it makes you invincible?” Her voice was rising with every word. Lilith may have been taller, but Mother Superion towered over her nonetheless. “It doesn’t. You are as vulnerable as the rest of us.”

“Except I’m not, am I?” 

She tiptoed on the line, brushing dangerously close to addressing the topic of her humanity. Her lack of it. Knowledge about the scar hidden beneath her shirt, once covered with scales that had never quite faded, rested impatiently on her lips. Phasing was too useful to hide, but she’d spent more effort than she cared to admit trying to disguise the rest of her transformation. Part of her longed to concede now, if only to put an end to the charade that was getting more difficult to maintain. But to voice those concerns would do the same thing as walking into that church: give them confirmation that she was as ruined as they thought.

“I’m not like you,” she said, venom in her words, “and I’m not like Ava. There has never been something like me.”

Even in her vagueness, it still sounded like a confession. 

“Uniqueness,” Mother Superion said, giving no indication that she’d heard her subtle admission of guilt, “does not equate to limitlessness. I pray you don’t learn that the hard way.” There was something extra in her eyes, something dark, when she added, “It is often an excruciating lesson.”

The crowd hadn’t been very vocal, but the hush that crept over them was palpable. Nobody spoke of it, but everybody knew what she was referring to. 

Lilith hadn’t been there when it happened. She hadn’t witnessed what the others had talked about after glances around corners, in voices so soft the words were hardly given life at all. All she’d known was that a few years ago, she’d woken up one step closer to her life’s purpose. 

Once the rumors died down, it was Shannon who had described it to her again, this time in great detail. She hadn’t done it for purposes of gossip, but as a warning: the halo was not simply a prize to be won, but an unforgiving power that demanded respect. Choose wrong, and there would be consequences. 

Nobody had protested, not in any way that mattered, when she’d taken over as Mother Superion and ruled with an iron fist. Not when they knew why. But while the others joked and complained, Lilith kept her mouth shut. 

She’d always understood Mother Superion’s intensity. Her unfailing dedication to perfection. It was familiar. In a way, it was almost comforting. She used to live for her looks of pride, of satisfaction, however subtle they may be. Facing her disapproval would have sent her spiraling a few months ago. 

It didn’t hurt as much now. It couldn’t. If it did, she’d give all those watchful eyes something new to gossip about. Better they still think her the same heartless Lilith, rather than think her weak. Or worse, damned. Even if both were true. 

“Unique,” she finally said, “is not the word I would use to describe what I’ve become.”

“And what word would be more appropriate?”

The answer came not from her mouth, but from someone in the crowd. “Aberration.”

Mother Superion snapped her head to her right. “Everybody out,” she commanded, smacking her cane on the ground. They scattered, not willing to wait and see if she’d change her mind, line them up one by one until a culprit was found. 

Only Lilith stayed put. She tried not to listen, but with nothing else to take its place, the word echoed in her head. Aberration. 

All her time spent away. All her effort to avoid suspicion. All that hair dye she’d wasted in a pathetic attempt at reminding herself and those around her of the person she’d been. None of it had mattered. 

Only one person had said it, but no one had offered any kind of dispute. The rest of them agreed. They’d all come to the same conclusion, and they’d only seen a glimpse. What would they say if they’d seen her at the Vatican? If they were aware of her sleepless nights? If they knew just how far she was drifting away from her old self?

It shouldn’t have come as such a shock, but the confirmation still hurt: they saw her as damaged beyond repair. Irredeemable, despite her efforts. It had probably been easier for all of them when they’d presumed her dead.

The evidence was undeniable. Nobody ever tried to stop her when she constantly volunteered to leave. Not when her powers meant she could go farther than any of them, could withstand more than a human body was meant to. They were happier when she was gone.

She’d told herself to be proud, at first, that they’d sent Ava off with Beatrice but trusted her and her power to handle herself. That they’d given her the freedom to track Mary largely on her own. That, while everyone else returned to normal missions and training, she remained special. 

When she returned two days past her intended check-in time last week, only to find that her absence had hardly been noticed, she’d begun to suspect trust had nothing to do with it. Now, with that one word, she knew for certain — Lilith was simply more bearable out of sight and out of mind. 

She wondered if they’d care, if she mentioned the gaps. How, during the past few days, she would blink and find that hours had passed with no recollection of how she’d spent the time. Whether the concern would be for her well-being or her value to the order. Would it be the final straw they needed to cut her off completely? How much longer until she was simply more trouble than she was worth?

At the very least, despite her degeneracy, she knew they couldn’t be rid of her yet. If she’d been truly worthless, they’d have sent her packing already. But she suspected her usefulness sufficed only so long as she found Mary; if she failed, she’d never be tolerated. Words wouldn’t be whispered, but declared. Proudly. 

“Don’t heed their gossip,” Mother Superion spoke sternly but softly once the last of them had dispersed. 

“There’s truth to it,” she admitted. 

“No, there’s not.”

“You don’t know—“

“I know,” she said, “that you are different. Changed. But you are not damaged.”

Liar. The word was dangling off the tip of her tongue, desperate to make way for the anger that hid behind it. She swallowed it back, ignored the bitter taste as it went down.

“Thank you,” she answered, because it was what was expected of her. Because it was respectful. Because Mother Superion and Camila were the only two people here who didn’t recoil at the sight of her, and she couldn’t stand to see that change yet. 

“You don’t believe me.” It was not a question. 

Lilith hesitated, which must have spoken loud enough, because Mother Superion stepped closer, putting her hands on her shoulders. 

“Listen to me carefully. You are forging a path none of us have ever walked. I cannot lead you. I cannot tell you which direction to take. But I can do everything in my power to make sure you are prepared for where you may end up.”

Lilith tried to look away, but Mother Superion’s gaze was too strong to break. “How can you prepare me for something that’s never been done before?” She asked, a small part of her desperately searching for an answer she hadn’t thought of. A solution that would save her.

“By reminding you of what’s waiting at the other end of it.”

“And what would that be?”

“Us. Your sisters.”

Her tiny shred of hope shattered. 

“My sisters?” She blinked, reached up and shoved Mother Superion away. “I don’t have any sisters. Not here.”

“Think about us. Forget those wretched girls.”

Lilith shook her head. “Don’t you understand? They aren’t wretched — I am.”

“Mary didn’t think so.”

Her name was a slap to the face. The sound of it ripped open a wound that had yet to properly heal, and Lilith knew she’d bleed out if she didn’t cauterize it. 

Anger was the fire, burning her inside out, keeping her alive even as it threatened to drown her anew. For the first time since the tomb, she let it out without reservation. 

“Don’t you dare speak her name when you have all but abandoned her.”

“I have done no such thing.”

“You’re probably glad to be rid of her.” This time it was Mother Superion whose eyes went wide. “You never cared for her, anyway. Not the way you did with the other girls. It was obvious to her and to everyone else.”

“Lilith,” she said, like she was a commoner, like she hadn’t given her life for a title she’d lost during her resurrection. “Calm down.”

“Why? Am I hurting your feelings?” The anger had shifted into cruelty, she could sense it, but she found it difficult to care. There was a ringing in her ears, burning behind her eyes, and they demanded relief. “The others say we’re heartless, but maybe you can prove them wrong. Tell me, did it hurt when the halo tore itself through your skin?”

“Enough.”

“Do you think it was always meant to reject you, or did it choose to once you used its power on Shannon?”

Her face went white. Lilith knew only she and Mary had known that detail; Shannon had lied in the reports after, and Mother Superion had never corrected her. 

“Stop, you’re—“

“Does it upset you,” Lilith felt the spark of indignation, and it only added fuel to the words she’d already released, “that everyone around you dies while you do nothing to earn your worthless existence?”

“Lilith.” 

She expected to find anger reflected back to her, but Mother Superion wasn't looking at her face anymore. Lilith followed her gaze, and it was only then that she noticed the blood dripping from her palms. 

Her hands had formed fists. She wasn’t sure when. She opened them slowly, unsurprised to find the claws hiding underneath, long and black and smeared in scarlett.

All she could do was watch them. The first time it happened, she’d cowered in fear as her body transformed without her permission. But she’d learned to adapt. In the absence of anyone else guiding her, she’d taken over herself. She’d controlled it. 

But once again, the evidence told an entirely different story. The anger she’d so naively determined was hers to unleash had not, in fact, remained the same. Like every other emotion, it had grown too big for her body, too intense for her mind. And it had dire consequences. 

Lilith closed her eyes, silently willed her nails to retract, unsure if they’d follow her command. They listened. With them, the red that had clouded her vision faded, too. 

The cuts on her palms mended themselves. The pounding in her head eased. The ringing in her ears ceased, replaced with her own words playing back to her. Each insult was worse than the one before. 

Her eyes snapped open. “Mother Superion, I—“

She held her hand up, and Lilith bit the apology back. 

“You know as well as I do why we train the mind and the body.”

“Yes, and—“

“We have managed,” Mother Superion continued unfazed, “to accommodate your physical training. But it is my failure that we have not properly adjusted the mental element as well.”

“I promise you, I’m not—I’ve never—“

Mother Superion stepped toward her. Lilith flinched, backing up until her heels hit the edge of the practice mat. She watched as she paused mid stride, cane extended, waiting for the rest of her body to follow. More than the words Lilith had thrown at her, it was moving away that seemed to do the greatest damage. 

“I know you, Lilith.” Her tone softened, just slightly. “I know your heart.”

The rage flashed for the briefest of moments before Lilith snuffed it out. “You don’t. That heart stopped beating somewhere on the other side.”

“Then give me enough time, and I’ll learn this one as well.”

“You shouldn’t. It is not worth it.”

“I disagree.” She kept her tone steady, almost academic in quality. Like her words were fact, not opinion. “This pain will fade and pass in due time. Believe me. Until it does, all I ask is that you don’t go somewhere we can’t follow.”

She said it as if it was easy. As if gaining the halo, losing the halo, could compare to her. They had texts and history and camaraderie, and she had no one. 

“I can’t promise—“

“I held one funeral for you already, Lilith.” She paused, taking a deep breath before adding, “I do not plan on holding a second.

It was an odd sensation, to be grieved. Even odder, to forget it had happened. Walking through her own memorial should have haunted her, but it paled in comparison to what came after. But perhaps that wasn’t the case for the rest of them.

“I don’t plan on dying.” That, at least, was the truth. But it was not all of it. She’d spent most of her first life under God’s command, and she didn’t have the heart to confess that, considering his notable absence from her head, she suspected this one would find her under someone else’s. 

Who that would be remained to be seen. But until whatever being or deity that brought her back and led her exactly where she needed to be revealed themselves, she had only one concern. 

“I do plan on finding Mary. Alive.”

“God willing,” Mother Superion said with a sign of the cross. “But come home when you do. That’s all I ask.”

The door is open when he arrives. He can see the light of the candle stretching out as far as its tiny flame can manage. His eyes scan the room, pausing when they find her: not standing on the ladder, or lounging on a chair, but sitting curled up in the corner, as far away from the windows as possible, knees brought to her chest.  

His body goes still at the sight, frozen in place in the entryway. She’d mentioned it, her aversion to this type of weather, but he’d assumed it to be a nuisance, one that kept her awake out of annoyance more than anything else. But now, he could see it clear as day, despite the distance and the dim lighting: fear, the kind that lay mere inches away from terror. It is in her eyes, glued to the book in front of her, filled to the brim with tears that have yet to fall. It is in the way her body shivers, as if she’d caught a chill somewhere among the shelves. And in an instance, it is in his own heart, replacing the confidence he’d so naively carried all the way from their bedroom to his father’s library. 

He watches as her lips move, as her eyes try desperately to follow the words on the page. A flash of lighting makes it all too easy to see the way her body jolts as she flinches, the way her eyes squeeze shut before opening again. 

The last time they were here, she’d comforted him. She had stood and listened to him talk about his father, had offered kind words and an even kinder gaze. And when the lightning had struck and sent her running, he’d thought she meant only to flee him. Solitude due to their society’s definition of propriety was frustrating yet understandable, but now? Just the thought of her alone on a night like that turns his stomach, makes him long to curse his memory yet again. Another failure to add to the list. 

Every bone in his body urges him to run, to eliminate the distance and do what he should have done then. He wants to hold her and never let go, whisper promises he knows are impossible to keep, and then he wants to try and keep them anyway. Instead, he moves slowly, taking every step with gentle caution, until he’s welcomed into the candle’s circle of light. 

A board creeks beneath his feet while he searches for something to say. Her eyes dart up, her breath getting caught in her throat before she slowly exhales. The effort is obvious now that he knows to look for it: the straightening of her back, her hands clenching the novel in front of her as she snaps it shut. They are walls being constructed before his very eyes. And while part of him knows he should long for a way to break the barriers completely, he thinks tonight he’d settle for a door. 

“My apologies,” she says, her voice giving away none of the emotion he sees on her face, “for waking you.”

“Entirely unnecessary — you did nothing of the sort.” He takes a step forward, tries his best to hide his urgency. “Although, you should have.”

Kate is already shaking her head before he can finish speaking. “There is no reason—“

“—that you should have to spend this night alone? I agree wholeheartedly.”

“—that we both should suffer due to my restlessness.”

He holds his hand up. “The rings on our fingers may beg to differ.” She doesn’t offer a response, which only adds to his worry. It’s enough to make him take another step forward, to nod toward the place he longs to be. Approval comes in the slight movement of her head, and soon they’re side by side. The floor is stiff beneath him, and the spines of his father’s books are digging into his back at all sorts of awkward angles, but if she’s finding comfort in this hidden corner, then nothing could stop him from planting himself firmly beside her. 

A million questions rest on his tongue, but he starts with the simplest. “What story have we got tonight?” 

“Nothing of importance.”

Anthony lets out an exaggerated gasp, places a hand on his chest. “My father would be wounded to hear that his selections were lacking. Although, knowing him, it’s probably a fair assessment.” He leans in slightly and whispers, “He was a romantic, after all.”

He punctuates the words with a smile. Despite the thunder accompanying their conversation, he’s desperate to find one waiting in return, but her eyes are too busy burning a hole in the novel’s cover to give his the time of day. Her once trembling body is now completely still, and he’s not sure whether to take that as a sign of improvement or a sign of warning. 

“I merely kid,” he adds quickly. “My father—“

“It is not from his shelves.” She flips it open, staring at a page he cannot see. “It is a gift. From Edwina.”

“I see.” Anthony takes a beat, a moment to choose his next move. They are wading into delicate, dangerous territory. The last thing he wants is to misstep, to set off a landmine and send her running. In all his years, he has yet to learn every inch of their country home, and in their short time together, he has yet to learn every inch of her. If she chooses another place to disappear, he’s not positive he’ll be able to find her again. “Does she usually wake with you on nights like these?”

Kate shakes her head. “They tried, for a while. Her and Mama. But in spite of their best efforts, storms lull them to sleep.” Her voice goes even softer as she adds, “They are not like me.”

“I do not think anybody in the world is like you.”

Instinct sends the sentence out before he can stop it. If he thought compliments were what she needed, he’d fill his own library with his pitiful attempts at poetry. But he can practically feel her rejection of his assertion in the stare she gives to the book instead of him. 

“Edwina’s been invited to meet with the Queen’s nephew. The Prince.” What should be exhilarating news comes out sounding entirely too solemn. 

“Good,” he answers carefully. “My interactions with him were limited last season, but in his brief courting with Daphne, she believed him to be a kind, well-intentioned gentleman. Even in the face of rejection.”

They also share the unique experience of a failed Queen-endorsed proposal involving a Bridgerton, although Anthony thinks it best to keep that similarity to himself. One day they’ll be able to joke about such things, but he’s certain today is not that day, and now most definitely not the time.

Lightning cracks. They aren’t touching — he’s left a sliver of space between them, enough for her to decide if or when to close the gap — but he swears he can feel the way her whole body tenses at the sound. 

“Do you think—” she starts, and the meekness in her voice must sound as unnatural to her as it does to him, because she stops and tries again, this time finding a piece of the assuredness that usually embodies all her words. “Do you think he’ll make her happy?”

“It’s possible. But I think that is something only Edwina can decide.”

It’s still unsettling, knowing how deeply he failed her. They may have come to an agreeable, almost comfortable understanding — due largely in part, he suspects, to Kate’s happiness — but that couldn’t change the fact that he hurt her in more ways than he ever thought possible. She may have been family for a mere two days, but he feels the need to protect Edwina’s future as strongly as he does the rest of his siblings. More so, since he’s the reason it’s in jeopardy.

”I was thinking,” he starts to say, but one glance in her direction snuffs the sentence out, the words vanishing like a candle exposed to the harsh cruelty of the wind. The tears he’d found unshed at his arrival now flow quickly and freely down her cheeks, their presence both as sudden and expected as the storm outside. 

“Kate—“

“Don’t.” She throws her hand up, stops him from breaching his own minuscule barrier between them. His heart is trying its best to drag him across it anyway, but his head knows when to listen and when to defy. Instead of holding her, he watches as she wipes the tears away once, twice, three times, before giving up and letting them stay. The book falls onto the floor as she puts her head in her hands, finds a way to make herself even smaller.  

The storm keeps time, tells him how long they sit there, inches and miles apart. It lights the room, makes it impossible to avoid the sight of his wife crumbling beside him. 

His wife. The word feels strange even in his mind, foreign and odd and formal, and yet somehow the most natural thing in the world. It carries more weight than a few letters should, but it is still not enough to encompass everything she is to him. It’s a contradiction. An anomaly more frustrating and fascinating than any other. And in those four letters, in the madness they inspire in him, he finds her again. 

It is precisely that madness that makes waiting a unique kind of agony. All of his willpower is required to sit still, to know that the only way to help is to do nothing but be present, be available, be ready. So much of his life has been filled with inaction and avoidance, running away from anything and everything important. He isn’t sure whether it’s the selfish or selfless part of him that wants to do something now. To wipe her tears, to hold her while she falls apart and then stay while she puts herself back together. But this moment isn’t about what he could do, nor what he longs to prove. It’s about her. Everything has always been, will always be, about her. And if patience is all she asks of him, then he will give it freely and without hesitation. 

Even so, he can’t pretend he isn’t relieved when, after the thunder’s eleventh consecutive encore, her breath begins to steady. By number twelve, her face is out of her hands, the tears gone but the evidence of their appearance still staining her cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” she says finally. Her eyes are focused on the window across the room. Following her gaze, he admits to himself that he may have been wrong earlier, when he stared at the clouds and deemed them a reflection. In actuality, the weather is a thief, robbing her of all her ferocity, putting it on display and leaving her defenseless. 

“You owe me nothing, least of all an apology.”

He must misspeak. It’s the only explanation for why his response turns her face sour, her open palms into fists. “This is foolish,” she says as she smacks the side of her head. “Oh, this is so foolish.”

She brings them up again, but his body acts of its own volition, trapping her hands with his own before they can do any more damage. “Nonsense,” he whispers. He silently begs her to look at him, to find solace in his gaze, but her eyes stay pinned to their hands.

“I should be happy.” The anguish in her voice is so poignant that he almost lets go, some reflexive instinct convinced that her pain could leave him scarred as well. It isn’t enough to pull him away — reflex may be strong, but devotion outweighs it entirely. He’d destroy himself for her in a heartbeat without a single moment of regret or hesitation. 

“In just a few days,” Kate continues, “Edwina has earned the respect and admiration of the Queen, the attention of a Prince, and become everything I could have possibly hoped she’d be. She’s smart, and kind, and knows how to stand up for herself.”

“You raised her well.”

Kate scoffs. “No, Mama raised her; I ruined her.”

“How could you possibly think—“

“Because it’s the truth?” It comes out sounding more like a question than a statement. “Everything she’s done, everything she’s become, has only happened now that she’s broken free of the shackles of my attention. I tried to protect her, but instead I hurt her more than anyone else ever could.”

“She would never think that. She does not think that, Kate.”

“I robbed her of herself.” She looks up at him, finally, and even though he’s already on the ground he still feels his knees nearly buckle at the sight. They’ve been through a lot this season, and he knows he’s seen her in more ways than he ever should have prior to his vows, but he’s never seen devastation like this. It’s all encompassing. It’s overwhelming. It takes the air right out of his lungs, and he’s not even the one feeling it. He’s only a witness. “What could possibly be more painful than that?”

Stronger than any need for her attention or affection is the desire to convince her of her own innocence. “You have taken nothing. All you have ever done is give.”

Kate shakes her head, disagreeing, always disagreeing when it comes to matters of her own worth. “It was not enough. Nothing I do, nothing I’ve done, has ever been enough.”

It’s as if looking at him has broken some sort of dam inside her. The tears return, although now he isn’t positive they ever left in the first place. This time, he inches closer, just enough for their sides to brush up against one another. Part of him still expects her to run, but instead she leans into him, finding a place for her head against his chest. 

He lets go of her hands for the briefest moment, no longer than it takes him to put his arms around her and pull her closer. Yet when he reaches for them again, they’re cold to the touch, so much so that he wonders whether the tremor that’s returned to her body has less to do with her words and more to do with the air around them. 

He searches quickly for a jacket, a blanket, anything he can offer her, but the only thing he has are his own two hands, rubbing hers, trying desperately to provide what little relief he can. They are insufficient. He is insufficient, in fighting off both the cold and the despair that has her rattling beside him. If he were someone else, he may have succeeded. Benedict’s way with words, Colin’s heartfelt genuity, Daphne’s grace or Eloise’s honesty, they all would suit him better, give him the tools he needs to ease her mind. But all she has is him. 

“Gregory came to me the other day,” he finally says, “asking about our father. As I told him stories from the days before he was born, all I could think about was the unfairness of it all. I got to spend eighteen years with two parents who loved each other. I got a childhood untouched by tragedy. But he and Hyacinth, all they got was me. And I did not even have the decency to keep their father’s memory alive.”

Admitting to failure wasn’t something he wished to make a habit, but she has a way of destroying all his defenses, of making him want to tear them down himself. It’s infuriating, and yet incredibly remarkable, how vastly she’s changed him in so little time. How he’s come to value that change, even when it leaves him like an open wound, vulnerable in a way he has never been before.

“I loved Edwina so much that I nearly destroyed her.” Her head is still leaning against his chest, her eyes cast forward again, but this time he doesn’t mind. There are some words that cannot be so easily spoken when faced with another’s expectant gaze. “I tried to fulfill the role our father left vacant, tried to make up for wherever Mama could not, and I failed on both accounts. I have no reason to believe that I will be any less of a failure when it comes to your family.”

“You will not fail anyone, least of all my brothers and sisters.”

“You do not understand,” she argues, and he never wants her to change her steadfast nature, but just this once he wishes she’d listen when he told her what he knew to be true. “I was never intended for this life, Anthony. My Appa, my Amma, they thrived on the outskirts of high society. No matter how hard I try to play the right part, I cannot escape the fact that I am a pretender in a role that is not meant for me. My failures with Edwina are proof. And now I fear I may take you and your siblings down with me.”

“You won’t.”

“If what happened this season is any indication—“

“You won’t, because you can’t.” The words leave him breathless, but he finds the energy to quietly add, “You cannot break what I’ve already shattered.” 

She shifts her head toward his shoulder, just enough that their eyes meet while their bodies hold onto the contact she’s only just allowed. There’s a question in the look she gives him, and he’s surprised to find an answer waiting on the tip of his tongue.

“If anyone,” he continues, “has failed my family, it has been me. I have let them down more times than I can count, and despite my best efforts, I am sure I will do it again. You speak of Edwina’s season, yet you know little of how horrendously I handled Daphne’s. I tried to help Benedict with his passion for art, and managed to screw that up for him, too. Colin and Eloise have already been victims of scandals I could have prevented had I paid more attention to anything but my own selfish desires. Our family is unpredictable, and drawn to drama in a way that feels unusually excessive, but if there is one thing you can know for certain, it’s this: nothing you do to the Bridgertons could ever compare to what I’ve already done.”

Outside, the thunder quiets to a murmur, as if it somehow feels the intensity inside and elects to leave them be, if only for now. It’s a confession he intended to keep locked in his chest until he met his own end one day. Yet all it took was forty-eight hours of marriage for him to give her every shameful secret he has, all of his own volition. Years he’s spent locked away in his father’s study, thinking nobody could ever understand the pressure, the pain, that came with his position. But every time he thinks he’s revealed a fatal flaw, a consequence of his stunted upbringing, she pulls back her own curtain to show the same guilt, or fear, or regret. And though it kills him to think that she shares the feelings that have threatened to drown him on far too many occasions, there’s also a comfort in knowing that, despite their long held beliefs, neither of them are truly alone. 

“I don’t believe you,” she whispers. Losing to her has become a common practice, but he would sacrifice every other battle waged to come out victorious here. 

“Then I will spend every minute I can of our new lives trying to convince you. According to our vows, I’ll have plenty of time.”

“What makes you think I’ll ever listen to you?” The bite isn’t there, her fiery spirit still barely a spark, but in a storm like this, a spark is all he needs to fan the flames into an inferno.

“I think you’ll find I can be very…persuasive, when I need to be.”

“Persuasive is unlikely. Insufferable, however, seems like a much more appropriate descriptor.”

Anthony has to fight off a smile. How she made stubbornness an endearing trait, he may never know. “I thought brides were supposed to be kind to their grooms.”

“That courtesy expired yesterday. And before you ask, the honeymoon does not start until tomorrow. I have all night to be as wicked as I please.”

“Viscountess,” he nearly exhales the words as he leans in closer, until his lips are no more than a breath away from hers. “Is that a promise?”

It’s electric, the air between them. He catches her sneaking glances at his lips, knows she can see him doing the same. There’s nothing stopping them anymore, no rules of etiquette forbidding the contact, yet they still hover in the intoxicating space of almost. 

The weather acts before either of them can. The flash of lightning casts a spotlight on the room, finds them even in their hidden corner. Whatever patience the thunder mustered up before must have been spent, because it does not wait for the light to fade before it makes its booming presence known. 

Time seems to slow. Her eyes go wide, before squeezing shut. Her breath hitches. Her body, once on its way toward his, pulls back, and when the darkness and silence returns, so does the sliver of space he’d initially left between them. His shoulder, his hands, his entire right side, every place she touched now aches from the cold of her absence. She hasn’t traveled far, but instantly the distance is too much to bear. 

“I’m sorry,” she says when her breath returns, her voice steady even while her body is still taut with tension. 

“It’s alright.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s not.” She glares at him, and it’s a total departure from the look she gave him moments ago, but it’s an improvement still on how the night started. “Not any more ridiculous than a man losing his sense at the sight of an insect.”

“That is completely different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“Yours is logical, and mine—“

“Eloise used to be terrified of shadows.” His words stop hers in their tracks. “She’d become convinced that the creatures from her stories were hiding in them, waiting for her to turn her back before taking her into whatever world they’d come from. Even now, she prefers either total darkness or a room bursting with light. Nothing in-between.”

He pauses, briefly, expecting an argument, an objection to his comparison. But one never comes, so he continues.

“Colin cannot stand spiders. As children, he used to follow Benedict and I everywhere, so whenever we tired of him, we’d pretend to go hunting for them. He always found some excuse to leave before he could realize we had no intention of searching the gardens for webs.”

“Edwina hates them, too,” she says. “She would beg for me to get rid of them when they found their way inside, but cry if I ever killed one. It drove me crazy.”

“Daphne was the same way. She’d demand I take them out to the yard, would follow me to make sure I didn’t just squash it along the way.” 

“Would you have killed it if she hadn’t?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

She smiles softly, and inches close enough to close the gap between them. Her head finds its way onto his shoulder. He reaches for it, running its hand through her hair. Kate exhales slowly, and he thinks that if this is what eases her mind, he’ll spend all night right here, his fingers brushing through her curls until no knots or snags remain.

“Anybody else kept up at night in the Bridgerton household?” She asks. “Or will I have a monopoly on this hour?”

He hesitates, just for a second, desperate to hold onto the lightness he’d tried to infuse into the conversation. But he’s a terrible liar, and she’s far too smart not to notice, even now. “Hyacinth used to suffer from the worst night terrors. She’d wake up screaming, with no words to describe whatever it was she’d seen.” It takes conscious effort on his part to keep the movement going, to not let memories slow his hand, steal the comfort he knows he’s providing. “The maids claimed it was a consequence of her birth. Some dormant memory of the pain that comes with entering the world the wrong way surfacing in her dreams. I’m not sure I believe them, but it is more of an explanation than I could ever come up with.”

“Oh,” Kate says quietly. “Is she still plagued by them?”

“Sometimes. But they don’t torment her the way they used to. Only on rare occasions does she need me there alongside her now.”

She doesn’t say anything at first. The silence makes remembering all too easy. Nights spent sitting up with her, in a bed too big for someone so little. Trying to fight a threat he couldn’t see. Feeling completely incompetent, knowing that his father would have had a solution. There were nights so bad he had no choice but to wake his mother, but he kept the severity of it from everyone as best he could, especially her. No one else had seen the pain and guilt of grief the way he had. If she knew how deeply, how frequently, Hyacinth suffered…they couldn’t afford to lose their mother to a broken heart. Not again.

“Are you worried,” Kate says after a moment, “about being away for so long?”

“A little,” he concedes, doing his best to shake off the past. “But my mother is a more capable woman than most give her credit for, myself included. And Hastings has offered to help oversee our affairs while we’re away. The estate will be in good hands, I can assure you.”

“It is not the finances I am concerned about.”

Understanding came quickly. “You worry about your sister. Your Mama.”

“Not in the way that I should.”

“There is a proper way to worry?”

“Yes — selflessly.”

“And your concern is somehow of the selfish sort?”

“It is.”

He smiles slightly as he says, “Now it is I who does not believe you.”

Teasing accomplishes nothing. Her face remains serious, her eyes haunted by something far more worrisome than the rain. 

“Hey,” he tries again, this time without an ounce of humor in his voice. “Talk to me.”

Part of him doesn’t expect her to, but for possibly the only time in their history together, she does what he asks without a fight. “From the moment my Mama came into my life, I focused solely on what was expected of me. What was needed from me. When we lost Appa, I knew I had to make a choice: my future, or Edwina’s.”

It’s not an unexpected revelation, but to hear it put so plainly makes him ache all the same. “Kate—”

“I don’t regret choosing her.” There’s a fierce determination in her voice, and for the first time all night, she sounds like herself. “Even after everything I…everything I failed at, I would make that choice again, each and every time.”

He can hear the hesitation coming, the confidence deflating. “But…?”

Kate sighs heavily. “But nothing has gone the way it was supposed to. And now, I just— I do not know what comes next. I do not know another way to be.”

“I understand.” She looks up at him, stubborn disbelief on her face. “The more my family grows,” he explains, “the more complex they and their needs become. They are always requiring new things from me. As soon as I feel like I know what I am doing, everything shifts, and I have to learn it all over again.”

“It is not the same. Your family still needs you.”

“And yours does not?”

Kate shakes her head. “For the first time since my childhood ended, I know they could walk away from me and find their way. They have other people to rely on. They can rely on themselves.”

“Is that not what you want for them?”

“Of course it is! But what if—“ Kate seems to choke on the words, as if her body is still fighting to hold them back. “I was prepared,” she tries instead, “to leave as soon as they were accommodated. They may have protested, but my age, my unmarried status, my parentage, it would have made me a burden to them here. That I would not allow.”

“You could never be a—“

“But now,” she continues undeterred, “there is nowhere to run. Nowhere to go. Everything I thought I’d be safe from knowing will be waiting for me when we return. And I do not know if I am strong enough to face it.”

“What are you afraid of?” He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as he asks, desperate to see her more clearly. “Tell me, and we can face it together.”

She shakes her head, but concedes anyway. “What if, once they truly understand how little they need from me, they no longer wish to put up with my…unsavory qualities? Qualities they merely tolerated due to necessity?” She shrugs, her normally defiant stature shrinking with every word. “What if they do not want me?”

If there was any part of his heart that had remained intact so far tonight, it shatters at her confession. He can think of nothing else to do but hold her. With both arms he pulls her closer, until her head is back against his chest, back where it belongs. She’s breathing too quickly. He can feel it, can hear it even amongst the storm still raging outside. Squeezing tighter, he tries his best to ground her, to steady her the way she once steadied him. 

He’s not sure if it's his doing or her own, but she calms nonetheless. His grip eases, and she shifts her head so that it rests more on his shoulder, so they can see each other without straining.

“Kate,” he says once he’s caught her eye. “I need you to know, there is no version of the future in which that is true.”

“There was not supposed to be a version of the future in which we ended up here, either.” She must feel the way his entire body flinches at the comparison, because she explains further. “What I mean to say is that I have already received much more than I ever expected. And I know that good fortune cannot last, but I no longer have a way to gauge when it might come to an end. The entire concept of predictability has become unreliable.”

It’s not lost on him that it is something, up until very recently, that he would have done as well. Stare at every pleasant moment with suspicion, waiting for the shoe to drop. His siblings used to tell him he didn’t know how to relax, but he thought he knew the truth: somebody had to be ready for when things went bad. Because they always went bad. But now, looking back on his life before her, thinking about the future he’d prepared for, all he can remember doing is worrying. Agonizing over outcomes he could neither predict nor prevent. Wasting precious, valuable time he could never get back. 

He’s done it already tonight. They both have. On the eve of what is meant to be one of the happiest times of their life, they cannot escape the burden of expectation. They are each Atlas, in their own way, holding a world above them until they inevitably crumble beneath it. And he may have once been content to accept such a fate, but he cannot, will not, allow her to do the same. Even if the price for her salvation is somehow finding a way to also save himself. 

“You’re right,” he says. “We, this, it was not supposed to happen. You and I were intended to be miserable and alone for the rest of our days. So perhaps it is relying on the false notion of   predictability in the first place that is the problem.” 

“That is not—it cannot all be good.” She speaks as if she’s trying to convince herself rather than him. “For me to walk away from this season with you and them, it is too much, too unlikely, even for the storybooks. I know it. And I know that after all I’ve done, everything I’ve ruined for both of them, I do not deserve it. I do not deserve their forgiveness, their affection. Yet I still want it. That is why my worry is of the selfish sort — because I fear for my own sake, not theirs.”

It’s an admission he knows is difficult to disclose. Verbalizing her wants when she believes them to be unattainable, when she believes herself to be unworthy of even the mere act of longing, costs her greatly. Just as it costs him. He sees her everywhere, in the weather and in his words, but no place as frequently as his own actions, his own history.

“I used to think that my family would have been better off with anyone else,” he tells her. If they are truly two sides of the same coin, then perhaps he can balance out her emotional debt with a similar form of payment. “I would meet other lords and heads of households, and all I could see was everything I was not. Everything I lacked.”

“What changed?”

“Nothing, until I met you.” 

She stares at him with those wide, patient, breathtaking eyes, and he has no choice but to pause, to take just a few seconds and let the feeling of awe settle inside him. With one look he is driven to insanity. He would move mountains, wage wars, do anything she asked, so long as she gave him even a glimpse of what he saw now. It does not matter how long they spend side by side — he is certain he will never get used to the plethora of feelings her gaze awakens in him, feelings he once thought would be buried forever.

“I watched the way you cared for your sister,” he eventually continues, “at all of the Ton’s endless events. I listened to the stories Edwina told of her childhood, and in every one, there you were. Protecting her. Loving her. Living for her. And yet you still thought so little of your own involvement. It baffled me.“

“It should not have,” she says, the slightest edge creeping back into her voice. “Everything you accredited to me could easily apply to you just the same.”

“I know. That is why I began to look elsewhere. To think not of lords I failed to live up to, but of the nights spent chasing away bad dreams or the days spent bandaging scraped knees. The look on Daphne’s face when she told us she was with child. The bonds my siblings were able to form with each other because they were free from the responsibility I shouldered. And for the first time, I looked at my family and began to see not everything they lacked, but what they still had. What I had managed to give.”

He speaks with more confidence than he feels. It is not that the words are a lie, but rather that the perspective shift is so new, so recent, that a part of him is still not sure it will work. He’s spent a decade stuck in the same method of thinking. The very thoughts he’s trying to ease in her mind have had their claws in his for longer than he can remember. But he does not want to feed them anymore, to give them more power than they already have. 

“Did everything you gave make up for it?” She asks. “For every place where you fell short?”

Anthony shrugs. “I suppose that remains to be seen. In truth, the feeling itself is still fleeting. I spend more time than I’d care to admit wallowing in pity for the life they were robbed of.”

This time it is she who prompts, “But…?”

“But, you speak of ruin. I do as well. Yet I’ve begun to understand that, in spite of the consequences for both our actions over the years, the real ruination would have been to do nothing.”

The words linger between them. He can practically see the way her mind is turning them over, considering their potential validity. Patience seems to be the theme of tonight, and he meets it yet again as he waits to see if a rebuttal is coming. 

Only when he’s left with extended silence does he continue. “As wrong as you are about what it is you believe you deserve, you are right that untainted goodness cannot last forever. But it is good now, is it not?”

“Yes,” she says softly. “It is very good now.”

“So maybe, instead of concerning ourselves with the future, we should try and enjoy it while it lasts.” 

He doesn’t get a response right away. Staring down, he catches a glimpse of movement, shifts his gaze and notices the way she’s fiddling with the ring on her finger. In retrospect, he should have known they’d end up here after that afternoon in the Danbury sitting room, when it latched itself onto her and refused to let go. Signs and fate and omens have never been a concept he believed in, but he knows what those who do would say about such an instant. And perhaps, just this one time, they’d be right. 

“I do not think I can ever forgive myself for all my many mistakes.” His eyes catch hers, bear witness to their raw honesty. There's a sadness to her words, one he recognizes. One he knows he cannot fix in a single night. “Even if it was better than the alternative.”

“Nor I for mine. But perhaps we could find a way to forgive each other instead.”

Outside, the thunder has quieted, leaving only the sound of rain hitting the windows in its wake. She inches closer to him, their legs brushing up against one another, his arm wrapping around her once more. He’s not sure whether she truly believes him, or how long it may take for the both of them to break out of their destructive ways of thinking. If such a thing is even possible. But those are concerns he can save for the daytime; right now, the moon still covers them in light, and having her by his side is enough.

He glances back down, looking for her hands, but his eye catches something else instead. Leaning forward, he grabs the book from off the floor, the one she’d discarded earlier. 

“Was it truly that bad?” He asks, holding it up for her to see.

She shakes her head. “I honestly do not know. I could not manage to hold onto my senses long enough to get through the first page.”

“Does that happen often?”

“No. Reading usually works.”

“And what do you do when it does not?”

“Nothing. Just wait for the morning to come. Trying anything else is…well, let’s say that waiting is the best course of action.”

There’s something in the way she says it that makes him know he cannot leave it alone. “What else have you tried?”

She looks up at him, stares in a way he’s seen before, on the face of his sisters and mother. A look that tells him he is supposed to already know what she is referring to. Instead of putting the pieces together, his confusion only grows. 

“Last time I was met with an unsettled mind in the midst of a storm,” she says slowly, “I went for a ride. Although that morning, it would hardly be fair to accredit my restlessness solely to the weather.”

It takes no longer than three seconds for her words to click, to bring back flashes of a day he will never forget for reasons that have nothing to do with his remarkable memory. He leans down, brings his lips to the spot on the back of her head once held together by thread. It does not matter that the stitches themselves are gone, that the scar they left behind has nearly healed, or that her hair hides it from prying eyes. After spending that wretched week in quiet agony, with the ghost of her touch haunting every inch of his body, there is nothing that could ever disguise it. 

“Please, do not ever do that again,” he whispers. “And before you protest, this is not me demanding, or ordering; it is me groveling.” He kisses her again, in the same place. “Please.”

To himself, he adds a new vow, a silent one he could not profess in front of their wedding guest. Never, no matter what circumstances they find themselves in, will it ever again be his fault. He will never do anything to make her so desperate that she would run headfirst into something she feared so strongly, just to find relief from his actions. And he will never allow himself to wake alone, with no idea of where she might be. All her hiding spots, all the things that send her running, he’ll learn them all. And then he’ll do whatever is in his power to ensure that she will never need them. 

“I could get used to hearing you beg,” she finally quips. 

“I am being serious, Kate.”

“So am I. The high and mighty Viscount Bridgerton, groveling.” She turns, so he can see the smirk she’s wearing, the light finally returning to her eyes. In an instant, it returns to his as well. 

“You wound me, you know that?”

“You are the one who proposed.”

“And you are the one who said yes.” He leans in, hands moving from her body to her face. He kisses her slowly, gently. Unlike before, there’s no rush, no sense of urgency. He has as long as he’s alive to kiss her, and he plans to take his time.

“Shall we return to the bedroom?” He asks, his hands lingering on her cheeks. Despite their position, he does his best to convey that the request is not for anything other than finding a few more hours of sleep. 

The light he saw seconds ago fizzles, just slightly. “You can go,” she says. “I think I may stay here a bit longer.”

It pains him, just slightly, to hear how genuine she sounds when she gives him permission. How some part of her believes he would actually do it, would walk away and leave her here, would somehow manage to find comfort in her absence. Even now, after everything they’ve been through, a part of her still expects to be left behind. 

Letting go of her face, he reaches for the book, abandoned once again in the midst of conversation. “Let’s see if there is any merit to be found in these pages after all.”

He sneaks a glance down, catches the flicker of emotions that his words inspire. Shock. Relief. Joy. All he wants is to stare at her forever, to catch every feeling that flashes across her face. But a promise is a promise, so when her eyes stray toward the book in his hands, he forces his own to follow.

“I should warn you,” she says as he opens it up. “It may not be to your liking. Edwina is a romantic, after all.”

His initial retort vanishes before he can give it life. Written on the first page is an inscription, and he knows now it is these words, not the novel’s beginning, that she could not get past. 

Kate, 

There may be hope for happy endings after all. 

Your sister, 

Edwina.

All night, she has worried about their departure, about her family not wanting her when she returns. And yet here, holding what he presumes is the catalyst for tonight’s panic, is in his own eyes, the very opposite. Evidence of her sister’s love, her devotion, her forgiveness. It seems to have made the knife of self doubt dig deeper into her chest. But perhaps, if he is careful, and persistent, and patient, he can help fix what he had a part in breaking. It can become what he assumes Edwina intended it to be: the salve to the wound between them. 

He puts on a smile as he memorizes every detail of the book in his hands, until he’s certain it will stand out on any shelf. “Contrary to popular belief, I am myself a romantic.”

She scoffs. “You are as much a romantic as I am a gentleman.”

“Perhaps I’ve simply never had the proper instruction. Perhaps this story will tell me everything I need to know.”

“Oh, there are not nearly enough pages for that.”

“Then we’ll just have to keep reading until I learn, won’t we?”

He glances down at her, expecting to be met with playful exasperation. Instead, he comes face to face with a look he is woefully unprepared for: complete and utter adoration. It will never cease to amaze him. His heart is an instrument, old and worn, playing off key for so long that the contorted pitch stopped registering as an error ages ago. His song is out of practice and out of tune, but she looks at him like she hears something else entirely. A symphony made up of all the wrong notes. He’s confident it isn’t a beautiful song, hardly considered music at all. But if she’s his audience, if she finds worth in his mangled melody, then he will play it again and again, until the rust fades away and leaves behind something truly beautiful.

“I suppose we will,” she says softly. 

For a moment, he isn’t positive that he’ll be able to find his voice again. But she leans into him, closes her eyes, and in the tiniest of movements, gives him the courage to flip the page. 

“‘It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.’”