BEN. Ben is my issue. In season 1, we see him in love with Maddie. They’re a happy, healthy couple, working together, vibing together, and on the verge of taking some pretty major steps in their relationship. Maddie has met Ben’s parents, a big deal, and Ben’s incredibly judgmental mother eventually gives her approval to Maddie, which means a lot. These two are a joy to watch. They radiate love, and have GREAT chemistry together. I swoon, you swoon, we all swoon together.

Ben and Maddie discover a mermaid. RYN. They, together, commit to hiding and protecting Ryn, and along the way, she teaches them about mermaid culture, and they teach her how human’s love. Ryn learns through example, leading to some very sweet and funny moments between the trio. Maddie and Ryn begin to bond on a deeper level. However, Ryn, in mermaid form, sang her siren song to Ben, and he’s developed a sort of “Addition” to Ryn. As his addiction deepens, he becomes more estranged from Maddie, ultimately leading them to break up.

We then begin to see that Ben appears to be confusing his obsession for possible love--with Ryn. Slowly, Maddie fades to the background, despite always being there for him and the mermaids. In fact, she never wavers, despite having to watch her boyfriend get further and further away.

By Season 2, well...Ben’s not thinking about Maddie. At All. In fact, she’s left on the back burner. He’s all about Ryn now. Yet Maddie remains loyal (why, I really don’t know). She helps him care for the mermaids, feed them, hide them, etc.  Eventually, all three admit feelings for each other. However, the way this goes down leaves me deeply troubled. 

Maddie is almost secondary now to the relationship between Ryn and Ben. It feels to me that she’s been left out in a way, given his recent treatment of her, and that really hurts.

Maddie doesn’t deserve to be second fiddle. I’d honestly prefer it if she and Ryn left Ben’s ass in the dust. 

I get what Freeform was attempting to do, but to me, it just didn’t seem fair or right to Maddie.

What really vexes me is the way this show decided that in order to promote a polyamorous relationship they had to break up an interracial couple to put the third in there. Now, I’ve never been in such a relationship, but I have a good friend who is, and I am NOT convinced this is how polyamory works. NOR is this the way such couples come together.

So, there. 

A show that leaves me conflicted. I finally understand why people hate-watch a show. You hate it, but it’s so good you can’t stop watching. 

It feels strange, looking down at his face, most of it covered in white gauze, a spot near his temple a brownish-color (dried blood from the stint that’s been inserted to help drain the fluid and lessen the swelling). What remains of him, his eyes, are blackened and shut, the side of his lip swollen with stiches. She’s seen Michael happy, angry, concerned, upset. But she’s never seen him look…vulnerable. She knows, if he could see himself, he wouldn’t like it.

Diane had told her he was here.

It makes her stomach roil and she bites her lip and gives a shake of the head to fight back the tears. The baby was up all night, moving about and she couldn’t get comfortable. Her side, her back—nothing allowed for a good position to sleep. The person inside had been relentless. It had felt unusual. She’d called her mother, just to check in to see how the family was doing, worried, but she couldn’t figure out why. Her mom had been surprised by the call. But all was well, she’d assured. And so, Maggs had packed her bag, and just decided to go in early, rubbing her stomach and trying to calm the child inside.

“I’m going to need for you to behave,” she’d said softly to it, to no effect. There were still the flutters and the bumps. Barely was she on the clock when Diane came into the nurse’s quarters.

“I need to talk to you,” she’d said, voice low and tight.

Maggs had sat on the bunk, as Diane told her, matter-of-factly, that Michael was on their floor. She’d done it in clinical terms, the only way they speak about such things.

“How?” Maybe he fell? Was in a car accident?

It was far worse.

A wedding. A jumping. Michael was on the losing end of the fight.

She’d fiddled with the bottom of her shirt, wrapping the fabric in her hands, head down, trying to process it all. She felt she’d known this would happen—could happen. It was why they weren’t together, why, when she learned of the pregnancy, she didn’t tell him. To protect herself, her child and yet she feels so guilty because a part—an irrational part—thinks maybe, if she had been there, then maybe this wouldn’t have happened. That in believing the worst she has inadvertently created the worst case scenario.

“It’s not your fault. Michael knew what he was doing. He knows the risks, the consequences. It just finally caught up to him.”

Diane’s words give little comfort. All Magellan did was nod. “I’m okay,” she’d said. Diane looked at her like she didn’t believe her. Hell, Maggs didn’t believe herself, but still. “Let’s go to work.”

Only now has she worked up the courage to come see him. Six days later.

His family is down in the cafeteria at the moment—all of the Caffees have been here—and this is the first time she’s seen Michael’s family, though never met them. They didn’t get that chance. And she’s been too afraid to say anything or tell them who she is. What would she even say if she did? It’s ridiculous on its face. So she has remained quiet, doing her job the best she can, while the father of her baby lies in a coma in a room just down the hall.

Still, she knows who each of them are just the same. Michael described them all.

Tommy has blue eyes like Michael, but his dark hair is curly. Taller, but not as built. Stately, she thinks. He looks like the politician he is. The suit he wears daily is a giveaway. His wife, Eileen is tall and slender, straight and prim, but carries an air of weariness about her Maggs didn’t expect. She looks tired, but not physically. Something else. It’s in her face.

Michael’s sister Mary Kate, with her mass of auburn curls and slightly worried expression, and her balding husband, Jimmy. Jimmy and Diane’s husband Kevin are cousins, Maggs remembers. Mary Kate likes to sit by Michael’s side a lot—speaking to him and Maggs recognizes the technique—something a person accustomed to caregiving would do. A social worker, Michael had said. Comforter of lost causes.  

And then there’s Rose.

A female Michael, Maggs thinks. She’s overheard some of it. Rose’s sharp tongue, and bluntness aimed squarely at the doctors who have come in and out trying to escape the latest berating.  Dictatorial—she recalls Michael’s temper; the way he beat that man at the bar—the one who’d propositioned her. Michael’s sense of right and wrong. The matriarch is short, her hair a short, white crown and it’s clear Rose Caffee suffers no fools. She couldn’t, Maggs thinks, to raise three kids on her own.

And then there’s a woman Maggs can’t quite place. Blond and petite, an angular yet delicate face. She comes when the others aren’t there, looking nervous, wringing her hands.  Sometimes she goes in and holds Michael’s. But she never stays long, and she leaves before the others come back. Maggs wonders who she is. A friend? A lover? The latter makes her heart drop and she tries not to think of that.

Right now though, she’s the only person in the room.

With a practiced and gentle touch, she begins to remove the old bandages from Michael’s face, inhaling sharply when she sees, for herself, the full extent of the damage. There’s still swelling, several gashes, and a scar that looks like a lightning strike up the center of his forehead. Of course, these are only external. It’s the internal that remains of concern.

Softly she runs her finger across his eyebrows, the uninjured side of his face. Carefully, she leans down and caresses his lips with her own, before continuing, taking care to clean his face, dabbing the corners of his eyes, brushing his temples to remove the dried blood. He looks better now, though still heavily bruised. After, she takes fresh gauze, and wraps him gently, lifting his head a bit, brushing the hair there down to secure the bandage.

A week’s worth of stubble graces his face. He’d hate that, too, she knows. Michael is fastidious about certain things.

The fluid bags are running low.

She changes them.

Changes the catheter bags as well. Fresh linens. She checks to make sure he’s been cleaned and is relieved that he has. Sometimes, the little things get lost when they’re fighting just to keep patients alive. That must be due to the diligence of his mother, Maggs thinks, moving to the end of the bed and reaching for one of his feet.

Her hands work, massaging down and up—circulation, and she lifts his legs as well to help. He could wake up anytime now, the doctors have said, and she wants him to be semi-able to move about as independently as he can. It’s only been six days. But they hate going beyond three in waiting for patients to wake up. A similar treatment is given to the other leg and when she’s done, Maggs moves beside the bed and leans down.

“Hi Michael.”

Nothing. No flicker of the eyes, no facial movement—nothing to indicate he’s heard her.

“It’s me…Maggs,” she whispers, wanting to cry right now, but willing herself not too. She wants to cry, but can’t. So instead, she takes his hand, and puts it to her belly. Inside, the baby moves.

“Can you feel it?” She whispers to him. “That’s our daughter.”

Her eyes are hot.

“This is why I said no, Michael.” A sniffle. This feels like the manifestation of her worst fears. “I have to keep her safe.”

She lowers his hand and touches the side of his face again through the bandages.

“I want you to know…I love you too.”  A kiss to the forehead. He can’t feel it. But maybe, somewhere in his dream world, she hopes he hears her and squeezes his hand.

“Please wake up,” she says. “Please…for her.”

The creak of the door startles her and she turns, to look up at a tall man, dark curly hair and blue eyes, wearing a dress shirt, the collar unbuttoned, and slacks. It’s Tommy.

He studies her as if trying to place her, and Maggs backs up a bit, letting go of Michael’s hand.

“I was just checking his vitals,” she says.

“How is he doing?”

“He’s…”

She glances down at Michael.

“It’s hard to say.”

An honest assessment, but a painful admission. The man sighs and looks down at the bed. Then at her, extending a hand.  

“Thanks. I’m Tommy. Tommy Caffee. He’s…my brother.”

Maggs swallows, then looks at Michael. “The doctors say he should be waking up soon.” Tommy’s eyes look down at Michael as well.

“Yeah. They said that yesterday, and the day before.”

It falls silent. She doesn’t really know what to say or do. This is uncharted for her. She doesn’t want to give false hope despite desperately hoping herself. What happens next is driven by instinct, reflex.

She takes Michael’s hand again and leans back down.

“I need you to come back.” A fevered whisper. Tommy is looking at her, eyebrows raised in confusion. His mouth opens to say something when…

A low moan.

The hand in hers squeezes back.

“Michael?”

Tommy moves fast, coming to kneel on the other side of the bed, taking his brother’s other hand in his.

“Michael, can you hear us?”

Another moan. His mouth moves and he twitches a bit, face twisted in a slight grimace, a frown on his lips.  Quickly, Maggs lets him go and leaves the room, coming back with water and towels. She wets them and brings them to the side of the bed, wetting his mouth with it. When he makes a sucking motion, she gets the cup and raises it to his mouth, watching to make sure he doesn’t choke, her heart racing and her hands, shaking a bit.

His eyelids are flickering now, and they wait. Tommy talking to his brother low while Maggs rubs his hands and eventually, his eyes open. Several slow blinks and they hold their breath until those sharp blue eyes focus on Tommy.

“Tommy?”

It’s raspy, hoarse and weak. But still…the look of relief on Tommy’s face. He begins to shake and rests his head on the side of the bed, shoulders heaving a minute before he regains his composure and looks at his brother.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

Oh God…

She knows she should leave. Knows there’s more to do, but she’s rooted to the spot and trying to will herself to go so the other nurses on duty can start their assessment’s but…

It feels like a dream. Like life slowed down.

Michael’s head turns slowly and Tommy follows and two sets of blue eyes come to rest on her and before she can really say anything, Michael speaks again, a look of recognition in his face.

“Maggs?”

“I…”

Tommy now looks to her as well, trying to understand how his brother seems to know this nurse, when Michael’s eyes travel down her body and come to rest on the very visible protrusion and his brows furrow a moment trying to process. She tries to draw back, but he reaches out to her, taking her hand and putting both of theirs on her stomach before looking right at her and asking a single word: “Mine?”

Only then does she break, flooded with a release of all sorts of feelings she’s been fighting to keep down.

She can only nod in confirmation, as the tears start to flow.

“What the…” The words die in Tommy’s mouth as he looks between his brother and the pregnant nurse.

See Through Me (A Song for You)

The war is over.

Katrina walks the now-familiar path to the observation deck, two lifts and another corridor. A left.

Room 2-1-1-2.

“She’s not come out since he left,” Saru speaks softly.

The admiral nods. “It’s all right.”

“The override has been…changed,” he tells her. “Specialist Burnham has it programmed on an alternating frequency….”

“I understand, Commander. I’ll take care of it from here. Thank you.”

He nods and departs. In front of the door, Katrina straightens her uniform.

She wonders how well she knows Michael Burnham.  She’s about to find out.

Her hand passes over the biometric scanner and Cornwell waits as the doors whir, then open into darkness.

She steps through.

Command overrides changed, indeed. But Michael did allow for one person to find her.

The space remains neat. Did she expect something different? Perhaps, from what she had been told. But no. Nothing is amiss. And yet…it feels different.

They’ve been here before.

In front of her, Michael Burnham stands, facing the window in her dress uniform.

“Admiral.”

“Specialist.”

Katrina comes to stand beside her.

“Will it ever stop?” Michael says, gently stroking the large bundle of fur in her arms.

Katrina knows what she’s asking. And it hurts her to have to tell Michael the truth.

“It hasn’t yet, for me.”

Only then does Michael turn to her, and when she looks at the younger woman, she feels her heart break for her. For them both.

But she swore to Gabriel that she would take care of Michael. And her role now is not of an admiral but of a friend—a mentor, someone who has been there before.

“It will be okay,” she tries, but Michael shakes her head.

“That’s what he said, too.”

Katrina wants to tell her, but can’t. It’s classified. Above top secret. Even now, Starfleet is working on erasing Gabriel Lorca.

“Come,” she says instead. “The memorial service is starting.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“You must, Commander.”

Commander.

It still feels odd to hear the word. She’s gotten accustomed to “Specialist.” The pardon was delivered a week ago. Saru made it official for her with a ceremony before the crew.

It rang hollow at the time.

It still does now. She’d rather still be “Specialist” if it meant Gabriel Lorca was still alive.

“We should have listened to you,” Katrina says softly. “I want to apologize to you personally.”

Because if they had, then Gabriel Lorca would still be here.

If they had, the universe would still be the same.

But because they did not, “the face of all the world is changed.”

   Will You Take My Hand?

The order came down from Admiral Cornwell, reaching Commander Burnham at her post on the U.S.S. Discovery. There’s not really a directive, but a location—she’s being sent to Starbase 69.

“Are you looking forward to vacation, Commander?” the pilot asks, as they cut the thrusters and make their final approach to the starbase. Through the viewport, Burnham sees rotating twin spheres moving in opposite directions, at either end of a wide cylinder, making the station look like a barbell in space. It’s an older one, designed some 100 years ago but still functional and mostly used these days for tourists. There are some fleet personnel but not many, so it is understandable to Michael why her pilot would ask.

“I am,” she says measuredly, “but not today.”

The shuttle coasts into space dock, joining hundreds of others in traffic moving in and out of the cylinder, a city humming with activity. A connecting gangway emerges from one of the many ports and latches onto the craft. There’s a hiss, and the pilot cuts off the engines.

“Pressurization complete”, the computer says. Michael stands and gathers the small case she’s brought with her. Two changes of clothes, and a PADD. The admiral had been mum about the purpose of this visit and so, in caution, Michael had packed a set of civilian clothes and a fresh uniform.

“Thank you,” she nods to the pilot and leaves as soon as the shuttle doors open to the gangway.

Most of Starfleet’s space stations have similar layouts and if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen most. She’s been directed to a room, number 8807, likely somewhere in the upper orb. The station is crowded with beings, loud and noisy—and for a moment, she feels disconcerted by the sudden barrage of sound, having spent most of the year in the quiet routine of service on a starship. Here, there is no routine as beings brush past, back and forth, children holler, merchants attempt to sell their wares …so much…activity. The station is large, but feels claustrophobic—and she realizes after being bumped hard from behind, that she’s standing in the main port.

Michael gets her bearings and begins to move toward the series of lifts she sees going up and down between the spheres.

It’s several minutes before she’s able to get into one with more than two dozen others, and after what feels like an eternity, she finally reaches level 88. By now, she’s the only one left and she steps out and into a corridor that is blessedly empty. And silent.

Doors align either side of the walls and she walks down, looking for the one that ends in -07.

Finally.

The ID numbers are entered quickly, and she’s already thinking that the first thing she wants is a long, hot shower followed by warm tea. Possibly with a little bit of rum in it. Maybe she’s inherited some of Lorca’s habits.

Not a day has gone by that she hasn’t thought of him. His smell. His touch and taste. The way he laughed. The way he yelled. The way he held her, the way they loved together. Made love together.

She misses him.

Even now, she wonders if there was something she could have done to change his mind. If there was another way to end the war that didn’t require his sacrifice. Michael has loved two Gabriel Lorcas and has been forced to watch both die. Sometimes, she feels it’s all her fault. It is irrational. Gabriel made his choice. They both did.

There have been many nights when her dreams felt so real that she’s woken up with dried tears on her face. Or, even worse, her body still humming from an orgasm.

Perhaps she will skip the tea. And go straight to a small (very small) taste of bourbon. It is an acquired taste, one she didn’t acquire until after Gabriel was gone.

With a sigh, she opens the doors to the room and steps inside, but as soon as she turns on the lights, she gasps, and the bag falls out of her hand.

Michael’s heart begins to race, her hands tremble and she cannot believe that what she’s seeing is real. It can’t be. This must be yet another cruel joke. Some strange machination of the mind. Her heart cannot take anymore…

“Hello, Michael.”

Gabriel turns to face her, from where he’s been standing in front of the window. He’s dressed in a fleet uniform, but it’s black, not blue, the gold trim silver, his insignia silver as well. There’s a new pip. A new rank on it. Commodore.

He steps toward her, but she steps back, unsure, disbelieving because, how?

“I saw you die,” she whispers. “I saw you…dead.”

He goes to her, seeing the shock and terror on her face, fear as well. Not of him, but of whether he’s real.

“I’m here,” Lorca says gently, taking one of Michael’s hands into his, bringing it to his lips, and kissing it.

She feels the warmth of his touch, the texture of his mouth on her skin, and shudders.

“But…how?”

Lorca doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he pulls her close and slips an arm around her body to allow her to feel him, to reassure her that he is very much alive, very much not dead.

Solid. She reaches up to touch him. Her fingers tracing his eyes, his nose, lips, jaw, chin. She runs her hands down his chest, places her head there, to hear his heart—strong, steady. All of him—solid. Physical. She knows he’s a soldier at heart. An office would never suit him. It feels fitting, that he would go to Special Ops—to Section 31, the side of Starfleet that technically doesn’t exist, except in quiet whispers, and myth.

Lorca looks down into her face, into her eyes, and he smiles at her, wistfully. Hopefully.

“I’m sorry, love. We had to end the war.”

“If you had told me…”

But he shakes his head. “No. You’d have wanted to go too. And I love you too much to let you sacrifice yourself for them…”

He’s speaking of Starfleet. “Them” is said bitingly, and whatever doubt remains about whether he is who he says he is, goes. Her arms wrap around his waist and she hugs him tightly.

“Please stay,” she says. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me again.”

He squeezes her back, saying nothing at the moment, just holding her like this, feeling her warmth, her softness and her strength.

“Kiss me.”

She does, fingers snaking around his shoulders again, and he deepens it, wanting to be closer to her, closer than clothes will allow.

She knows.

Knows when he turns their bodies and backs her up to the bed, then lays her down on it to begin removing her shoes, her jacket, pants, shirt. Bra. Panties, everything, until her body is bare before him, and his eyes devour her, as he stands to take off his clothes.

She welcomes him into her embrace. They moan together as he enters her body, her legs and hips rise to meet him, arms wrap around his neck and back and pulling him down and in—closer.

Lips touch.

They’re both hungry for it.

Starved for it and each other.

No words are needed. Their bodies know this language.

This is their promise. The commitment to always find each other, no matter where in the galaxy they are.

“I love you,” she says. The words she should have said nine months ago.

.

.

“How did you know I would be here?” She asks afterwards, snuggled into his shoulder, fingers dancing across his abdomen.

He turns his head and lips graze her forehead.

“I sent for you. Kat made it happen for us.”

“You?”

At that, he feels her head lift and opens his eyes. Pretty brown ones look down at him.

“Yes.”

“Where have you been?”

“I’ve been…” Should he tell her? What he’s really been doing? Cleaning up the last of it—chasing the not-so-compliant Klingon ships out of Federation territory, simply destroying the ones that remain? Finishing up the dirty business of war?

“Section 31,” he says, seeing if she knows what that is.

Her eyes go wider. She does know. The daughter of a Federation ambassador would definitely know.

“I…didn’t think that was real.”

“Very real.” He says.

“The war decimated all our ranks. Section 31 was no exception. They needed a new leader. I’m not Captain anymore. Commodore.”

Michael mulls it over. “Rules are for admirals in back offices,” she says.

An eyebrow. “Huh?”

She smiles and kisses him on the lips. “You’ve said that, before.”

“I know I said that to Katrina at one point.”

“You said that to me, too.”

And he knows it’s something the other him must have said at some point.

Lorca smiles a moment too, then takes her hand in his, looking at her. She lays her head back down on his chest.

He weighs whether to ask her to join him. It’s the reason he called her here. Because this past year of separation, of allowing Michael to believe he was dead, and to just watch her from a distance has been worse than his time in the alternate universe. But now, seeing her, feeling her, he knows he can’t do it. Because while Lorca is a jaded man, somehow, Michael is still a believer. It is tempered now, by experience—but she still has her ideals. Her loyalty. He’s loyal too—but it’s not the same thing.

Katrina, bless her, has kept him informed of how Michael was faring. And he knows that at first—it was hard for them both. Hard for the admiral to watch Michael suffer her sadness in silence. And hard for Katrina to allow her stay that way.

“She feels like I did when I thought you were gone,” Trina told him late one night, over the comm system. They were sharing a drink – at opposite sides of the sector.

“I can’t blame her. Even now, sometimes…” she’d drifted off and he’d gone quiet, understanding. “So, I got the paperwork from the realtor,” she switched abruptly. “You should have it too. We can --”

But he’d stopped her.

“It’s your house, ‘Trina. What you always wanted and where you wanted it. I want you to have it, and enjoy it. You deserve it. Hell, you earned it for everything you put up with from me.”

It got a genuine grin. “You and Michael are welcome to visit, if we ever get to see what retirement looks like.”

They’d both laughed, and toasted to that one. In his new position, there was no such thing. And Katrina had been promoted to Vice Admiral. They’d basically been fooling themselves back then into thinking they’d ever give it up.

 “I wanted to ask you to join me, to come with me,” Lorca tells Michael. “But I know you will say no.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but he silences it with a kiss.

“Let me finish?”

She nods.

“Neither of us are the type to settle down. We both belong out here,” he gestures to the window. “We know that, right?”

“Yes.”

He snuggles her.

“It’s up to you, love. If you call me, I will come. I don’t care how far, no matter the circumstance. But I also don’t want you tied to me, or for you to feel like you’re trapped. This, what I do—it has consequences. It has sacrifices. But you’re not responsible for the choices I make.”

She shifts against him, a smooth leg rubbing against his as she contemplates it.

“I wonder if he ever found her,” she muses.

Lorca knows what she’s asking. About Gabriel. About Gabriel’s lost Michael. About where they are, what became of them. Whether they found each other. Found happiness. Found peace. Whether such a thing is even possible when life, and the after-life, are chaos.

“I don’t know,” he tells her, voice choked by the emotion that wells up inside them both, catching them off-guard. Michael buries her face in Lorca’s chest as he squeezes her tight, unable to bear the thought of having to let her go again, of the very real possibility that she’s not his, not meant for him to have, that he will lose her as Gabriel lost his Michael, of being alone. Dying alone.

All they have is today. For now, that will have to be enough.

She hears the doors open behind her but doesn’t turn. Hears his heavy footsteps, the swish of the uniform, but doesn’t move.

Not even when she feels the heat of him behind her does she glance up. Just stays still.

It’s quiet between them, the only sound is the cooing of Merkin, asleep in her arms, the plump body expanding and contracting with every breath it takes.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

Merkin wakes, and gives a small mewl, wriggling in her hands. She places him on the table in front of her, and he begins to inch his way toward the edge as if anticipating. Waiting.

“Michael? Talk to me? Look at me?”

But she shakes her head and wipes at her face.

Lorca’s brows furrow, lips curl into a frown.

This won’t do. So, he takes a step back and comes around the table to see her, since she won’t look at him.

Only then does he get to see her face. Eyes downcast. Hands in lap. A trace of a tear on a soft cheek.  Crying?

New. Something he’s unsure of whether she’s done before. Likely not. Probably not—since she was a child, at least.

“I can’t fix what you won’t tell me I broke,” he tries again. Years of experience has taught him more than a few lessons about women and emotions.

At that, there’s a flicker of something.

“Is Admiral Cornwell…well?”

Oh.

She’s still not looking at him, but she doesn’t have too. She’s told him all he needs to know.

Lorca scoops Merkin up in an arm.

“Computer,” he says “beam two to room 2-1-1-2.”

.

.

They materialize in his quarters, and he sets Merkin down on the desk before coming behind Michael and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her close, and nuzzling her neck.

“It’s called jealousy,” he tells her, mildly amused now that he knows what’s wrong. But for her sake, he won’t smile. And she can’t see the tiny hint of a smirk that’s playing on the right side of his mouth.

She starts to protest.

“I am not…it’s not…,” but she can’t quite formulate the denial. He’s put a name on what she was feeling. It’s…new.

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” his lips graze the side of her neck, gently.

He loves Katrina. Always will. But what he hopes to make Michael understand is that there is a difference between loving, and being in love.

The explanation is long. It’s careful too.

“She wanted to know if I loved you,” He says, resting his hands on her body, speaking softly. “I do.”

The tickle of his breath on the back of her neck, makes the tiny hairs stand. He feels so good. So right, so everything.

Love.

Beside them, Merkin lets out a small squeak, interrupting the moment. Michael looks to the creature, now clinging over the edge of the desk, having somehow slipped off. Its haunches wriggle, body stretched out as it tries to pull itself up, making Michael laugh at the sight.

Lorca sees the critter’s struggle and lets her go, and they both reach for Merkin. Hands touch as they pick him up together.  

“Merkin loves you too,” Lorca says, holding the tribble up to her and giving her eyes.

At the expression on his face, she laughs again, the uncertainty falling away, replaced by something once again solid. Michael takes him into her arms, and buries her face in the soft fur, as the animal trembles, having been frightened by its mishap.

“Sh… it’s okay,” she whispers to it, stroking its soft fur and walking toward the bedroom, to settle on the bed. Lorca sits beside her, and they whisper to their pet, calming it. He thinks Michael would be a wonderful mother.

It’s a stray thought and Lorca blinks a bit and dismisses it.

That night, Merkin sleeps between them both, purring contentedly alongside its adoptive parents.

.

.

Battle Cries

With Katrina’s tacit acknowledgement, Discovery presses on.

Most of the previously Klingon-occupied Federation territory has now been regained.

Most. But not all.

The two sides are drawing closer to a bitter, bloody stalemate.

Klingon incursions and attacks deeper into their territory have slowed, but not ended. And he can see from the battle maps, that the ones still happening are growing riskier—a sign that one side may be growing more desperate than the other. It can be either fortuitous or dangerous, he knows. A desperate enemy is a deadly enemy.

“Captain Lorca to the bridge.”

Saru’s voice floats over the comm, reaches him down in the bowls of the ship, in Gabriel’s lab. The holographic map floating around him disappears as he logs out of the system.

“Acknowledged. On the way.”

When he arrives, Saru turns.

“Incoming distress message from the U.S.S. Cole,” the first officer says.

“On screen.”

Before them, a blurry, glitching image. The bridge of the Cole[AR1] —its commanding officers voice fading in and out, as sparks fly.

“Under attack…critical….help.”

The screen goes blank.

“Saru, do you have their location?” Lorca asks.

“Aye, sir.”

“Specialist,” Lorca turns to Michael. She nods and begins to make her way down to engineering.

“Black alert,” he tells the remaining crew.

The siren sounds and crew members begin to break from their present tasks and quickly report to their battle stations.

The air in Discovery has changed. Electrified.

No one would ever admit it. War is supposed to be couched in tragedy. But these are the moments they all live for.

“Engineering to bridge, set to go,” Burnham’s voice comes through, and Lorca feels the familiar tingle of excitement in his hands.

“Lieutenant Detmer,” he commands, “let’s go get our friends. Lieutenants Owosekun and Rhys,” he calls to them, eyes focused straight ahead, “Proceed to fire at will as soon as we drop in.”

The Lieutenants grin at each other.

“Aye, sir!”

.

.

Discovery emerges in a blaze of fire.

Her captain stands in front of the viewer, quickly taking assessment of the battle scene in front of him. Two Klingon cruisers advancing on a crippled, listing U.S.S. Cole. One of its thrusters has been blown off. Scorch marks on its sides and belly. Gaping holes in various places allowing them to see clear through. A debris field surrounds it. Bodies floating too.

He pushes that off to the side for the moment and raises his arms in front of him, squinting and using his fingers to form two, interlocking circles—marking targets. Trajectory.

He gives the coordinates for the first of several shots.

“Fire!”

The first cruiser explodes. Discovery doesn’t take on prisoners of war.

The second cruiser turns toward them, preparing to charge.

A new position. One eye squinted shut as he moves his arms just slightly, getting a lock.

“Fire.”

Voice hard. Set.

It blows up in front of them, to a cheer.

But Lorca doesn’t.

“Mr. Saru, assessment. Can you reach the Cole?”

The crew go silent, as Saru works on hailing the battered Antares-class vessel.

It’s audio-only. A static hiss.

Lorca feels his stomach clench. Were they too late?

“Discovery to Cole, respond,” Saru tires again.

Still nothing.

“Are there any life signs?” The captain asks.

“Scanning now, sir.”

They wait. The silence agonizing.

“D..D…Discovery…you there?”

It comes across faintly over the comm, couched in static, barely audible. But it IS there.

Lorca hits the comm quickly.

“Name and position,” he barks.

“Ensign Liu…bridge…”

All he needs.

“We’ve got life signs,” Saru says. Redundant. All Lorca needs is one.

The doors to the bridge open and Michael walks in.

“Saru, Specialist --” he tells them. “Assemble a rescue team. “Ready sickbay. We’ve got injured.”

Injured, but alive.

.

.

Later, after breaking down the initial battle report, he beams over to the Cole to join Michael.

The ship’s Sick Bay is largely intact but full of wounded. The doctors are working frantically, and Discovery is aiding with overflow on his ship as well. The two vessels are now anchored together, side-by-side, with Discovery’s crews working with what’s left of the able-bodied on the U.S.S. Cole to make patch repairs until other help arrives to help the ship back to safer space.

Lorca’s personal assessment of the situation is grim. The interior damage far outstrips that on the outside of the ship. Collapsed bulkheads in several areas, temporary containment fields in others — the only line between death by suffocation and the artificial life supports sustaining the ship.

The bridge has been completely destroyed and the backup area, deeper in the body of the Cole isn’t in much better shape, but at least it’s functional—sort of. The vessel had a crew complement of 187…now down to 96. And its Captain and first officer are both dead, leaving a young Lieutenant Commander Liu, the voice on the comm, now acting-Captain.

These are the casualties of war, Lorca thinks grimly. So many of these people…just children…barely adults. Still so young…

Sickbay is full of aching and moaning, soft sobs. He hates this—seeing so much pain, but it is his duty to offer comfort when he can. First, here on the Cole and then to those on Discovery, where the more dire situations are being addressed.

It takes 19 hours for the closest Starfleet ships to reach them, providing relief for the exhausted and beleaguered crews of the U.S.S. Cole and U.S.S. Discovery.

 Like You’ll Never See Me Again

The longer it goes, the more he becomes convinced there’s only one way for it to end.

“Tell me, again,” he asks, as Michael rolls over beside him, eyes bleary.

“What?”

“Again. Walk me through what you were thinking. The mutiny.”

He keeps asking about this. The questions began a few nights ago, following the Cole Incident, and haven’t let up since.

Michael sits up, bringing the sheet around her chest. He’s looking at her with a certain kind of intensity that…

“Tell me. I need to hear it again.”

She does.

.

.

He’s spending more and more time now down in Gabriel’s lab, studying battle maps. Well, it’s more like Lorca’s lab now.

Here, he ruminates over what’s known of the Klingon Empire. Q’onos, the home planet. The data is outdated, but the war has helped fill in some of the gaps. And there are the historical records of the Vulcan encounter as well.

The more Lorca studies it, the more certain he becomes--there really is just one way to bring this to a close.

Michael was correct in the beginning. And as he considers and analyzes, Lorca knows exactly what he and he alone must do.

.

.

“You’re out of your fucking mind and I won’t allow it!”

Katrina looks incensed, eyes wide as she stares at him through the viewer.

But he knows she’s not angry. She’s afraid.

“Gabriel…it’s a suicide mission,” she whispers when he pushes past her protests and finishes explaining.

“It’s the only way this stops,” he tells her. “You know that. I know Michael know it, too. We missed our chance at the beginning to prevent this war. We have to shut them down.”

“And you? WHY must it be you?”

“You know why, Trina.”

Because he was presumed dead months ago. And he’s not supposed to be here, anyway.

She sinks into her chair and lowers her head, arms on her knees, quiet for a long moment as she absorbs his plan.

It’s crazy.

Like a fox.

But she also knows he’s right. The Klingons won’t respect any other type of assertion. They have to show force. If they don’t, there may be a short truce until the Klingon forces regroup—and then the war will rage again. To bring about a permanent, lasting peace, the must be decisive. Strike with precision. And it must be deadly.

“Gabriel…”

“Trina, please let me do this.”

He’s asking. Intellectually…she knows she has too. Emotionally though…

“Are you going to tell Michael?”

Lorca looks at her and then down.

“No. In order for this to have a shot at working…”

She nods.

“I understand.”

They move on.

Begin to map it out among themselves. And when they’ve finished, they go quiet.

“I love you ‘Trina.”

A tired, wan smile.

“I love you too, you crotchety bastard.”

He laughs then grows sombre. “I know I shouldn’t ask…”

“Then don’t. I’ll take care of her, Gabriel.”

.

.

Every bit of her is screaming that something is wrong.

But he keeps saying everything is fine.

“You’re lying to me.”

She sees through it a mile away and he doesn’t try to counter it. Instead, he just slips his arms around her and pulls her body close to his.

“Let’s just stay here, like this, okay?”

They’re in his bed. In his quarters. The hour is late.

Beside them on a nightstand Merkin sleeps, making the usual quiet rumble.

“But we can’t just stay here,” she protests, trying to turn to face him. He squeezes her tighter, to keep her from getting up.

“I’m leaving tomorrow for a meeting,” Lorca tells her, finally, knowing she won’t take his silence.

“How long will you be gone? Where?”

“Where. How long.”

“Starbase 49. Just a few days. I’ll be back. Just taking a shuttle.”

A partial lie. He does have a …meeting. And he will be taking a shuttle.

Michael’s eyes search his face. He meets hers with a quiet gaze of his own. They watch each other silently, until, she speaks. “You’re still lying. You’re a worse liar than he was.”

This makes him chuckle, and he rolls them together until she straddles his lap, the covers falling away, allowing him to take her in. Instinctively, Michael’s arms come up to cover her bare breasts. Lorca  catches her hands and pulls them back down, looking up at her.

“I want to see you.”

“You’ve seen me.”

“Still so shy. I love looking at you.”

He’s focused now, taking in all of her. Every curly strand of hair, the delicately arched eyebrows, the wide-set eyes, her heart-shaped face and delicate chin. Her mouth.

Calloused hands trace each curve, each crest and she stays still as he does, the touch almost plaintive, worshipful. Like she’s fragile and he’s afraid to break her.

In a single, fluid motion, Lorca sits up, hands lower, lifting her and settling her back down. She wraps her arms around his shoulders as he lays his head against her chest.

“You never said it back,” he tells her quietly, lips on the space between her breasts.  “I know you don’t really know what it is. But maybe one day you will. And you’ll be able to love that person too.”

Tears come unbidden to the corners of her eyes, and she blinks rapidly as he begins to blur in front of her face.

“I…don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.” It’s shaky. Uneven, matching the flutter of her heart. He can hear it all. He can feel the quaking of her hands on the back of his neck. In his hair.

“It’s okay, Michael.” The voice is muffled. His breath warm against her chest. “It’ll be okay.”

“I don’t believe you,” she whispers a tear betraying her, escaping right before he lifts her again and sets her down on his erection, thrusting up, and into her. She gasps at the entry, eyes closing, the feel of him inside, expanding her walls, makes her shudder, her hips beginning to move against him, the desire of closeness, of need, taking over. She wants what he willingly gives.

And, she loves it. Loves him. But she can’t say that.

The words just won’t come, even as she rides on his lap, the stretch, the friction, the sensation of his fingers stroking her clit, make her body sing with pleasure.

He whispers to her that this is what making love feels like. It’s the first time Michael thinks she wants to die.

Here.

Now.

With him.

They’ve done this before but it feels different this time.

Something is wrong.

This feels like goodbye.

Like she’ll never see him again.

“Conference room, Captain.”

Tell. Don’t ask.

They go, leaving Tyler with Saru.

Once the doors shut, she turns on him.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Katrina snaps. “Attacking in Klingon space. Are you crazy? We could have lost this ship and her tech!”

“But we didn’t lose the ship or the tech,” Lorca says measuredly, not wanting to antagonize her further. “We came back. Got the job done.”

“And WHAT, exactly, was the job? The impetus? We were moving the needle.”

“It wasn’t moving fast enough,” he defends.

“Shut up right there.”

Lorca massages his temple, feeling his patience beginning to wear thin—he’s annoyed that she’s talking to him like this, but he’s letting her—knowing her anger is probably due to a hell of a lot more than just a mission she disagreed with. Katrina charges on.

“YOU jeopardized this ship. This crew. All for what? Your ego? Your glory?”

“It’s NOT my ego!” He finally snaps, venting the extent of pent-up frustration. “Your people screwed up. Had Terral listened to Michael we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. YOU, Admiral, punish her for violating ‘Starfleet directives’, THEN you’re fucking surprised we’re getting our asses kicked halfway to Sunday!

“Who decided to only defend the colonies and leave the arrays undefended? Who decided to de-militarize the Federation? Hell, I get it. Peace in the fucking galaxy, but WHEN will you guys wake up and accept SOME responsibility for this? YOU and your ilk, Katrina—the old guard is gone. This is YOUR fault. Accept it. I jumped into Klingon space to send a message—that the Federation ISN’T passive. That it WILL do more than just defend itself. That it’s just as willing as they are to fight—and from what I’m seeing—it’s working. Hell, you won’t even tell the others what we’re doing—so which one of us is being the coward-- me, or you?”

Only after Lorca’s done does the rest slowly sink in.

“You’re accusing me,” she starts slowly, “of allowing the invasion? Do you KNOW how you sound right now? We’ve lost tens of thousands of people, Gabriel. And you’re saying it’s wrong to want for peace—what do you propose? Constant war? Humanity tried that for centuries, and I know you know history.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Katrina.”

Lorca sits back down, realizing he’s been standing the past few minutes ranting.

“It doesn’t matter, now. What matters is getting you to see why we did what we did. Why Michael and I made the decision to go on offence. Can you at least admit it’s got them nervous? I know you get the transmission logs.”

She does. And she has seen, through Tyler, the amount of confusion the strike has caused among Klingon forces. But still…

“There are rules, Gabriel.”

“Rules are for admirals in back offices,” he retorts.

“Pick that up from over there?” She snaps back, eyes narrow, standing now and circling him. “You haven’t been the same since you came back. You sound like him.”

Like him.

“Then maybe he was right about a few things,” Lorca tells her, to Kat’s surprise. A shudder runs through her.

“What did you lose over there, Gabriel? What happened to your humanity?”

But he won’t answer. Instead, “Are we done, Admiral?”

“No, we’re not. How many crew did you lose?”

Thanks to Saru, she’s seen the reports about the boarding.

“Five.”

“Were their lives worth it?”

“To end a war? You said yourself, tens of thousands have died already. My people died with dignity. Honour. Trying to save the Federation. That’s all I’m doing. Trying to save us. Because we’re fighting an enemy that doesn’t play by the rules, Katrina. And I think you know that. And I also think you know,” he leans closer now, “that we will lose our way of life if we don’t come up with a better way.”

“Tell me why I shouldn’t bust you down and send Burnham to the nearest prison colony?” She refuses the bait.

But at the word ‘Burnham’, there’s something different in Gabriel’s face. It disappears just as quickly—but it sure as hell looked like…panic?

“You wouldn’t.” He tells her. “We’re your best for bringing this thing to an end. You hate what we’re doing, but condoning it. And you left Michael here for a reason.”

Katrina catches it once more. Not Specialist. Not Burnham. Michael.  The collective, “we”.

Another glance at Gabriel. He’s giving her the blank stare of indifference, but his shoulders are tense. Still as a statue. She knows his bluffs. His hedges. His ticks and his quirks. Katrina eyes him critically, takes a longer look at the man she used to love…still loves…

It comes out of nowhere. Like a shock to her system. She doesn’t know what prompts it. What makes her say it. Maybe it’s stress. Maybe it’s worry. Some unresolved something from deep down that rears up in the moment. But the words that escape, she can’t take back, and the truth reveals itself in the look on his face when she asks, point-blank…  

“Are you sleeping with her?”

.

.

Tyler II

It’s early, but he wants to see her. To show her that he’s…better now. That in these months apart, he’s found something to hold on too, that he’s not the person that attacked her and that he’s worked hard to be better. For her.

Tyler retraces the familiar path toward the quarters Michael shares with Tilly, feeling anxious, but wanting to resolve this. Resolve them, convince her he’s changed, learned. That he’s a better man, can be a better man. For her.

The chime of the call is faint, inside. He waits, hoping Michael will come to the door.

“Tilly?”

“Ash?”

She rubs her eyes sleepily and blinks a few times, puzzled at his appearance, a mess of red curls adorning her head. Tilly’s hair has always been impressive, wild, nearly un-tamable and she’s complained of it more than a few times—but the hair is part of her, its own character and personality separate and apart from its owner.

“What are you doing here? It’s…” she glances behind her and back at him.

“0527?”

“Yeah. I came in with Admiral Cornwell.”

Tilly nods, becoming more awake as they talk. She’s not moved from the doorway, and he casts a few looks over her head, trying to peek inside. Tilly catches it.

“So…what brings you…here?” She asks, knowing but trying to stall.

Michael rarely sleeps in their room anymore. And she hasn’t been here in…weeks really. But Ash doesn’t know that. And she doesn’t want to be the one to have to say it.

“Is Michael here?”

“Um…no, I think, she…uh…maybe left a little earlier?”

Sylvia isn’t a good liar. It’s in the way her eyes dart away nervously. The chewing of her lip. The shifting of the feet. It’s so…human, he thinks snidely, but stops, realizing those are Voq’s thoughts, not his.

“You’re lying,” Ash says drily. “Where is she, Tilly?”

“Um….engineering?”

“At 0530 in the morning?”

“You know she likes to get an early start, sometimes.”

Sylvia tries for a smile, but Ash doesn’t buy it.

“You don’t have to lie, Tilly. It’s okay. It’s what I get for stopping by, unannounced.” He leaves, and the door closes, but midway down the hall, there’s a computer, and he goes there—knowing the officer badges carry location data.

“Computer, location of Michael Burnham.”

“Michael Burnham is in room 2-1-1-2.”

The number sounds familiar, but he can’t quite place it, so he takes the lift up to the level and steps off. The corridor is empty. Just a few rooms, but as soon as he starts walking and comes to the door, he stops. Seeing the name inscribed on a panel. Lorca, G.

Captain Lorca’s quarters.

And Michael is here.

He’s mildly amused that he should be surprised at this discovery.

Still, Tyler is not a coward. He came for resolution, and resolution he is determined to get.

So he presses the chime.

.

.

The sound is soft, yet insistent, lulling her out of sleep and at first, it’s difficult to place, as she slowly wakes to find the space beside her empty.

It’s 0616.

The chime again—someone at the door and Michael is confused as to why it would be ringing.

She rises, still in uniform from the night before, and makes her way to the door.

It opens and she’s shocked. And shook, there’s no hiding it—all over her face as she freezes, seeing Ash standing there, looking at her with distrust, and hurt.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he says. “Let’s talk.”

.

.

Deer in headlights, he thinks, staring into Michael’s big brown eyes. Those were the first things he noticed about her—how wide they were, beautiful and almond shaped, with long lashes and an innocent, yet tired expression—somewhat sad, somewhat guarded. He was captivated in the moment, thought she was beautiful, even if she herself could have cared less about how she appeared to others.

It was the stiff formality that caught him and the sudden, revealing moment of weakness when she collapsed in pain on the mess hall floor, appearing injured. He thought of her as doe-like, elegant, slender limbs and something made him want to reach out and try to protect her in the moment, never thinking that in the end, she’d be the one to protect him. She’d reminded him of the animal, skittish around him at first, and he’d thought her somewhat naïve, but endearing, slightly socially awkward but attractive, admiring that she could go through so much and still maintain her decency. At least, he’d thought her decent. Thought her innocent, too.

Maybe she wasn’t always so innocent. Maybe she wasn’t so decent. Maybe it was all in his confused, trauma-induced mind. Maybe it was what he wanted to believe, needed to believe—that someone could love him when he was still struggling to reconcile images and memories he wasn’t sure were real or imagined; to find a way to love himself after losing himself to the darkness that was his former tormentor and jailor, his Klingon lover, L’Rell. If Michael became his light, L’Rell was his shadow.

Maybe this particular angel was always out of reach.

Maybe he would have done better to leave well enough alone.

Gabriel, the usurper, had warned him.

He’d ignored Gabriel.

Now, here he stands, looking at her, in the quarters of the man he’d tried to steal her from.

“So this is why you wanted me gone?” he asks. “This is why you let me go?”

“I let you go because you lied to me.” Michael’s voice is level. But her face is filled with concern.

“I don’t want your pity.”

“You don’t have it.”

“Why him?” It’s jealous.

Her steely gaze never leaves his, lips pursed into a tight line.

The non-answer is the reply, and Tyler remarks, “so you lied to me, too.”

“And to myself.”

It’s all he needs to walk away, knowing she was never his to begin with. The thought gives him pause. The sense of possession that comes with it. Again, not him. Voq. He knows well you can’t own or possess another person. But Voq feels an entirely different way. And Tyler knows then he will always be trapped in this particular form of hell. That he’s better, but not quite. That he will always struggle between two people forced into one body. And Michael is just the cusp of it.

  Lorca II

“Are you sleeping with her?”

Of course, Katrina would know.

“And if I was?” he defends.

“You know better.”

It comes out before he can stop himself. “So did you, when you decided to sleep with him.”

Neither of them have ever fought fair. They know where to poke. Where to jab. How to hurt. And there’s been plenty of it to go around of late. They’ve never stood on even, solid ground. Part of their attraction. Part of their repulsion. Lorca takes the low road.

Katrina’s pupils expand and darken. She visibly draws back, and he’s immediately ashamed of himself. “Kat, I--” he reaches out, but she slaps him. Hard. So hard, it makes his head snap to the right, and he brings a hand up to the burning, stinging side of his face. That’s going to leave a mark. Not the hand itself, but the ring on the middle finger. It’s been there for more than two decades. Promises made. Promises broken.

A welt is quickly forming on the broken skin.

“You’re what? Sorry?” She scoffs. “I’ve heard that one before.”

Oh yes, she has. Many, many times. Lorca works his mouth but nothing comes out. The words don’t form.  Because he’s not sorry for it. What he’s sorry for are all the other things. What he’s really sorry for is how he ruined them. And he’s sorry it took him more than two decades to realize that he was the poison in their relationship. But how to tell her this? How to explain it, without sounding like he’s making excuses?

“So this is what we are now,” he says, rubbing the side of his face warily, remembering that Katrina is heavy-handed. “You’re mad at me for something I didn’t do.”

It’s not about him sleeping with Michael. Lorca knows it. Katrina does too. What got him slapped is what he said. About her. About the other him.

“You hate me,” Lorca says slowly, “because I look like him.”

“And talk like him. And act like him.” Katrina finishes, slumping down into a chair, her fury beginning to wane, and tiredness starting to take over. It’s been a long war. It’s been a long two years. It’s been a long, six months. So much between them, stacked up like a monument to failure on both sides.

He takes a chair opposite, rubbing his temples.

“He tricked me,” she says so softly, he almost misses it.

Almost. But he knows to stay quiet. To listen, not talk.

“He tricked me, and I wanted so badly to believe it was you. I just couldn’t face it. So I let myself be tricked. Anything, to believe for a little longer that I hadn’t lost you when I did.”

“Eighteen months, Kat.”

They’re not looking at one another.

“Eighteen months I scraped and I fought and I killed, and I was tortured, and I tortured—anything I could do to survive—and the only thing that saved me, kept me even remotely sane,” he swallows, voice growing thicker, darker, “was making it back to you. I was trying my damnedest to get to Tahoe. And when I finally make it, you--”

Beat him. Yelled at him. Slapped him. Railed at him. Twenty-five years of fury unleashed when he least expected it, when his own body and soul were damaged nearly to the point of disrepair and he was still barely clinging to the fact that he wasn’t dreaming, that he was back, and to see her, standing there—gun drawn, ready to shoot him. And then later, when she did. Not with a phaser, but with her words. She’d killed what he thought was left of his humanity when she did that.

No tether.

No anchor.

“You left me to suffer,” he tells her. “I’ve suffered every single day for more than two years, and you act like I left on purpose. That I did this intentionally. That it’s my fault—what happened when I was gone. I never left you, Trina,” he says, using the nickname reserved between them, “but as soon as I stepped off that platform, you’d already made up your mind.”

She let him go. Let him drift.

It’s the first time they’re being completely honest with each other.

“Tahoe was a pipe dream for us,” she says quietly, remembering the night they fought over her promotion. How angry she was that he wasn’t more supportive. How angry he was that she could even consider it.

“You were never really there.”

She’s bringing back years. He can’t argue with her there. “I thought we promised to try again. We swore that to each other.”

“Maybe I never believed you could keep a promise,” she tells him. “So many of those you broke.”

Exactly what he told Michael, he did.

This was never one for him to win. He knows it. And he’ll let her have it.

“So what do you want to do with me, Katrina? Does it make you feel better to know what I’ve suffered too? Does it make you feel better to know karma actually works?” A harsh, dry laugh. “Are we finally, even now?”

He looks at her, those eyes ever sharper, the blue deeper, and in them, all she sees is grief and pain. And it cuts her.

A man too proud to beg. Too strong to be broken. Physical pain has never bothered Gabriel—she knows its emotional stuff he can’t handle. The reason why he ran. Ran until he couldn’t anymore. She knew what she had a long time ago—and if she’s real with herself, she also knows it’s not his fault. Not all his fault. It takes two. Two to fight, two to love. There’s blame on her too. Because she pressured him to stay when she knew he wanted to go. Tried to force him to settle down when she knew it wasn’t his nature. And the pregnancy—a last-ditch effort when she felt she was losing him. She used his love to her advantage—but caged birds always find a way out—and that’s what he did. Neither of them were perfect, but…

“I’m sorry, ‘Trina.”

“For what?” Her breath is hitched. Almost afraid to hear what he’s going to say next. He doesn’t. Just gets up and comes to her chair to stand before her.

“For Jeremy.”

One tear. A traitor to its master, slipping from its stony prison to make an escape down her cheek. Jeremy. The name they chose for a child they wouldn’t get to see.

“I’m sorry about Anthony.” The husband she lost because Anthony knew her heart wasn’t in it. A marriage built on splintered glass. Settling for something because nothing wasn’t an option.

“And I’m sorry for Tahoe.” Their house on the edge of the lake. The retirement plan. The one promise they swore to each other they’d keep. The one destroyed by war.

“I do love you, Katrina,” Lorca tells her. “And I am so, so sorry it was never enough.”

Not then. And after everything else, not now.

“I’m sorry too.”

The voice is far softer. More resigned. Accepting. No more struggle here. No more fighting—they both see the writing on the wall.

She tells him what she knows. That she’s always known the kind of man he is.

“But…I tried,” he says, weakly.

Katrina stands to touch to the side of his face. Her fingers slide down the welt. Red, angry, a thin crimson streak of red down the middle, but it doesn’t bleed.

“I know you did. I’m glad you did.”

Because they both know it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. No matter the bad…there was always so much more good there.

A soft smile graces her face.

“I love you, Gabriel.”

“Trina.” He comes to hug her, and this time, she doesn’t flinch from his touch, just wraps her arms around him, and rests her head against his chest, feeling his warmth, drawing strength from his surety of presence. It feels like going home. Like the friends they are, even now.

“I love you too.”

They do, and they always will. He’s in her bones, and she’s in his. Yet they’re old enough and wise enough to have finally learned the difference, between loving, and being in love.