CobraKai1972

4 YEARS, 6 MONTHS DATING

The apartment feels too still, too quiet; the hum of the refrigerator is loud enough to fill the space between breaths. Something in the air feels wrong, like it's holding itself taut, waiting.

Yelena stands frozen in the kitchen, her bag still slung over one shoulder, keys trembling faintly in her hand.

Max leans in the doorway, eyes shadowed and unreadable.

"You're late," he says, voice flat. Cold.

She swallows. "I had to stay late for lab."

His eyes narrow. "Don't lie to me."

Her stomach drops. "I'm not—"

"I saw your texts." His voice tightens, a coil ready to snap. "They don't add up."

Her breath catches. She doesn't ask how he got into her phone. She doesn't need to.

"I'm telling you the truth," she says softly.

He moves closer, anger rolling into the space between them like a weight pressing down.

His hand slams against the counter. Pots rattle; a glass tips and shatters on the tile.

"You think I'm stupid?" he snarls.

"No—" Her voice fractures.

Before she can step back, his hand clamps around her arm.

The grip is hard, fingers digging deep. Pain sparks under her skin, but she doesn't cry out. She never does.

"Stop it, Max — please," she whispers.

He yanks her toward the living room, his hold unrelenting.

"You think you can just come and go?" His voice drops lower, darker. "Do whatever the hell you want?"

"I don't," she says quickly, shaking her head. "I don't."

He shoves her down onto the couch. She catches herself with her hands, barely.

Then, his palm strikes her cheek. Controlled. Calculated. Not enough to leave a mark. Just enough to make her flinch. Just enough to remind her.

Her eyes sting. Vision blurs. Her heart races so hard it hurts. She stays still.

"Please..." Her voice cracks. "Don't."

He stares down at her, chest heaving. Then, just as suddenly, he lets go.

"I love you," he says, voice hoarse and sharp. "But you need to learn who's in charge."

She doesn't answer. Can't.

Her fingers find her cheek, trembling, brushing against the heat there. She feels the wetness of tears but refuses to let them fall.

That night, she curls into the corner of the couch, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tight around herself. She doesn't sleep. She barely breathes.

Morning comes like a dream she can't wake from.

Max cries. Apologizes. Promises it will never happen again. Says he was stressed, that he loves her, that she's everything.

Yelena nods but says nothing.

But something inside her has gone quiet, still, watchful.

And in every glance, every touch, the fear never leaves.

4 YEARS, 9 MONTHS DATING

The clock ticks too loudly in the silence, each second a reminder of how still the room is. Shadows stretch across the walls, the dim light making everything feel smaller, closer.

Yelena sits on the edge of her bed, her phone gripped tight in trembling fingers.

The screen glows with Max's last message:

If you leave, you'll regret it. No one will believe you.

Her chest aches under the familiar crush of fear. His voice plays in her head; each threat is carved into her like a warning she can't scrape away.

Bruises bloom deep violet along her arms. Her jaw throbs where his rage found her earlier. But the pain isn't the worst of it. The worst is the hollowing, the slow erosion of something vital inside her.

Because now, it isn't just about fear.

It's about loss.

Loss of self. Loss of future. Loss of belief.

For years, she's clung to the version of Max she first loved; the one who bought her chocolate on exam days, kissed her forehead, promised her the world.

That version is gone.

What's left isn't love. It's control. Surveillance. Silence.

Her books sit untouched on the desk, gathering dust. Textbooks that once thrilled her now mock her, reminders of everything she was supposed to become — and everything she might never be.

A voice whispers inside her, cruel and convincing: No one will believe you. He's smart. Charming. You're the one who's tired, distracted, bruised. You stayed. You let it happen. What does that say about you?

She shuts her eyes. Tries to breathe.

Then, her phone buzzes again.

This time, it's not him.

A single line from a classmate she hasn't spoken to in weeks:

Hey Yelena, the study group's meeting Friday. Hope you can make it.

Ordinary words. Casual.

But to Yelena, they strike like a match in the dark.

Hope doesn't rush in all at once. It flickers.

Someone still sees her.

Maybe — just maybe — she isn't completely alone.

Her breath catches, and the tears come fast. But they aren't from pain this time. They're from something fragile and reckless blooming in her chest: determination.

She wipes her face, reaches for her laptop, and opens a browser.

Her fingers hover over the keys, then begin to type:

how to leave an abusive relationship safely resources for women in chicago chicago narcotics tip line contact detectives drug crimes confidential

She hits Enter.

Her hands still tremble. But she doesn't stop.

This isn't over. Not yet.

For the first time in a long time, Yelena isn't just surviving.

She's planning. She's reaching. And she's ready.

4 YEARS, 10 MONTHS DATING

The walls of Max's cramped apartment feel like they're closing in. The air is stale, heavy, and the hallway light above flickers in uneven intervals, throwing shadows across the peeling paint.

Yelena stands just outside the cracked bedroom door, every muscle rigid, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. She hadn't made a sound all evening; curled under a blanket on the couch, feigning sleep. But now, his voice seeps through the thin walls. Low. Clipped. Tense.

She inches closer.

Max's phone is pressed to his ear, his words slicing through the quiet. "Yeah, the shipment's coming next week. Gotta be ready. No mistakes this time. The boss's patience is running out."

Her breath catches.

A muffled voice crackles through the speaker, too low to make out completely—but unmistakably real. "What about the cops? Any heat?"

Max's tone sharpens to a blade. "Not a chance. We've got eyes everywhere. Just make sure the trucks get through."

Yelena's fingers grip the doorframe, pulse roaring in her ears.

This is it. Proof. Not rumors. Not bruises. This is criminal. Dangerous. Actionable.

Her hands move before fear can catch up—slipping her phone out, opening the Notes app, typing fast and silent:

Shipment – next week Boss involved Trucks – must get through 'Eyes everywhere' – Max confident no police heat

She stares at the screen.

Turning him in could mean fire and fallout. Retaliation. Exposure. But doing nothing? That meant more women like her. More victims. Maybe even deaths.

The floor creaks behind her. She jerks back to the couch, pulling the blanket over her legs just as Max steps out of the bedroom.

"Hey...you okay?" she asks, forcing her voice steady.

His eyes narrow a fraction. "Yeah. Just needed some air. Couldn't sleep."

He stares a beat too long before nodding and turning away.

She doesn't exhale until he's gone.

Later, locked in the spare bedroom with a chair braced under the door handle, she sits cross-legged on the floor, phone in her lap. Her hands still shake as she scrolls to the number she saved days ago:

Detective Rodriguez – Chicago PD Narcotics Unit.

She hesitates only once.

Then hits dial.

One ring. Two.

"This is Detective Rodriguez. How can I help you?"

Yelena takes a breath that tastes like steel. "I have information about a drug shipment coming into Chicago. It's connected to someone I live with. Someone dangerous."

Her voice trembles, then steadies.

Each word is a fracture in the cage that's held her for nearly five years. Each word is the beginning of her escape.

***

The night air is thick, almost suffocating.

Yelena sits stiffly in the passenger seat of an unmarked car, her hands clenched in her lap until her knuckles ache. Her eyes keep darting between the looming silhouette of the warehouse ahead and the glowing numbers on the dashboard clock.

Detective Rodriguez sits beside her, calm and focused. She adjusts the radio mic, then turns with quiet steadiness. "Everything's set. The surveillance, the timing...It's as close to perfect as it can get."

Yelena swallows, her throat tight. "I know. It just feels unreal. Like I'm about to walk into something I can't come back from."

Rodriguez's expression softens. "I won't lie, it's dangerous. But you're not walking into it alone. We've got full backup. You've already done more than most people ever could."

Yelena stares out the window. "I'm just scared. Not just for me...for everyone."

"Fear's normal. But you've already made the hardest choice. After tonight, this nightmare ends."

Rodriguez lifts the mic, her voice crisp and sharp. "Units are in position. On my mark..."

The radio crackles. A wave of tension twists in Yelena's stomach. She grips the burner phone in her lap so tightly that it digs into her palm.

Rodriguez glances at her. "Ready?"

Yelena draws in a breath—slow, shaky, but solid. "Ready."

Rodriguez keys the mic again. "Go."

The world outside erupts.

Shouts. Commands. The crack of gunfire. Tires screeching. Boots pounding on pavement. Yelena flinches, heart hammering so hard she hears it in her ears. She can't see through the tinted windows, but she feels it.

She knows Max is in there.

Rodriguez's hand finds her shoulder, steady and grounding. "It's happening. Soon, it'll all be over."

Yelena nods, mute.

And somewhere under the panic, something shifts. A spark. A beginning.

The car pulls up to the precinct. The city's noise hums in the distance, muffled beneath the roar in Yelena's head.

Rodriguez opens the door and drapes a gray blanket over her shoulders as they step into the sterile light of the lobby. It's calm here. Quieter.

Rodriguez leads her to a bench in the corner. Yelena sits, hands trembling, muscles still locked from hours — years — of tension.

A female detective approaches with a clipboard and a soft smile. "They're processing everyone now. It's done."

Yelena's voice is raw. "Is it really? All of them?"

The woman nods. "All of them. You did good, Yelena."

Rodriguez sits beside her. "You're safe now. For the first time in a long time."

Yelena's breath catches. Her face crumples, tears spilling before she can stop them. "I don't know how to feel...relief, fear, guilt. I thought I'd feel free. Strong. But the fear, it's still there. It just moved."

Rodriguez brushes a piece of hair back from her face. "It's okay. Healing isn't instant. You're allowed to feel everything. You survived something terrible. That's strength, Yelena. That's power."

Yelena wipes her cheeks. "Thank you. For not giving up on me."

Rodriguez offers a small, steady smile. "We'll get you somewhere safe tonight. You're not alone anymore."

Yelena breathes — really breathes — for the first time in what feels like years. Her gaze drifts toward the window, where the sky is still dark.

For the first time, she lets herself believe dawn is coming.

ONE YEAR LATER

The air in the courtroom feels thick enough to choke on, heavy with anticipation. Every eye is fixed on the jury box as the foreperson rises, a sheet of paper clutched in their hand.

Yelena Petrosyan sits at the front, her heart pounding so hard she can feel it in her throat. She barely breathes, every nerve pulled taut.

To her left, Max stands in cuffs. His expression is a mask; fury wrapped in restraint. His eyes bore into her, sharp and unyielding, but she doesn't return the stare. Not now. Not anymore.

The judge's voice cuts through the silence, firm and steady. "We, the jury, find the defendant, Maxwell Dawson, guilty on all counts: drug trafficking, possession with intent to distribute, and conspiracy. Sentencing will be determined at a later date."

The words land like a thunderclap — final, absolute.

Yelena exhales, slow and trembling, a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. Her hands shake, but she lifts her chin, rising to her feet.

Agent Miller appears at her side, calm and unobtrusive. "Yelena," she says softly. "It's time."

The room stirs as officers step in to escort Max away. The chains at his wrists clink in the tense silence. But just before he's taken through the side door, his voice erupts across the room, venomous and raw.

"You stupid bitch. You think you're safe? This isn't over!"

The outburst ricochets off the walls, drawing gasps.

Yelena doesn't flinch. Her hands curl slightly at her sides, the tremor still there, but she never turns to look at him.

She inhales again, deeper this time, and fixes her gaze straight ahead.

He doesn't own her anymore.

This moment isn't his.

It's hers.

The safe apartment smells faintly of lemon cleaner and something stale, the kind of sterile quiet that hums under the fluorescent lights. A half-packed duffel bag sits on the couch. Yelena perches on its edge, arms crossed, gaze distant.

She's been under U.S. Marshal supervision since the verdict — watched, protected, monitored. Max Dawson is behind bars.

And yet, the peace she's been chasing for years still feels brittle. Like it could splinter under the weight of a single memory.

Agents Miller and Hayes sit across from her, going over relocation details: new name, new job, new city. Los Angeles.

Yelena listens, jaw tight, until something in her posture changes. "Before I go," she says, voice low but certain, "I want to see my moms."

Hayes's tone is gentle. "Yelena—"

"I need to tell them what happened. Everything."

Miller exchanges a look with Hayes. "We understand, but travel's a risk. Once you're in Witness Protection, you disappear. That's the point. No contact. No paper trail."

"I know," Yelena says. "That's why I'm asking now. Before all that. Just a few days. I'll fly to France, tell them in person, and then I'll come back. After that, I'll be whoever you need me to be."

The Marshals hesitate. She hadn't asked for anything — not through trial prep, not through threats, not through months of waiting to testify. She hasn't cracked.

But they see the strain now, bleeding through the calm.

"It's not just your risk," Hayes says carefully. "If Max ever talked — if anyone connects you to them—"

"He didn't," Yelena cuts in. "He never met them. He doesn't know their names. They live in the countryside, have no social media, and barely use phones. I kept them out of everything."

She pauses, voice quieter now. "They think I've just been busy with school. They don't know any of it. I can't vanish without saying goodbye. I need them to hear it from me. Just once."

A long beat. Miller exhales, clipped but not unkind. "You get one trip. Quiet. No phones, no paper, no contact beyond us. You'll fly under a burner identity with full surveillance. Five days. Then you come straight back and head to L.A."

Yelena is already standing, relief breaking through her voice. "Thank you. Really."

She wipes at her eyes, a rare crack in the armor.

For the first time in years, she's not running. She's choosing.

A small stone cottage sits tucked in the rolling hills, the garden overgrown with lavender and thyme. The front door creaks open, and Marina Rousseau gasps.

"Mon dieu...Marie?"

Yelena's voice breaks as she steps into her mother's arms. "Hi, Maman."

Arpi Petrosyan appears from the kitchen, dish towel in hand. Her expression shifts from confusion to alarm. "What's happened? You look— Yelena, are you alright?"

"I will be," Yelena says quietly, tears slipping free. "But I need to tell you everything."

The cottage glows warm in the lamplight. Soup simmers on the stove, fragrant and steady. Yelena sits at the wooden table, flanked by her mothers. Marina pours tea with trembling hands. Arpi hasn't let go of her wrist since she sat down.

A box of tissues sits between them. The silence is full — tense, expectant.

"You look thinner," Marina says gently. "And tired. But you're here. That's what matters."

Arpi's voice softens in Armenian. What's happened, kjanik? You're scaring us.

"I didn't want to scare you," Yelena says. "I wanted to call so many times, but...it wasn't safe. I had to keep you out of it."

Her breath shakes, but her voice doesn't falter. "I was in a relationship. Back in Chicago. His name was Max."

Marina's expression tightens. "You never mentioned him."

"Because it turned bad. And then it turned violent. He...hurt me. When I tried to leave, he pushed me down the stairs...he nearly killed me. He threatened to if I ever tried again."

Silence. Arpi's grip on her hand tightens until her knuckles whiten.

"I worked with the police," Yelena continues. "Wore a wire. Testified. He was convicted last week. Twenty-five years."

«Նա քեզ վիրավորե՞լ է»։ Arpi whispers, shaken and furious. He hurt you?

Yelena nods. "I got out. I'm okay now. But it's not safe for me to stay. There are still people loyal to him. They think I betrayed him."

Her gaze lifts to theirs. "That's why I'm here. I'm going into Witness Protection. New name, new life. They're sending me to Los Angeles."

"You're disappearing?" Marina asks, reeling.

"Not from you. Never from you. That's why I begged to come here first. I couldn't vanish without saying goodbye."

Marina leans forward, cupping Yelena's face in both hands. Her voice is soft but fierce. "You are so strong. You did everything right. You survived, ma chérie."

«Ուր էլ որ քեզ ուղարկեն, դու երբեք մենակ չես լինի։ Մենք կգտնենք խոսելու, քեզ տեսնելու եղանակներ։ Մենք քո մայրերն ենք։ Նրանք չեն կարող քեզ մեզանից պաշտպանել»։ Arpi steadies. Wherever they send you, you will never be alone. We'll find ways to talk, to see you. We're your mothers. They can't protect you from us.

Yelena smiles through her tears. "I love you both. So much."

***

The airplane cabin is dim and hushed, a low thrum of engines filling the air. Yelena leans her forehead against the cool window; the world below is reduced to a blur of clouds and muted sky. In her lap rests a plain envelope — her WITSEC documents. Her new name stares back at her in black ink: Ava Rousseau.

She hasn't cried since the airport. Saying goodbye had been harder than she imagined. Marina slipped a handwritten note into her bag, sealed and unsentimental in appearance but heavy with the weight of everything unspoken. Arpi tucked in a tiny charm — a delicate Armenian cross — now warm against her skin beneath her sweater.

Her fingers find it, curling around the smooth metal, grounding her in something familiar.

A flight attendant pauses beside her row, voice soft. "Miss Rousseau? Can I get you anything?"

Yelena – Ava – shakes her head, offering a small, grateful smile. "No. I'm okay. Thank you."

The attendant moves on. Yelena exhales slowly, letting her eyes drift shut for a moment. Her heart still beats fast, but it's not from fear anymore. It's something different. Something sharper.

Resolve.

You made it through the worst. Now build the rest.

Her eyes open again just as the coast of California emerges from the clouds — vast, bright, unfamiliar. Waiting.

She doesn't know what lies ahead in Los Angeles. But it's hers now. Her future. Her name. Her fight.

Ava Rousseau is ready to begin.

***

The apartment is modest, almost bare — pale walls, basic furniture, a welcome packet sitting unopened on the kitchen counter. The air smells faintly of fresh paint. Ava stands by the window; suitcase still zipped at her side.

Outside, the city moves in colors and sound: sun flashing against car roofs, palm trees swaying in a late afternoon breeze, the distant hum of traffic blending with the rhythm of a place she doesn't yet belong to.

She reaches into the envelope and pulls out a hospital badge.

Ava Rousseau ER Clinical Coordinator

The photo is too crisp, her smile just shy of genuine. She studies it for a long moment before slipping the badge into her pocket.

13 YEARS AGO

The afternoon sun spills gold across the French countryside, lavender fields stretching toward the horizon. The air is sweet with wildflowers, undercut by the faint hum of cicadas. Yelena sits at the rustic wooden table outside the family's summer cottage, elbows resting on the weathered surface. Across from her, Marina and Arpi lean back in their chairs, each cradling a glass of iced tea.

« Je réfléchis à ce que je veux faire après le lycée. » Yelena says, her tone serious. I've been thinking about what I want to do after high school.

Marina looks up with a gentle smile. « Ah, notre petite Yelena Marie, toujours tournée vers l'avenir. » Ah, our little Yelena Marie, always looking toward the future. She tilts her head. « Avez-vous déjà des projets pour votre dernière année ? » Do you already have plans for your final year?

Yelena's gaze drifts past them to the rolling hills, the green dipping and rising in the distance. She weighs her words before speaking again, her voice quiet but certain.

« Je veux faire des études de médecine. Je veux devenir médecin. » I want to go to medical school. I want to become a doctor.

For a moment, the air stills — even the cicadas seem to pause. Arpi's eyes widen, pride mixing with surprise. Marina exchanges a glance with her.

« L'école de médecine ? » Marina repeats, then smiles. Medical school? She leans forward slightly. « C'est incroyable. Mais... pourquoi ? Tu as toujours eu tellement d'intérêts. Qu'est-ce qui t'a poussé à choisir celui-ci ? » That's incredible. But...why? You've always had so many interests. What made you choose this?

Yelena leans in, her hands moving as her passion builds. « Je veux aider les gens, maman. Faire une vraie différence. J'y pense depuis un moment, et je sais que c'est ce que je veux. Je suis douée en sciences, et je comprends bien les gens et leurs besoins. Je pense que je pourrais vraiment être douée pour ça. » I want to help people, mama. To make a real difference. I've been thinking about it for a while, and I know this is what I want. I'm strong in science, and I'm good at understanding people and their needs. I think I could really be good at this.

Her voice softens on the last line, but her conviction is unwavering.

« Je ne suis pas surpris. » Arpi says, setting down her glass, her voice warm. I'm not surprised. « Tu as toujours eu à cœur d'aider les autres. Je le vois dans la façon dont tu prends soin des gens, dont tu les fais toujours passer en premier. » You've always cared about helping others. I see it in how you take care of people, how you always put them first.

Marina nods thoughtfully. « Je suis d'accord. Mais le chemin est difficile, Yelena. La médecine est exigeante, parfois épuisante. Mais j'ai toujours cru qu'on pouvait accomplir tout ce qu'on entreprenait. » I agree. But the path is hard, Yelena. Medicine is demanding, exhausting sometimes. But I've always believed you could accomplish whatever you set your mind to.

Yelena meets her gaze, steady and sure. « Je suis prête. Je sais que ce ne sera pas facile, mais j'ai toujours su que je voulais aider. Ça me semble tout simplement... juste. » I'm ready. I know it won't be easy, but I've always known I wanted to help. It just feels...right.

Marina and Arpi share a quiet look, something unspoken passing between them. Marina reaches across the table and takes Ava's hand. « Tu es notre fille, Yelena. Nous avons toujours su que tu accomplirais de grandes choses. Si c'est ce que tu veux, nous te soutiendrons, même si cela nous fait un peu peur. » She smiles softly. You're our daughter, Yelena. We've always known you'd do great things. If this is what you want, we'll support you — even if it scares us a little. «Nous avons toujours été fiers de toi.» We've always been proud of you.

"You have so much passion in you," Arpi adds. « Je pense que tu seras un médecin formidable. Promets-moi juste de prendre soin de toi aussi, tout au long de ton parcours. » I think you'll be an amazing doctor. Just promise me you'll take care of yourself, too, along the way.

« Je te le promets. Je prendrai soin de moi. Et je ferai en sorte que tu sois fier de moi. » I promise. I'll take care of myself. And I'll make sure to make you proud. Yelena's chest feels full of love, of determination.

For a moment, the world holds still: the warmth of the sun, the brush of a breeze through the lavender, the unshakable strength of family.

Arpi's mouth curves into a teasing smile. « Il vous faudra apprendre à parler français plus rapidement si vous décidez de devenir médecin ici. » You'll have to learn to speak French faster if you decide to be a doctor here.

Yelena laughs, the tension breaking. « Je suis prêt à relever le défi. » I'm ready for the challenge.

They sit together, the afternoon stretching long and golden, the future quietly taking root around them.

12 YEARS AGO

The hallway of the student center buzzes with voices, footsteps, and the smell of burnt espresso from the café kiosk. Yelena stands near the wall, clutching a thick admissions folder in one hand and balancing a to-go coffee in the other. Her backpack hangs loosely off one shoulder. Her expression is part excitement, part overload.

Around her, students have already begun forming cliques, greeting friends, or hurrying toward lectures. Yelena flips open the folder to study the building map, brows knitting in concentration. She turns it sideways, then upside down, as if a different angle might suddenly make sense.

"You look like you're trying to decipher hieroglyphics," a voice says behind her.

She turns, startled, and finds a guy about her age standing a few feet away. Brown hair. Warm smile. The kind of easy confidence that doesn't feel forced. He nods toward her map.

"First year?" he asks.

Yelena's mouth quirks. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only because I was doing the same thing last year," he says with a smirk. "I'm Max. Second year."

"Yelena," she says, smiling back. "And I'm hopelessly lost."

"Where are you trying to go?"

"Anatomy lecture hall. I think it moved?"

"Yeah, they shifted things after the remodel. I can walk you there."

She hesitates for half a second, then nods. "That'd be great. Thanks."

They fall into step.

"Yelena — like the spy?" he teases.

She raises an eyebrow. "Spy?"

Max grins. "Yeah, you know, from the Marvel comics. Yelena Belova... Black Widow's replacement? Blonde, Russian, morally gray?"

The blank look on her face tells him everything he needs to know.

"You've never read a Marvel comic, have you?"

"No, sorry." Yelena grins, sheepishly.

"I think I might have to take a point away for that."

"Are points part of some unspoken med school hierarchy?"

"Absolutely. The person with the most sarcasm and the fewest mental breakdowns wins."

"So...no one."

"Exactly."

Their laughter follows them around the corner as Max points toward a doorway ahead.

"Anatomy's in there. First row is for overachievers; last row is for people who've already accepted their fate."

"I'll aim for the middle," Yelena says. "Keep everyone guessing."

"Smart move."

For a moment, something softer flickers between them — it's quick, but there. His smile slows, lingering.

"Well, good luck in there," he says. "If you ever need help — study groups, notes, or someone to remind you what fresh air smells like — I'm usually around."

"Thanks, Max."

He gives her a two-finger salute before disappearing into the crowd. Yelena lingers at the door a moment longer, still smiling to herself, then steps into class.

It's nearly midnight in the med school library. Yelena sits cross-legged on the floor in the quiet wing, surrounded by anatomy flashcards and a half-eaten protein bar. Her hair is tied back, her hoodie oversized, her eyes red from hours of studying. She leans back against the wall, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Footsteps approach. A coffee cup appears in front of her.

"Figured you'd still be here," Max says.

She blinks up at him, surprised. "You brought me caffeine?"

"I've been watching you die a slow academic death all week," he says, settling onto the floor beside her. "Figured I'd help delay the funeral."

She takes the cup, touched. He glances over the scatter of color-coded notes around her.

"Impressive. Or slightly terrifying," he says.

"Why not both?" she replies, smirking.

He chuckles. They sip in comfortable silence.

"You always push this hard?" he asks eventually.

"Yeah. I guess I have to. My parents gave up a lot to get me here. They weren't handed much, you know?"

He nods slowly. "Yeah. I get that." He doesn't press for more, just lets the quiet sit.

"You're one of the smartest people in the year, Ava. You know that, right?"

She shakes her head. "I know I work hard. Sometimes that has to be enough."

"It is," he says, and something in his voice makes her look at him. His gaze lingers a second longer than it needs before he clears his throat.

"So," he says lightly, "want to quiz each other and see which one of us remembers where the splenic artery goes?"

"Desperately."

They slip into an easy rhythm — quizzing, correcting, laughing. At some point, her shoulder brushes his, and she doesn't move away.

Later, as they pack up, he asks, "You ever just...need to not talk about school for a bit?"

"Sometimes," she admits.

"I know this café that serves garbage coffee and greasy waffles at two in the morning."

"Sold."

He opens the door for her, and they step into the cool night air. The streetlights flicker overhead as they walk side by side, the conversation wandering to nothing in particular.

Yelena doesn't know where this is going. Only that something good is starting.

1 YEAR, 2 MONTHS DATING

The cold presses in from the Chicago streets, a sharp bite that seeps through the cracks of the old North Side apartment. Outside, steam curls against the frosted window glass; inside, the air smells faintly of instant ramen and lemon cleaner.

Yelena sits on the couch, pulling the sleeves of her hoodie over her hands, when the front door opens with a gust of wind and the rattle of the lock. Max steps inside, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, his overcoat dusted with snow. Behind his back, he holds a small bouquet of gas station roses.

"For my girl," he says, grinning like he's just won something. He drops his keys into the bowl by the door and crosses the room to kiss her cheek.

"You got me flowers?" Yelena blinks in surprise.

His smile falters just enough to notice. "You always act so surprised when I do something nice for you."

"I mean, it's sweet," she says quickly. "It just caught me off guard."

He gives a small shake of his head. "I like doing things for you, Yelena. I just wish you didn't make it feel like a big deal every time."

Her cheeks warm. "Okay. Sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry," he says, kissing her again — longer this time. "Just let me take care of you, alright?"

That night, they curl up on the couch together, a half-finished documentary playing while her textbooks sit open and forgotten on the coffee table. Max is warm beside her, solid. He makes her laugh. He shows up with Thai food without her asking. She's still learning how to accept that kind of attention, still getting used to the idea of someone making space for her like that.

Two nights later, she's rinsing a mug in the sink when she mentions grabbing a quick drink with her study group after their pharmacology review.

"On a Tuesday night?" Max asks, no trace of humor in his voice.

"Yeah," she says, drying her hands on a dish towel. "Just one drink. Everyone's been stressed out, and I figured—"

"I thought you were trying to focus on your grades," he interrupts. "You were freaking out about that last exam, remember?"

"I was," she says gently, "but I'm allowed to have a break, right?"

He doesn't answer right away. Just stands there, arms crossed, a frown pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Do what you want," he says finally. "I just thought you were more serious than that."

Yelena doesn't end up going.

2 YEARS, 6 MONTHS DATING

Max's apartment smells faintly of takeout and stale coffee. The worn couch sags beneath Yelena as she sits with a medical textbook open across her lap, pages untouched. The words blur: her focus is elsewhere.

Max has been off all night — restless, eyes darting to his phone whenever it buzzes in his jacket pocket. He paces the small living room; tension carved deep into his jaw.

When he slips into the kitchen, she hesitates. Then she follows.

Just as she reaches the doorway, something catches her eye: the gaping mouth of his open backpack on the counter. Inside, a small plastic baggie. White powder.

She stops cold.

Before she can speak, Max turns. His eyes flash. "What the hell are you doing?"

Her mouth goes dry. "Is that...drugs?"

His expression hardens instantly, something dark and impenetrable slamming into place. "None of your business."

Her heart pounds in her ears. She's suspected — the mood swings, the sudden disappearances — but suspicion was easier to live with than proof. Seeing it makes it real. Tangible. Dangerous.

"I can't do this, Max." Her voice is quiet but steady.

He steps closer, his presence crowding the space between them. "You don't get to walk away from this. Not now."

Later, she lies awake beside him in the dark, staring at the ceiling. The weight of what she's seen presses down like a boulder on her chest.

She loves him. Or she loves the version of him she thought was real. The man next to her now — wrapped in secrets and half-truths — isn't the one she fell for.

And she's starting to wonder if he ever was.

2 YEARS, 9 MONTHS DATING

The windows in Yelena's apartment are cracked open, letting in the soft hum of a late spring breeze. The air smells faintly of ink, takeout, and lavender. Her med school notes cover the kitchen table in a layered sprawl, as much a part of the space as the table itself.

The argument starts with a text message.

Max leans against the counter, arms folded tight, her phone in his hand. "Who's Alex?"

Yelena looks up from her notes. "Alex? He's in my study group."

"Why's he texting you at midnight?"

She blinks. "We were working on a case presentation. We're partners for this block — I told you that last week."

He gives a short, sharp laugh and tosses her phone onto the table. Her water bottle topples and rolls, clattering to the floor. "Sure. Just work. You always say that."

"Because it is work," she says, her voice tightening. She stands slowly, carefully measured. "Max, come on. You know me better than that."

He pushes off the counter and closes the distance between them. "I don't know what to think anymore, Yelena. You're always so damn busy. Study groups. Classmates. Patients. Where the hell do I fit in?"

"You're my boyfriend," she says quietly. "You're supposed to support me, not accuse me."

He grabs her wrist, not hard at first, just enough to halt her when she moves to step past him.

"Don't walk away when I'm talking to you."

"I'm not — I just don't want to do this again," she says, pulling against his grip. "Max, let go."

He doesn't. His fingers dig in. Her breath hitches.

Then, as suddenly as he grabbed her, he lets go, like the contact burned him.

"Shit. Yelena, I didn't mean—"

She cradles her wrist, the skin already reddening. She doesn't look at him.

He's in front of her again before she can speak, brushing her hair back with careful fingers. His voice is softer now, almost pleading. "I just — God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. You know that, right?"

She nods too quickly. "Yeah. I know."

"I've been stressed. Work's been hell. I shouldn't have taken it out on you." His voice breaks just enough to sound fragile. "You're the only good thing I have, Yelena. Please don't be mad."

"I'm not," she whispers, eyes still down.

Later that night, she pulls on a long-sleeved shirt.

When a classmate asks the next day if she's warm in that, she smiles and blames the neighbor's dog.

It's easier than the truth.

3 YEARS, 4 MONTHS DATING

Yelena's apartment feels tight tonight. Books and papers spread across every surface, the clutter pressing in from all sides. The hum of the refrigerator fills the stillness, steady and low, like something waiting to break.

She sits on the edge of the couch, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen.

Hey, haven't seen you in forever. Everything okay?

It's from Leah, her best friend. Or she had been. They haven't seen each other in weeks. Maybe months.

The last time Yelena mentioned grabbing coffee, Max had gone still. Cold.

Why do you always need to see your friends? he'd asked that night, his voice clipped. Don't you have enough people here?

She'd tried to laugh it off. Max, they're just friends. It's not a big deal.

It is when you ignore me all day for them.

Now, the screen glows in her hand. A small tether to the outside world.

She doesn't type anything back.

Her gaze flicks to the door. She listens. Nothing.

Then, footsteps in the hallway.

Her stomach drops.

Max's key slides into the lock. The door opens with a soft click. He steps inside, eyes sweeping the room. He doesn't say hello.

His gaze lands on the phone in her hand. Then her bag. Then back to her.

"Who's that?"

She slips the phone halfway into her bag. "Nothing. Just a text from Leah."

In three strides, he's across the room, pulling the phone from her hand. He reads the message aloud, voice dripping with sarcasm:

"Hey, haven't seen you in forever. Everything okay?"

The look he gives her is sharp, accusing, as if the words themselves are evidence of betrayal.

"It's just a friend checking in," Yelena says, her voice barely above a whisper. She reaches for the phone.

Max steps back. "Friends don't check in like that. You're lying."

"I'm not." Her voice shakes. "Max, please, give me my phone."

"You're slipping away from me, Yelena." His tone drops to something low, almost intimate. "I don't like it."

Her pulse hammers. "I'm just busy with school. That's all."

"No." He takes a step closer. "You're pushing me out."

"I'm not. I swear."

Silence stretches.

Then, he drops the phone onto the couch. It lands with a dull thud; the plastic case muted against the cushion. He runs a hand through his hair, pacing a short line in front of her like a caged animal.

"Just don't forget who's here. Who's real."

She doesn't respond. She can't.

Her phone stays where he left it, screen dark.

The next week, her calls start going unanswered. Texts vanish from her inbox. Leah stops reaching out altogether.

Max begins sitting with her at study sessions, his eyes flicking between her and her classmates like a watchful guard.

If she laughs too loudly, he asks who the joke is about. If her gaze lingers on someone too long, his hand presses to her knee until she looks away.

Her circle gets smaller.

Then smaller still.

Until there's only Max.

The apartment is small, bare, and not hers. The walls are blank. A single suitcase slumps half-unpacked in the corner. Outside, streetlights flicker against the dusk, washing the room in a restless gray.

Ava — Emily — sits at a tiny table. Her hair is pulled back, her face pale, eyes red but dry, as if she's already run out of tears.

A clock ticks too loudly in the silence.

She cradles a chipped coffee mug between both hands, watching steam curl upward and vanish. Beside it sits a burner phone with no contacts, and a name tag that doesn't feel like it belongs to her.

Her movements are slow, detached—like she's wading through water.

From her bag, she pulls out her old phone. The SIM card is gone, but the photos remain. She swipes to one: Buck mid-laugh, Eddie holding Christopher upside down, her own grin caught in a rare, unguarded flash of joy.

Her thumb hovers over the screen.

They probably hate me now, she thinks. Think I ran. Gave up. I left everything behind—again. And this time...I actually had something to lose.

She locks the phone and sets it down like it might burn her.

The couch sags beneath her as she sits, pulling a thin blanket around her shoulders, though the air isn't cold.

I just wanted to feel safe. I just wanted to stay.

The quiet presses in from all sides—not peaceful, but suffocating.

And for the first time in a long time, she feels it deep in her bones: she is completely, achingly alone.

36 HOURS AGO

"We're going stir-crazy," Marina says. "I've alphabetized the wine rack."

"She doesn't drink half of it," Arpi says. "She just wanted to reorganize."

"You wouldn't let me paint the hallway," Marina argues.

"You wanted to do it at two a.m.," Arpi counters.

Ava chuckles, resting her chin on her hand, letting the familiar rhythm of their back-and-forth wash over her. "I miss you guys."

"We miss you more," Marina says.

"But you're doing okay? Really?" Arpi asks.

"Yeah. I'm...better than I thought I'd be, honestly."

"That's because you finally stopped trying to do it all alone," Marina says knowingly.

"Yeah, well...they made it kind of hard to keep pushing them away."

"Good," Arpi says. "Let them stay close. And don't wait so long to call next time."

"I won't. Promise."

"Nous t'aimons, mon cœur." We love you, my heart.

« Je vous aime tous les deux aussi. » I love you both, too.

"Always," Arpi says.

The call ends. The screen goes dark.

Ava closes the laptop and leans back with a contented sigh—

A knock. Sharp. Precise.

She freezes. Her stomach flips. She knows that knock.

Slowly, she crosses to the door and peers through the peephole. Her heart plummets.

Agent Miller.

She opens the door just enough to see his face. "This isn't a check-in, is it?"

"Max was released this morning," he says, stepping inside.

Ava leans back against the doorframe, blinking like she's trying to stay upright. "That's not possible. He was supposed to get twenty-five years. It's barely been ten. You said I'd have more time."

"I know," Miller says. "But we can't afford to take chances. You're leaving tonight."

She pushes off the doorframe toward the counter, gripping the edge like it might hold her up. Her breath comes fast and shallow. "I can't just disappear again."

"You have to." His voice is gentle but firm.

She looks up, eyes glassy. "Please...just give me five minutes. I just need to say goodbye—"

"You know the rules," he says quietly. "You've done this before. Pack light."

Her shoulders tremble as she turns away. Her eyes fall on the fridge: Buck with Christopher on his shoulders. Eddie mid-laugh. All three of them tangled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, smiling like they belong.

"They were becoming my family," she murmurs.

She stands there for a long moment, frozen in place, before wiping her face roughly. No more tears. Not yet.

She nods once, heads to the closet, and starts pulling things down.

She doesn't let herself cry again— Not until the plane is in the air.

A FEW WEEKS LATER

The night air is still, the kind that makes sound carry. Buck and Eddie sit side by side, each with a beer in hand, neither one drinking. They don't look at each other; they just breathe. Wait.

"What if she's not coming back?" Buck's voice is quiet, almost swallowed by the night.

Eddie doesn't turn his head. "You think she left because of us?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not." Buck stares at the dark yard. "I just keep replaying everything—the last time we talked, the last time she laughed. She didn't seem like someone planning to disappear."

"Yeah," Eddie says, low. "But maybe something happened. Something we don't know."

"That's the worst part," Buck says, frustration threading through the quiet. "Not knowing. It's not like her to just...vanish. No goodbye. No 'I need space.' Just...silence."

Eddie's gaze drops to the concrete. "Do you think she's okay?"

"I hope so," Buck says. "But I don't know how to do this; sit around and pretend like she didn't just rip a hole in the middle of everything."

A long pause follows, the kind where grief settles in the bones and breathing feels like work.

"I've gone through loss," Eddie says finally. "But this...this isn't like that." He pauses. "This is worse in some ways. Because you still hope. And hoping hurts."

"Yeah," Buck says softly. "It really does."

The silence comes back—heavy, not empty. Ava's absence presses down like gravity.

Eddie shifts, finishes his untouched beer, and stands slowly. "I should check on Chris. He's been quieter than usual."

Buck nods. "Yeah. That's a good idea."

They head inside together.

Christopher sits on the floor of his room surrounded by scattered action figures, but he's not really playing. His fingers turn over a small plastic firefighter, the one who used to lift him onto his shoulders during backyard BBQs. He carefully places it next to a figure wrapped in a tiny cape made from an old sock.

"I made her a cape," he says quietly, almost to himself. "In case she needs to fly home."

Eddie lingers in the doorway, watching. Buck stands just behind him, quieter than usual. Neither moves at first, weighing what to say.

"Hey, buddy," Eddie says softly. "You hungry?"

"No," Christopher answers without looking up.

Buck steps forward, crouching beside him. "Want some company?"

Christopher shrugs, but Buck sits anyway. His gaze falls to the sock-caped figure. "Is that...Ava?"

Christopher finally looks up. "She's a superhero. She had to go do a mission. Like spies do."

Eddie comes closer, crouching down beside them. Buck glances at him, eyes heavy.

"You guys miss her, too?" Christopher asks quietly.

The question cracks something open. Eddie nods first. "Yeah. We miss her a lot."

"Every single day, bud," Buck says, his voice catching.

Christopher bites his lip, looking down at the figures. "Did I do something wrong? Is that why she left?"

Eddie pulls him close instantly, cradling the back of his head. "No. No, Christopher. You didn't do anything wrong. Ava loves you. So much. She didn't want to go. She just...had to."

Buck swallows hard, eyes damp. "And she would never stop loving you. Never. Okay?"

Christopher sniffles. "Then why didn't she say goodbye?"

Silence. It's the question they've both asked themselves a hundred times, and there's still no answer that doesn't hurt.

"Sometimes people have to leave so fast, they don't get the chance," Eddie says honestly. "It's not fair. It's not right. But it doesn't mean she forgot you. Or us."

Christopher leans into Eddie's chest, clutching the sock-caped figure. Buck rests a steady hand on his back.

"I just want her to come home," Christopher murmurs.

"So do we, buddy," Buck says softly. "So do we."

The house is quiet. Christopher is asleep. Buck and Eddie sit at the table with two mugs between them. Neither speaks at first.

"He thinks she's on a mission," Buck says finally. "That she's a superhero."

Eddie's mouth pulls into a half-smile. "Maybe she is."

"It's easier for him to believe that than...whatever this is."

"Same for us, sometimes," Eddie admits.

They both stare at the same spot on the table.

"We're gonna have to keep being honest with him," Buck says. "Even if we can't say everything."

Eddie nods. "I know. We'll get through it. One day at a time."

"Together?"

Eddie meets his eyes. "Always."

They hold each other's gaze—tired, worn, but steady. Even in the ache, a flicker of hope lingers. A picture of one day, all three of them together again.

"You sleeping here tonight?" Eddie asks.

Buck shrugs. "Don't feel like going home. My place is too quiet lately."

"I get that."

They sip their tea in silence.

"I keep hearing her voice in my head," Buck says. "Like she's just gonna text me. Or walk in with that smug little smile...acting like she wasn't gone for three weeks."

"She used to roll her eyes when I left my boots by the door," Eddie says.

Buck smiles faintly. "She stole my hoodies and never admitted it."

A pause.

"What if she really isn't coming back?" Buck asks quietly.

"Then we carry her with us," Eddie says. "Every damn day."

Buck nods, leaning into him slightly. Eddie leans back, steady, letting the silence hold.

***

The firehouse kitchen is quiet in that way it gets on slow afternoons — the hum of the fridge, the faint clink of utensils from somewhere down the hall. Hen stands at the counter, steeping tea, the gentle curl of steam rising between them. Eddie is at the sink, rinsing a plate, shoulders slightly hunched.

There's a stillness hanging over him, the kind that lingers after loss or confusion. Hen notices.

"You've been off lately," she says, voice casual but eyes sharp.

"I'm fine." Eddie glances up, guarded.

"You're always 'fine.'" She tilts her head. "But that look you've had for the past couple of weeks? That's not fine. That's haunted."

Eddie exhales and dries his hands, his jaw tightening in the way that gives him away.

"Is it Buck?" she asks gently.

He shakes his head. "No. Buck's...well, not great either, but this isn't about him."

"Then what is it?"

For a moment, Eddie just leans against the counter, eyes dropping to the floor. "Ava's gone."

Hen blinks. "Gone?"

"Disappeared. No goodbye, no explanation. One day she was here — laughing, giving us hell — and the next, she was just...gone."

"Have you heard anything?"

"Nothing." His voice is quieter now. "No text. No email. No sign she even existed except for what she left behind."

"And you don't know why?"

"No." His voice roughens. "And it's driving me insane."

Silence settles between them. Hen studies him, her gaze gentle but unwavering.

"You cared about her," she says softly. "Both of you did."

Eddie doesn't try to hide it this time. He nods once.

"If she meant something to you...it's okay to grieve her like a loss. Even if it's not the kind of loss we're used to."

"That's the thing," he murmurs. "It doesn't feel like a loss. It feels like I'm still waiting for her to walk through the door and roll her eyes at us."

"And until then?"

He swallows hard, shrugs one shoulder. "I guess we just keep showing up. Like we always do."

Hen rests a hand on his arm, squeezing briefly. "You're not alone in this, Eddie. And if she finds her way back...you won't be alone for that either."

She nods toward the door. "I'll check in with Buck later. He's probably feeling it too."

Eddie's mouth tips into a faint, tired smile. "Yeah. He's not great at hiding it."

Hen gives an understanding nod and leaves him there. Eddie lingers a moment longer, lost in thought, before wiping his hands on a towel and stepping out of the kitchen.

The locker room smells faintly of detergent and warm metal. Buck sits on a bench, lacing his boots before their next call. He looks tired — not physically, but in the way exhaustion settles into the bones and refuses to leave.

Hen enters with casual steps, though there's purpose in her eyes. "You gonna pretend you're not spiraling too, or...?"

Buck glances up. "Wow. Subtle as always."

She grins. "Would you prefer I wait until you run into a burning building without gear?"

"That was one time."

"This is a different kind of fire," she says, her tone softening. "You've been quieter. Restless. Not yourself."

Buck looks down at his laces, fidgeting with the ends. He sighs. "She just...disappeared."

"Eddie told me. You don't know why?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing. Not a clue. It's like she ghosted both of us — wiped clean. And I know Ava, Hen. That's not her."

"No. It's not."

"So, either something happened...or she left because she couldn't handle being close to us anymore."

Hen tilts her head. "Do you believe that?"

"No," he admits, voice low. "But that doesn't stop my brain from running through every worst-case scenario on loop."

Silence drapes over them. Hen leans against the row of lockers beside him. "You miss her."

Buck's voice is quiet, like he's saying it for the first time. "Yeah. I really do."

She rests a hand briefly on his shoulder. "Then don't pretend you don't. Talk to Eddie. Let yourself be pissed. Confused. Hurt. That's not weakness, Buck. That's grief."

He exhales, nodding slowly. "I just...keep thinking about how things felt right before she left. We were figuring things out. The three of us. And now...we're just trying to feel normal again."

"Maybe normal isn't the goal. Maybe holding space for her — even now — is enough."

This time, he doesn't argue. Doesn't deflect. He just sits with it.

Late evening settles over the firehouse. Most of the crew are in their bunks or tucked away in corners, waiting for the next call. In the quiet apparatus bay, Buck and Eddie sit side by side on the back bumper of the rig, each holding a bottled soda.

"Hen talked to me today," Buck says after a long silence.

"Yeah," Eddie replies. "Me too."

They let the quiet stretch.

"She's not wrong," Eddie adds.

"No," Buck says softly. "She isn't."

Buck stares ahead at the still engine bay. "I keep thinking...what if Ava didn't leave because of something bad, but because of us? What if we pushed too hard? Or didn't push enough?"

"What if she didn't want to be found?" Eddie's voice is low.

"Then why does it still feel like she's here?" Buck whispers.

Eddie's gaze drifts far away. "Because we weren't just friends. We were something. And you don't just lose that without feeling like a part of you went with it."

"I miss her every damn day," Buck says.

"Me too."

The quiet deepens, heavy but not suffocating.

"We were figuring it out," Buck murmurs, elbows resting on his knees. "You, me, her. I didn't even realize how much I needed that until it was gone."

"I know," Eddie says softly. "Same."

They don't need more words. They just sit there — two halves of something unfinished — holding space for the third who's gone.

***

The weathered wooden door gives a soft creak as Ava pushes it open, the gentle chime of the bell cutting through the morning quiet. The scent of fresh coffee and warm pastries wraps around her like a blanket. Behind the counter, Mia glances up from the espresso machine and offers a warm smile.

"Morning, Emily. The usual?"

Ava returns the smile, a little tight but genuine. "Thanks, Mia. Yes, please. Black coffee, no cream."

She slides into her usual corner seat by the window, pulling her jacket closer against the lingering chill of early spring. From here, she has a clear view of the street outside — sunlight filters through the canopy of trees along Main Street, dappling the pavement. A breeze stirs the new leaves, their soft rustle carrying faintly through the glass.

A worn paperback comes out of her bag, the spine bending in familiar places. She tries to read, but her eyes drift to the door every few minutes, scanning the faces of each new arrival. Half-expecting. Half-hoping.

The café hums quietly around her; low conversation from a pair of locals at the counter, the muted clack of laptop keys from someone in the far corner. Ava keeps to herself, anchored in the rhythm of this small-town routine. It's not joy exactly, but it's steady. And steady is enough for now.

Her coffee arrives, rich and dark, the steam curling upward. She takes a slow sip, letting the bitter warmth settle in her chest. The door opens again, letting in a faint thread of cedarwood in the cool air. It hits her like a memory — Buck's cologne — and for a heartbeat, she sees them there, smiling at her like they used to.

The image fades as quickly as it comes. She blinks it away, eyes dropping back to the page in front of her. But the ache lingers, quiet and constant. She misses them more than she can say. And for now, this — the coffee, the corner table, the soft murmur of strangers — is her lifeline.

***

The living room is dim, lit only by a single lamp in the corner. A half-empty beer bottle sits on the table; takeout boxes are pushed aside in a loose stack. Buck paces near the window, restless energy rolling off him. Eddie sits on the couch, shoulders tight, arms crossed. They've been like this for almost an hour, circling a conversation neither of them wants to start.

"You could at least act like you care she's gone," Buck snaps suddenly, his voice sharp enough to cut through the stillness.

Eddie doesn't look up. "Don't do that," he says, quiet but edged.

"I'm serious, Eddie. It's been a month and a half. Six weeks. No word. No call. No explanation. You don't even talk about her."

Eddie stands, his voice low but tight. "Because talking about her doesn't change the fact she's not here. And I can't afford to fall apart over someone who might've just vanished."

"She didn't just vanish." Buck's voice cracks with frustration, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. "You know something's wrong."

"I feel it," Eddie says, quiet fury in the words. "Every damn day. But what do you want me to do? Kick down every door until someone admits she was real?"

Buck turns away, hands braced on his hips, swallowing down the ache that's been lodged in his chest since Ava stopped answering. "I just...I miss her. And I don't know what we are without her."

"Yeah," Eddie says, softer now, almost a whisper. "Me too."

The silence between them stretches, taut and unyielding.

"We've been circling each other since she left," Eddie says at last. "Avoiding eye contact. Pretending we're not both bleeding from the same wound."

"Because it's easier than admitting we're scared," Buck murmurs, voice low and vulnerable.

"Scared of what?"

"That we might lose us too." Buck still doesn't meet his eyes.

Eddie looks at him — really looks — and the distance feels heavier than it should, like Ava was the bridge and now they're stranded on opposite sides. "You think we only worked because she was here?"

Buck's answer is raw, honest. "I think she made it easier to be honest. To be seen. Without her, we have to figure out who we are without the middle."

A beat. Then Eddie steps closer, close enough that their shoulders almost touch. "Then let's figure it out. Not for her. For us."

Buck looks up, surprised. Something loosens between them — not all the way, but enough.

"Okay," he says softly.

They sit again, shoulder to shoulder. Still aching. Still quiet. But not alone.

Music hums faintly from the radio a few days later — something classic and familiar. Buck stands at the stove, flipping pancakes. Eddie leans against the counter, sipping coffee from a chipped mug. The air between them feels lighter.

"Okay, don't laugh," Buck says, "but I Googled how to make these the way she used to."

"I'm not laughing," Eddie says, deadpan. "I'm deeply touched by your devotion to carbs."

"You say that now but just wait till you taste the emotional trauma I poured into this batter."

Eddie chuckles and grabs plates. The rhythm between them is easy, automatic — muscle memory in motion.

On the counter, a framed photo catches the light: the three of them, arms tangled, grinning from months ago. It's not front and center, just there, quiet proof she existed and still does.

"You've been doing better," Eddie says.

"So have you," Buck replies, flipping the last pancake.

Neither says her name, but she's in the room — in the laughter, in the way they move around each other, in how they keep silence from stretching too far.

"You think she'd laugh at us trying to cook?" Eddie asks.

"Absolutely. But she'd eat every bite and pretend not to like it."

They share a look, a quiet smile. For the first time in weeks, it doesn't hurt to smile back.

The backyard is cool in the morning shade a month later. Buck kneels beside a garden bed, coaxing a stubborn tomato plant into behaving. Eddie sits nearby in a faded lawn chair, coffee in hand, watching with patient amusement.

"I swear this plant knows I didn't grow up doing this," Buck mutters.

"Yeah, it's definitely judging you," Eddie says, grinning.

"You could help."

"Nope. You wanted 'a distraction with a sense of purpose.' I'm just here for emotional support and mild gloating."

Buck sighs, wiping dirt off his shorts. Eddie holds out his mug; Buck takes a sip without hesitation.

"I was thinking about her this morning," Buck says.

"Yeah?" Eddie's voice is quieter now.

"It's weird. It doesn't hit like it used to, not like a punch to the chest. More like...static. Always there."

"Some days louder than others," Eddie says.

A breeze stirs the edge of the tarp Buck never rolled up.

"I think she'd like this," Buck says. "The garden. The quiet."

"She'd say it's cute we tried," Eddie says, "then fix everything."

Buck smiles faintly. "She always fixed things — even when she was the mess."

Silence settles between them, lived-in but not heavy.

"You think she's out there somewhere? Okay?" Buck asks.

"I think she's surviving," Eddie says without hesitation. "That's what she does."

"And if she comes back?"

"We'll be here," Eddie says, steady. "Like we always are."

The house is dark except for the kitchen light. The clock reads 12:42 a.m. Buck stands barefoot by the sink, drinking water like he's shaking off a dream. Eddie walks in, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You too?" Eddie asks.

Buck startles, but not much. "Couldn't sleep."

"Nightmares?" Eddie grabs a glass.

"Kinda. Not the usual. Just...felt like something was missing."

He leans on the counter. Eddie fills his glass, mirrors the stance.

"I keep thinking about how she used to sit on this counter and boss us around while we made breakfast," Buck says.

"She never trusted us with coffee," Eddie smirks. "Said we were hopeless."

"She wasn't wrong."

Their quiet laughter fades into a softer kind of silence.

"I used to wonder if we were enough," Buck says. "Without her."

Eddie looks at him, unreadable. "And now?"

"Now I think we are. But I still miss her every damn day."

"Me too," Eddie says softly.

They stand there, the glass between them like a bridge.

"We didn't fall apart," Eddie says.

"No," Buck agrees. "We held each other up."

"We still are." Eddie meets his eyes.

Buck nods. No need for more words. The silence says it all. They're still here — because being alone would hurt more than either of them can bear.

Evening settles over the apartment, the air warm and fragrant with garlic and herbs. Quiet music hums in the background, mingling with the sizzle of pans. Eddie stands at the counter, sleeves rolled up, trying — and failing — to chop garlic without losing a finger. Ava moves between the stove and counter with practiced ease, barefoot, wearing one of his soft old T-shirts and bike shorts, hair piled in a loose knot on top of her head.

She glances over at his uneven chopping and grins. "Tu es mon petit chou, you know that?"

He pauses, brow furrowed. "My...what?"

"Petit chou — literally 'little cabbage,' but it means sweetheart."

"I'll take it," he says, smirking. "Only you can make 'little cabbage' sound so damn charming."

She leans in and brushes a stray curl from his forehead. "That's because you are sexy. Even when you're mangling that poor garlic."

He tosses a piece of carrot at her. She ducks easily, turning back to the pan with a laugh under her breath. "You're lucky I love you," he says, casual, the truth sitting comfortably on his tongue now.

Ava stills for a beat, stirs the sauce, then tilts her head toward him. "Say that again."

"I love you," he repeats, softer this time.

Her smile deepens. "Good. Because you're stuck with me."

He steps in behind her, arms slipping around her waist as she stirs. His mouth is close to her ear when he murmurs, "Eres la tentación más dulce que he conocido". You're the sweetest temptation I've ever known.

She freezes for just a moment, then turns the stove to low and spins in his arms, hands resting on his chest. Her voice drops, matching his tone. "Sabes que me vuelves loco, ¿verdad?" You know you drive me crazy, right?

Eddie blinks, startled. "Wait—what? Since when do you speak Spanish?"

"Since high school," she says with a sly grin. "You only ever asked how many languages I speak, not which ones."

His breath catches. "You've been holding out on me."

"Just waiting for the right moment."

He presses a soft kiss just beneath her jaw. "This is the right moment."

She melts into him for a heartbeat, arms draped over his shoulders, before pulling back with a wicked smile. "Back to work, cariño. That garlic's not going to chop itself."

"I'd rather keep kissing you."

"You kiss me, the food burns. We burn dinner, Buck comes home and mocks you."

"...You make a compelling point."

He sighs and returns to his cutting board, muttering under his breath in Spanish. Ava smirks to herself, sneaking a taste from the pot.

***

Early evening sunlight filters through the living room blinds, casting gold stripes across Ava's bare feet where they rest on the coffee table. She's curled up on the couch, hair still damp from a shower, laptop propped in front of her as the video call rings. The screen flickers—then there they are.

Marina lounges dramatically in a velvet robe, one elbow resting on the back of the couch. Beside her, Arpi sits with a mug of tea and her usual no-nonsense expression.

"Voilà notre fille." There's our girl.

"Hey, Maman. Hey, Mom."

"You look...rested," Arpi says, tilting her head.

Ava lets out a half-laugh. "I know, weird, right?"

"She must be staying at Eddie's again," Marina remarks. "I can hear the calm."

"I've been splitting my time," Ava admits. "Buck and Eddie have been making sure I eat and sleep and don't work myself into the ground."

"Good," Arpi says firmly. "I like them already."

"You've liked them since the second you met them," Marina points out.

"That was before I knew they also cook," Arpi says, deadpan.

"Oh, trust me, that's half the appeal."

"And the other half?" Marina prompts.

Ava smirks but doesn't answer right away. "They're good. With me. Even when I'm...not."

A quiet beat follows—soft, knowing silence from two mothers who understand exactly what their daughter isn't saying.

"That matters more than anything," Arpi says.

"And they're easy on the eyes, too," Marina adds.

"Still objectifying my partners, huh?" Ava says, laughing.

"Absolutely," Marina replies without shame.

"She flirted with a very startled grocery delivery boy yesterday," Arpi says dryly. "Be glad you weren't here."

"He had beautiful forearms!" Marina protests.

"Oh my god. Please stop."

"We're going stir-crazy," Marina says. "I've alphabetized the wine rack."

"She doesn't drink half of it," Arpi says. "She just wanted to reorganize."

"You wouldn't let me paint the hallway," Marina argues.

"You wanted to do it at two a.m.," Arpi counters.

Ava chuckles, resting her chin on her hand, letting the familiar rhythm of their back-and-forth wash over her. "I miss you guys."

"We miss you more," Marina says.

"But you're doing okay? Really?" Arpi asks.

"Yeah. I'm...better than I thought I'd be, honestly."

"That's because you finally stopped trying to do it all alone," Marina says knowingly.

"Yeah, well...they made it kind of hard to keep pushing them away."

"Good," Arpi says. "Let them stay close. And don't wait so long to call next time."

"I won't. Promise."

"Nous t'aimons, mon cœur." We love you, my heart.

« Je vous aime tous les deux aussi. » I love you both, too.

"Always," Arpi says.

The call ends, the screen going dark. Ava exhales softly, her smile lingering as she leans back into the couch.

***

Golden light filters through the half-open windows, spilling across Eddie's bedroom in lazy streaks. The quiet of the apartment is heavy but comfortable, the air warm with late afternoon stillness. Ava's pulling a double shift, leaving Buck and Eddie alone in the soft hush.

Eddie reclines against the pillows, shirt riding up just enough to reveal the smooth plane of his stomach. Buck kneels beside him on the bed, fingers flexing with barely contained need.

His hands find their way beneath Eddie's shirt, palms skimming the warm skin along his ribs. He presses firmly, tracing slow, deliberate patterns that make Eddie's breath catch and his muscles tense under the touch.

Buck leans in, lips brushing Eddie's jaw before dipping lower to the sensitive spot at his neck. Eddie's pulse beats hard under his mouth, each flick of Buck's tongue teasing the delicate skin just below his ear. Eddie exhales sharply, the sound ragged and uneven.

Eddie's hands close around Buck's wrists, fingers curling like they want to drag him closer, but Buck holds steady, pressing the length of his body lightly against Eddie's — grounding them both. His hands slide lower, slipping beneath the waistband of Eddie's jeans. Fingertips skim bare skin, mapping the curve of his hips in slow, claiming strokes.

Eddie's body reacts instantly — hips tilting forward, pressing into Buck's hand, craving more contact. Buck's thigh brushes against his, skin-on-skin heat sparking a fire that spreads fast and hot between them.

His lips find Eddie's mouth, opening it with a slow, demanding kiss. His tongue slides inside, exploring deeply, tangling with Eddie's in a heated, urgent dance. Teeth catch on the bottom lip, coaxing a low moan from deep in Eddie's throat.

Buck's hands roam lower — one palm splayed over Eddie's stomach, the other slipping beneath the waistband, brushing sensitive skin with deliberate pressure. Eddie arches into the touch, muscles tightening beneath the teasing strokes. The bed creaks softly beneath them as they shift, the sound a quiet counterpoint to the heat building between their bodies.

Buck's mouth trails down Eddie's neck to his collarbone, teeth grazing in a slow, teasing rhythm. His hands grip Eddie's hips firmly, fingers pressing into skin as he works the jeans down just far enough to bare the smooth curve of his lower stomach.

Eddie's breath comes in ragged gasps as Buck's fingers skim over sensitive skin, setting every nerve ending alight. The tension in the room thickens, their bodies moving in perfect sync — each touch building on the last, every sigh and shiver pulling them deeper into the moment.

Buck's mouth finds his again, kissing with slow, possessive hunger. His tongue flicks against Eddie's, probing and claiming, while his hands roam freely — gripping, cupping, claiming — as Eddie's fingers tangle in his hair, holding him close while desire surges hot and insistent between them.

"Say it," Buck murmurs, voice low and thick with need. "Tell me what you want."

"You," Eddie breathes, raw and urgent. "I want all of you."

A slow, dark smile curves against Eddie's lips. "Good," Buck whispers. "Because I'm just getting started."

They press closer, skin sliding against skin, the charged rhythm of their connection pulling them under. The air is heavy with heat, breaths coming shallow and fast. Buck moves with assured control, sliding beneath Eddie's shirt again, fingers splayed wide across the bare flesh of his lower back. He tugs Eddie down against him, chest to chest, breaths mingling.

His lips trail down Eddie's throat, teeth catching lightly at the tender spot above his collarbone. Eddie shivers, arching into the bite, clutching at Buck's shirt like he needs something solid to hold onto. Buck's grip tightens around his hips, fingers digging in just enough to mark, to claim.

Eddie's jeans are gone in a breath — Buck's strong hands fisting in the denim, hauling it down, and stripping away every barrier. Eddie's fingers roam in return, bold and hungry, tracing the hard planes of Buck's shoulders, sliding down the line of his chest. Beneath his touch, Buck's body is all heat and tension, muscle flexing under skin as he leans in and captures Eddie's mouth in a kiss that's sharp, hungry, and demanding.

Buck shifts, one hand sliding lower, fingers pressing into the sharp jut of Eddie's hip bone, pulling him in until they're flush. The heat between them is electric — Eddie's cock hard and aching against Buck's thigh, every brush of friction a jolt through his spine. Buck's palm flattens over his pelvis, thumb grazing the sensitive skin at the base, teasing, coaxing, controlling the pace.

Eddie gasps, head tipping back into the pillow as Buck's mouth drags a slow path down his chest. Teeth graze over the hard peaks of his nipples, drawing ragged, involuntary sounds from deep in his throat. Buck's fingers curl at his hip, grip tightening just enough to hold him in place, to make him writhe beneath the steady, deliberate control.

"Fuck, Buck," Eddie breathes, voice thick with need, "please."

Buck's smile is dark and slow, full of promise. "Not yet," he said, fingers trailing lower, teasing the waistband of Eddie's boxers. "You're gonna earn this."

Eddie's hips lift, pressing insistently against Buck's hand, desperate for more. Buck chuckles low in his throat, his own desire mounting, but he stays steady, dominant.

He slips his hand inside, fingers wrapping around Eddie's length, stroking slow and sure, setting a pace that sends shivers cascading down Eddie's spine. The room fills with the sound of their breaths and soft, urgent moans—Buck's fingers tightening, sliding with purpose, and driving Eddie wild.

Eddie's hands tangle in Buck's hair, tugging him up for a deep, open-mouthed kiss that tastes of need and promise. Buck responds in kind, mouth and hands worshipping every inch of Eddie's body, setting fire to every nerve ending.

"You like that?" Buck's voice is a rough whisper against his ear. "You like me working you like this, making you wait?"

Eddie can only nod, a strangled groan escaping him as Buck's thumb swipes over the slick head, spreading the bead of moisture in a slow, filthy circle. The pressure is exquisite, maddening. Buck's other hand grips his hip hard, holding him still, forcing him to take the pleasure exactly as it is given.

Their rhythm builds—intense, steady, a dance of control and surrender, dominance and trust. Buck's voice is a low growl against Eddie's skin.

"You're mine. All of you."

Eddie's answer is a broken moan, his body trembling with the effort to hold back, to savor the slow burn Buck expertly crafted.

"Gonna make you come just like this," Buck promises, his strokes becoming faster, tighter, twisting at the top.

Eddie is already losing control.

Buck's hand keeps a steady, deliberate rhythm, fingers curling and stroking with slow precision, building Eddie's tension higher and higher. Every gasp, every shiver only encourages him more. His other hand slides up to grip Eddie's throat gently but firmly—a silent claim, a reminder of the power he wields, and the trust Eddie gives.

Eddie's breath hitches, body arching, hips pressing harder into Buck's palm. The sensation is raw, overwhelming—beautiful in its surrender.

Buck's mouth finds Eddie's neck again, teeth grazing lightly as he whispers, "Look at me. Keep your eyes on me."

Eddie obeys, eyes dark with need, wide and shimmering with anticipation. Buck's thumb brushes slow circles over his pulse, fingers tightening slightly.

"Now," Buck says, voice low, commanding—

Eddie's release rips through him like wildfire. His whole body tenses, a ragged cry caught in his throat as waves of pleasure crash over him. Buck holds him through it all, fingers never ceasing, lips never leaving his skin.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of their breathing, the wet sound of Buck's hand still moving slowly, gently now, easing him down. Eddie's body goes limp, boneless and spent against the sheets.

Buck brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting Eddie without breaking eye contact. The dark, possessive gleam in his eyes sends a fresh jolt through Eddie's exhausted system.

"Now," Buck says, voice gravelly with his own unslaked need. He quickly strips off his own clothes, his erection standing thick and heavy against his stomach. "My turn."

He grabs Eddie's hand, wrapping it around his cock. The heat of him is startling, the skin velvet over iron. "Show me how bad you want it," Buck commands, his hips pushing into Eddie's fist.

Eddie pushes himself up, his spent body protesting but his will rising to meet Buck's challenge. He tightens his grip, stroking Buck with a firm, knowing rhythm, his other hand cupping the heavy weight of his balls, rolling them gently.

"That's it," Buck hisses, his head falling back. "Just like that. Fuck, Eddie."

Eddie shifts, lowering his head. He takes Buck into his mouth, swallowing him down with a hunger that surprises them both. He uses his tongue, his lips, the flat of his palate, every technique he knows, every vulnerable intimacy. Buck's hands fist in his hair, not guiding, just holding on, his thighs trembling.

"I'm not gonna last," Buck warns, his voice strained. "Shit, Eddie, your mouth..."

Eddie redoubles his efforts, hollowing his cheeks, taking him deeper until Buck's tip hits the back of his throat. The salty, bitter taste of pre-come coats his tongue. Buck's breaths become short, ragged pants.

"Gonna come. Gonna come down your fucking throat."

The promise is the trigger. Buck's release erupts, hot and pulsing, and Eddie takes it all, swallowing convulsively as Buck shudders above him, a guttural, broken cry echoing in the quiet room.

Buck collapses beside him, both of them sticky and breathless in the slanting gold light. The silence returns, but it is different now—charged, fragile, and deep.

Buck shifts gently, rolling so he can pull Eddie close, draping an arm over his chest. Eddie's head rests against Buck's collarbone, heartbeats syncing in the quiet aftermath.

Buck's fingers stroke slow circles over Eddie's shoulder, voice low and steady. "You did so good."

Eddie smiles faintly, voice still a bit breathless. "Only because you led."

"No shame in letting me take control," Buck murmurs. "It's your strength, not weakness."

They lay there, wrapped in warmth and quiet trust, the late afternoon light casting a golden glow across their skin. The world outside fades, leaving only their space, their connection, their calm.

Eddie's hand finds Buck's, fingers threading together, a silent promise that this — this closeness, this trust, would hold no matter what.

The morning after bleeds into routine like it always does — tangled limbs giving way to showers, coffee, and duty. Eddie kisses Buck's temple before heading out with Christopher, murmuring something about groceries. Buck lingers in bed a little longer, texting Ava a lazy morning, troublemaker with a photo of the rumpled sheets she'd claimed as her territory the last time she stayed over.

No reply. Not unusual. She'd pulled a double. She probably crashed hard.

By mid-afternoon, he's still telling himself the same thing.

Even when the text stays unread.

***

The automatic doors slide open, and Buck steps inside with the gurney team, the heat of the day still clinging to his skin. It's been one of those endless L.A. shifts — every call blurring into the next until it's just sweat, sirens, and muscle memory.

He handles the handoff without thinking, his voice running through vitals like a script. But even as the words leave his mouth, his eyes are already sweeping the ER.

No Ava.

He waits for a beat. Then another.

Finally, he spots Olivia — new-ish, quiet, always keeping her head down.

"Rousseau around?" he asks as he approaches.

Olivia freezes, glances up from her chart. "She...didn't tell you?"

A crease forms between his brows. "Tell me what?"

She checks the clipboard again, like maybe the answer might change if she stalls long enough. "She resigned yesterday. Turned in her badge. Cleared her locker." Her voice drops, softer. "Didn't leave a note for anyone."

The words land like they're underwater — muffled, wrong.

"That doesn't make any sense..."

But Olivia's already moving on, tossing over her shoulder, "Maybe it was personal. She looked...upset. Kind of lost, honestly."

Buck's hand fumbles for his phone, fingers clumsy. He hits Eddie's contact.

"Have you talked to Ava today?"

"No. Why?" Eddie's voice is sharp on the other end.

"One of the nurses said she quit yesterday. Out of nowhere. No goodbye. Nothing."

"What do you mean she quit?"

"I mean, she's gone."

"That doesn't sound like her," Eddie says, voice dropping lower. After a pause: "I'm going to her place."

Eddie drives with his jaw tight, sunlight cutting long shadows across the asphalt. His pulse thuds too fast in his ears.

From the outside, everything looks normal. The porch light is still out. Mailbox shut. Quiet.

The key she gave him still turns smoothly in the lock.

The silence inside feels wrong.

The couch is still there. Bookshelves are still full. But something is missing.

He heads for the bedroom.

Closet: empty. Dresser: drawers open, bare. Bathroom: stripped clean.

His throat tightens.

Back in the living room, his gaze snags on the gaps — the photo of the three of them after a shift, sweat-slicked and laughing. Gone. So is the one of Ava and Christopher at the park, when Chris insisted on pushing her on the swing until she laughed breathlessly.

The notebook — the one Eddie had glimpsed once – frayed pages scribbled with care — is gone too.

He calls Buck. "She's not here," he says quietly. "She's...gone, Buck. Like she was never here."

"I'm coming."

Buck arrives twenty minutes later to find Eddie sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the floor. He doesn't look up, just passes Buck a picture frame. Empty.

"She took the photos. The ones that mattered." Eddie's voice is flat. "And the notebook."

Buck sinks down beside him, scanning the space. What used to be a home now feels like just a shell. "She knew she wasn't coming back," he says softly.

Silence settles heavily between them.

"She was just here," Buck whispers.

"I know."

Buck stands abruptly, pacing. "She wouldn't just leave without a word. Not without telling us."

He turns in a slow circle, scanning for something, anything — a clue they missed. His jaw tightens. "She was happy. With us. This doesn't make sense."

"Then where the hell is she?" Eddie demands.

Buck stares at the empty space in front of him, as if he could will her to walk back through the door.

Eddie's kitchen is calm in the soft light, the air smelling faintly of coffee. Eddie stands at the counter in sweatpants and a t-shirt, cradling his mug, hair still tousled from sleep. He looks tired, but it's a softer kind of tired than the night before.

The front door clicks open and shuts with a muffled thud. Buck walks in, stretching with a yawn before inhaling deeply. "Damn, that smells good. Please tell me you made enough for two," he mutters, a little too loudly.

Eddie winces and holds a finger to his lips. "Shhh. Keep it down. Ava's still sleeping."

Buck freezes mid-stretch. "Wait...she's here?"

Eddie nods, setting his coffee aside and rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. She called late last night. Said she was fine at first, but I could tell something was off. Then she just...broke."

Concern pulls at Buck's features. "What happened?"

"Everything," Eddie says with a sigh. "Work. Isolation. The weight of it all. She's been holding it together for so long, but she hit a wall. Said she couldn't do it anymore."

"Jesus."

"She was crying so hard she could barely talk. I told her to pack a bag, take a shower, and wait outside. Then I went and got her. I couldn't just leave her there."

Buck's quiet as he moves to pour himself some coffee, his voice softer this time. "You absolutely did the right thing. She shouldn't be alone right now. None of us should."

"It's not just the work," Eddie says. "It's coming home to silence. Eating alone. Sleeping alone. Not being able to touch anyone. That kind of loneliness...it doesn't just wear you down, it eats you alive."

"Yeah," Buck murmurs. "I can't even imagine."

Eddie glances toward the bedroom before looking back at him. "She passed out not long after we got here. First real sleep she's had in days, probably. Figured it was time she stopped doing this all by herself."

Buck nods slowly. "I'm glad she has you. Us."

Something quiet and unspoken passes between them. They sip their coffee in the stillness.

"Next time," Buck says, lowering his voice, "warn me before I yell about coffee."

"You wake her up," Eddie smirks, "you're the one explaining why you disrupted the best sleep she's had in a week."

"Noted."

By late morning, the haze has burned off, sunlight spilling warm across the counters. Eddie stands at the stove flipping grilled cheese sandwiches, while Buck leans against the counter nursing his second coffee. Quiet music hums from Eddie's phone, filling the space without overpowering it.

"Man, that smells good," Buck says with a smirk. "You always go gourmet with your grilled cheese, or is this just for me?"

"It's literally cheese and bread, Buck."

"Yeah, but it smells like comfort and good decisions."

Eddie shakes his head, smiling despite himself. From down the hall, the soft creak of a door opens, followed by the shuffle of bare feet on hardwood.

"Speak of the devil," Eddie murmurs.

Ava appears in the doorway, hair a sleep-tangled mess, sleeves of Eddie's hoodie hanging past her hands. She squints against the light, pausing like she's only half-ready to rejoin the world.

"Sleeping Beauty lives," Buck grins.

She makes a gravelly noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh. "What time is it?"

"Just past noon," Eddie answers.

"You clocked almost twelve hours," Buck adds. "A new personal record?"

"I think my spine fused with your mattress," she says, wandering toward the table. "Not complaining."

"Take that as a compliment to my taste in beds."

She drops into a chair, letting her head flop onto the table. "Is there coffee? Or food? Or just...something that doesn't require me to be conscious?"

"Both," Eddie says. "Sandwiches are almost done."

"And I saved you the last cup of coffee," Buck says, pouring it and setting it in front of her like a peace offering.

She wraps both hands around the mug as if it's the only thing holding her together. "I take back every mean thing I've ever said to you."

"Even the time I left wet laundry in your dryer for three days?"

"...Let's not push it."

Eddie plates the sandwiches, sliding one in front of her before taking a seat. Buck joins them. The kitchen falls into the kind of quiet that feels safe. Ava takes a bite, a small hum of appreciation escaping her.

"God. This is the first time I've actually tasted food in days."

"You needed the sleep," Eddie says. "You looked like you were running on fumes."

"I was," she admits softly. Her eyes flick between them, tired but full of gratitude. "Thank you. For picking me up. For not making me do another night staring at the wall, wondering if the silence was gonna swallow me."

"You don't have to do this alone anymore," Eddie says.

"Not now, not ever," Buck adds.

She nods, blinking back the sting in her eyes, and focuses on her sandwich. She's not ready to fall apart again—not today. But this, sitting here with them, being held without needing to ask, is everything.

***

The bathroom door creaks open, and steam curls into the cooler air as Ava steps out, wrapped snugly in a towel. Her skin is flushed, her hair damp, and she looks more like herself than she has in weeks.

"I feel human again," she murmurs, content.

Buck glances up from the bed, phone in hand, a grin spreading across his face. Eddie, across the room, folding a blanket, turns at the sound of her voice.

"Hey, sirun," Buck says.

Ava pauses mid-step, eyebrows lifting. "Did you just call me pretty in Armenian?"

"I did." His grin turns smug.

"And how exactly do you know that?"

"Been learning a little. During lockdown. Thought it might come in handy," Buck says, trying for casual and failing.

Eddie snorts. "He's been drilling vocab on shift like it's life or death. Made me listen to the same three phrases for a week."

"It worked, didn't it?" Buck counters.

Ava walks over and climbs onto the bed beside him, her towel riding up slightly as she settles in. She presses a quick kiss to his cheek. "You're ridiculous. But sweet. And kind of unfairly hot right now."

"Yeah?" Buck grins wider.

"Mhm."

Eddie joins them, sitting at the edge of the bed. His hand drifts to her leg, fingers brushing lightly over damp skin. She turns her gaze toward him just as he says, "Six months is a long time."

"At least you guys had each other," she teases. "I had to take care of my needs by myself. In solitude. Like a martyr."

Buck chokes on a laugh. "Did you just compare masturbating in quarantine to martyrdom?"

"I'm just saying — some of us had it harder."

"She's not wrong," Eddie murmurs.

The mood shifts — playfulness melting into something warmer, heavier. Buck's hand curls around her waist, pulling her closer. Eddie leans in, mouth brushing her damp shoulder.

"Then we owe you," Buck says.

"Damn right you do."

Buck kisses her slowly at first, but deep, hungry, his tongue teasing hers with a slow, demanding dance. It says mine in the way his mouth moves over hers, like he's tasting something he's been denied for far too long. Ava melts into it, a quiet sigh slipping from her as her towel loosens, sliding lower across her chest. The cotton clings to her damp skin, but barely — one more breath and it will fall away completely.

Eddie's hand is warm against her thigh, steady and grounding. His palm drags upward in a slow, deliberate path, brushing the curve of her hip. His thumb presses gently into soft skin, as though he's relearning her shape. Reclaiming it.

"I missed you both so much," she breathes.

"We missed you more," Eddie says, low and sure.

The towel slips again, and she doesn't stop it. Buck groans as her skin is revealed, his hands sliding around her waist to pull her fully into his lap. Her legs part easily, straddling him, her bare heat pressed against the rough denim of his jeans. The contrast makes her gasp. His hands roam her back — firm, reverent — as if he's trying to memorize every curve all over again.

"Six months is too damn long," he murmurs against her jaw.

"Yeah," Eddie agrees, voice low and rough. "Way too long."

Ava turns toward him, breath catching just as his mouth meets hers. The kiss is slow at first, then deepens fast — no hesitation, just need. Her lips part under his, tongue sliding against hers in a hungry, intimate exchange. She moans softly into it, her fingers tightening around Buck's wrist where it rests at the small of her back.

"You have no idea how much I thought about this," she pants, caught between them.

"Oh, we know," Eddie says, his voice thick with heat. "We thought about you, too, baby. Every night."

Eddie's fingers slip beneath the towel, gliding over the swell of her ass before dragging the fabric down. It pools at her knees, then slides to the floor, forgotten. She's bare now, spread open between them, skin flushed and trembling under their hands.

Buck pulls back just enough to see her — really see her — and the look in his eyes makes her pulse stutter.

"God," he breathes, voice low and reverent. "Look at you. Been starving for this. For you."

Buck dips his head to her chest, lips finding a nipple, teasing with slow drags of his tongue and playful nips until she whimpers. His hands cup her ass, guiding her hips as she rocks forward against him — the rough denim of his jeans sending sparks through her already aching core.

Behind her, Eddie's mouth trails heat along her shoulder, his breath warm against damp skin. His fingers slip between her thighs from behind, stroking her with a practiced touch that makes her knees go weak.

A sharp, involuntary cry escapes her — a sound that pulls a low growl from Buck and a quiet, hungry groan from Eddie.

"Missed the way you sound," Buck murmurs, voice like smoke. "Missed the way you melt for us."

Eddie's lips brush her ear, his voice a hot whisper. "Missed how wet you get from just a few touches."

They work her in tandem — Eddie's fingers sliding inside her as Buck's mouth teases her breasts, one of his hands tangled in her hair, the other gripping her hip. Her head falls back, her body moving instinctively, grinding against Buck's thigh as Eddie sets a slow, deliberate rhythm.

"Don't make me wait anymore," she gasps, her voice breaking.

Eddie pulls his fingers free, his tone low and thick with intent. "You won't have to."

Buck lifts her just enough to shove his jeans and boxers down, his cock springing free — flushed, hard, and aching. He reaches into the nightstand drawer, fingers quickly pulling out a condom, which he tears open and rolls on with practiced ease.

He lines himself up as Eddie steadies her, one hand firm on her waist, the other cupping her jaw, keeping her eyes on his.

When she sinks down onto Buck, the sound they make is shared and primal — a guttural rush of relief and possession. He fills her completely, the stretch toeing the edge of too much but never crossing it. Her palms brace against his chest, hips rolling instinctively, already chasing the edge.

"Fuck, Ava...so tight. So fucking perfect," Buck hisses.

Eddie leans in close, his voice a low rumble against her ear. "Ride him, cariño. Let him feel how much you missed us."

She does — slow at first, savoring every inch. Buck's head tips back against the pillow, hands gripping her hips, guiding her rhythm. Eddie watches from behind, hard and wanting, stroking himself as she moves with growing urgency.

When her thighs start to shake, Eddie steps in close and pushes forward, sinking into her from behind with deliberate care until she's stretched around them both. She gasps, nearly sobbing from the overwhelming fullness, head tipping forward against Buck's shoulder.

Buck's groan is shattered, his eyes flying open to watch Eddie move within her.

"That's it, take us both," Eddie grunts, his pace matching the roll of her hips on Buck. "You're ours. All ours."

The room dissolves into a symphony of slick skin, ragged breaths, and filthy, broken words. Buck's hands are everywhere, on her breasts, her clit, her mouth. Eddie's grip on her hips is possessive, anchoring her between them as they move in a rhythm that is perfectly, devastatingly synchronized.

"Oh my god...oh fuck—"

"You've got us, baby," Eddie grits out, his palm pressing over her stomach. "Let go."

She does — hard, shattering around them, her whole body trembling. Buck holds her through it, moaning her name as he thrusts up into her, chasing his own release. Eddie follows seconds later, both men buried deep as their groans mix with the broken, breathless sounds falling from her lips.

Afterward, they stay tangled together — breathless, skin still warm where it touches. Ava lies boneless between them, her body humming with exhaustion and something deeper.

"I didn't realize how lonely I was until now," she says quietly, the vulnerability in her voice catching both men's attention.

"You're not anymore," Buck murmurs.

Eddie presses a kiss to her temple, his voice low and certain. "You're ours, Ava. Always."

***

The kitchen hums with the easy rhythm of home — something simmering on the stove, the steady thump of a knife on the cutting board, soft music drifting from the speaker in the corner. Ava stands at the counter, dicing vegetables with quick, efficient movements. Buck tends the sauce at the stove, the rich scent filling the air, while Eddie preps chicken a few feet away.

"Hey, by the way," Buck says casually, giving the sauce another stir, "how's Ms. Flores?"

Ava stills mid-chop, glancing up. "Ms. Flores? Christopher's teacher from last year?"

Eddie shoots Buck a flat look. "Thanks, man."

Buck just grins. "Yeah. He ran into her the other day on a call. She looked...surprised to see him."

Ava narrows her eyes. "Surprised? Or excited?"

"She just said hi," Eddie says, trying for nonchalance.

"Oh, come on. Did she bat her lashes? Maybe run a hand through her hair?"

"Pretty sure there may have been a hair flip," Buck says, far too pleased with himself.

Eddie turns his glare on him, but Ava's already smirking. "Well, if she's still interested...should we invite her over? You know, see if she's into throuples?"

Eddie groans, half laughing. "I hate both of you."

"You love us," Buck says, still stirring.

"Don't dodge the question, babe," Ava teases. "Should I text her? 'Hey, you still crushing on hot firefighter dads with emotional depth and killer arms?'"

"You're lucky you're cute," Eddie mutters.

"I know." Ava flicks a piece of chopped pepper at him. He catches it mid-air, pops it into his mouth, and narrows his eyes at her, fighting a smile. Buck laughs outright, clearly enjoying himself.

"I'm just saying," Buck adds innocently, "if she shows up with cookies, I'm not turning them down."

"Unbelievable," Eddie mutters.

Ava rounds the counter, sliding her arms around his waist from behind, cheek resting against his back. "I'm only messing with you," she says, softer now. "You're taken. Fully, completely, deliciously taken."

"And definitely not allowed to flirt with teachers," Buck calls from the stove. "We have rules."

"So many rules," Eddie says, but his voice is warm now.

"Lucky for you, we're worth it." Ava presses a kiss to his shoulder, then swats his backside on her way back to the cutting board.

"Ava!" Buck gasps in mock scandal. "The vegetables are watching!"

***

The low hum of the ER sits like static under flickering overhead lights. It's the kind of quiet that never lasts — twilight settling outside, windows washed in deep blue shadow. Ava leans against the nurses' station, scrolling through the latest patient updates on her tablet. Her hair's tied back, exhaustion worn like armor after another long shift.

Around her, the staff moves in a slow, practiced rhythm — one nurse refills charts, another checks vitals. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs softly.

The dispatch radio on the desk crackles to life, cutting through the calm.

"Multiple vehicle collision caused by a wrong-way driver on the 710. Estimated twelve victims en route. Pediatric patient diverted to Children's for immediate surgical intervention. Two burn victims incoming, one reported as a firefighter from Station 132."

A beat — and then Ava's already moving.

"All right, everyone, we've got incoming," she calls, voice loud and clear over the sudden stir of activity. "Northbound 710, major accident. Drunk driver going the wrong way — multiple vehicle pileup. Twelve confirmed en route. Pediatric patient bypassing us for emergency surgery at Children's. Two burn victims headed here — one's a firefighter."

The air shifts. The calm fractures into controlled chaos. Nurses abandon food, phones, and conversations. Everyone moves.

"I want Trauma One, Two, and Three cleared and stocked now," she orders. "Overflow stretchers in Hall C, Radiology on standby for rapid sequence scans — we're going to need full-body panels on at least half of them."

"Burn team's on call — should we page?" Marisol asks, already halfway to the phone.

"Do it," Ava says. "Tell them one of theirs is coming in. And loop in Critical Care — we'll need backup in ICU if any of these patients tank overnight."

"Dr. Rana's still in OR," Olivia calls from across the floor. "We've got Dr. Hammond and Dr. Cardenas on deck."

"Good," Ava says with a sharp nod. "Triage protocol is active — tags on all incoming. Expect smoke inhalation, blunt trauma, and high-speed impact injuries. No one walks in without a full workup, even if they're talking. We miss nothing tonight."

She's tying her hair back tighter when the first distant sirens bleed into the hospital's bones. The sliding doors part, and paramedics push the first gurney through. Ava steps forward, calm and sharp — a lighthouse in a rising storm.

"All right," she murmurs under her breath. "Let's go."

The ER becomes a storm in motion — gurneys rolling in, doctors shouting for scans and meds, the trauma board filling fast. Ava moves through it like she was born here, sleeves rolled up, jaw set, ponytail slightly askew.

"Page Dr. Ramirez for the burn consult," she calls, pivoting toward the next bay. "And clear Trauma Two for incoming — chest injury, six minutes out."

She's halfway through clearing the space when the ambulance bay doors swing open again. Athena Grant walks in, her pace clipped, trailing paramedics who push an unconscious woman — mid-thirties, blood streaking her face, bruises blooming along her arms.

"I need a BAC and tox screen — priority. Chain of custody," Athena says.

Ava's already snapping on gloves. "Draw two vials, full tox panel, mark as police hold," she tells a nurse. "Send one to the lab, one to lockup. I want confirmation within the hour." She glances at Athena. "This is her? The driver?"

"Yeah. Rachel Hawkerson. She was going the wrong way on the 710. Hit a dozen cars. Had her eight-year-old son in the back seat."

Ava freezes for half a heartbeat. "Is he—"

"Alive," Athena says. "They're rushing him into surgery at Children's."

Ava exhales sharply through her nose. "She put him in that car," she says quietly.

"Yeah."

"And now over a dozen people are bleeding out because she wanted to play roulette with a bottle and a steering wheel."

Athena doesn't respond, just watches her with quiet patience. Ava blinks hard, forcing herself to reset.

"I'll let you know as soon as I have the results," she says.

"Appreciate it."

The gurney rolls past, and Ava's eyes track the driver for a moment before she turns back to the trauma bay, shoulders tight, fingers curling briefly into fists. Then she's moving again.

"Okay, people — back to it. We've got lives to save."

The night grinds on, the ER a blur of shouted updates and rattling trauma carts. Ava stands in the middle of it all, tablet in hand, voice sharp with precision.

"Get Ortho on standby — compound fractures incoming. Warm the second trauma bay. Pull extra crash carts. Page Dr. Ramos — now."

A monitor beeps sharply. A nurse rushes past with IV bags. The ambulance bay doors fly open again, and a stretcher barrels in — Hen and Buck flanking it.

"What've we got?" Ava asks, stepping forward.

Hen starts to answer, but Buck's voice cuts in — tight, urgent. "It's Albert."

Ava's chest goes still for a beat. She looks down. Albert's unconscious, blood streaking his temple, face pale beneath the oxygen mask. His neck is braced in a cervical collar, his arm strapped awkwardly across his body, bruising already darkening his ribs.

"Multiple lacerations, likely fractured ribs, possible internal bleeding," Hen rattles off. "Vitals unstable. Pupils sluggish."

"Trauma One," Ava orders, already moving. "Head CT and abdominal scan. Type and cross two units. Page trauma and neuro. Move."

The team wheels Albert away. Ava turns to Buck. "Does Chimney know?"

Buck swallows hard, looking younger in the harsh light. "He's with Maddie. She's in labor. I didn't tell him — he needs to focus on her."

"Goddamn it," Ava mutters, forcing her voice steady. She smooths a blood-soaked strand of hair back from Albert's forehead. "You picked a hell of a night, Albert," she says softly. "But you're not checking out on us, you hear me?"

The nurse starts bagging him, and Ava falls into step with the gurney as they wheel him down the hall, her focus locking back into place.

Eddie's front door clicks open softly. The living room is still wrapped in the cool hush of early morning, only the first thin stripes of sunlight sliding through the blinds. The faint, rich scent of coffee lingers in the air.

Ava steps inside, movements slow, weighted. Her scrubs are rumpled and smudged with the night's work; her shoes scuffed from miles of pacing hospital floors. She looks like she's been through hell — because she has.

From the kitchen, Eddie glances up mid-pour. One look at her and he's already setting the mug down.

The door clicks shut behind her, the weight of the day clinging to her skin like smoke. Ava nudges her shoes off with the side of her foot and lingers in the entryway, bag slipping from her shoulder with a dull thud.

"I thought you were heading home to crash," Eddie says, surprised but gentle. He's standing at the counter with a mug in hand, steam curling in the dim light.

"Couldn't do it," she admits. "My apartment was too quiet. Too clean. Felt like it was echoing."

From the couch, Buck rubs his eyes and lifts his head. "Hey. Come here."

He's already upright, arms open, and she crosses the room without hesitation. She folds into him like she's been holding her breath all night, her face tucking under his chin, his palm steady at the small of her back.

Eddie sets the mug down on the table. "You look like hell."

"Thanks, Diaz," she mutters, grim smile tugging at her mouth. "Nothing like a little honesty to start the day."

"Just saying what we're all thinking." He nods toward the hall. "Go shower. I'll make you something to eat. You're not passing out until you've had something real."

Ava groans. "You two gonna carry me there, or should I just crawl?"

"Not a bad idea," Buck teases. "I could throw you over my shoulder if you're too stubborn to walk."

She shoots him a flat look. "Try it and I'm biting."

But she kisses his cheek anyway before shuffling toward the bathroom. "You're both too good to me."

"Get used to it," Buck calls after her.

Twenty minutes later, she reappears in sweatpants and one of Eddie's old t-shirts, damp hair curling at the ends. The tension hasn't fully left her, but she looks softer now. Buck has shifted to make space; her head is pillowed on his thigh as his fingers comb lazily through her hair.

Eddie comes in from the kitchen with a balanced plate in one hand — scrambled eggs, toast, sliced fruit — and sets it on the table within reach. "Eat. Then sleep. No arguments."

"You feeding me now, too?" Ava asks, pulling herself upright.

"If that's what it takes."

She picks at the toast but manages a faint smile.

"How's Albert?" Buck asks.

Her fork pauses over the eggs. "Stable. Concussion, broken ribs, bruises everywhere. But he's holding on." She exhales slowly. "Chim was with him when I left. I kept picturing him holding his daughter, not knowing what had happened. It felt like this weird split in the world — joy on one side, devastation on the other. And I was standing right in the middle."

Her gaze drops to the plate. Buck threads their fingers together, grounding her.

"You did what you always do," he says quietly. "You protected the people you love."

Her smile flickers, then fades. "We lost two before they even made it to the OR. And Rachel — the driver — barely a bruise on her. I looked at her, and I just wanted to scream. She chose to get behind that wheel. She chose that for her kid."

Eddie's voice is sober. "Some people don't deserve second chances."

"I don't care if I'm not supposed to say that," she admits. "I know better than to think in absolutes. But last night? It felt like the universe was rigged."

"You don't have to make it make sense," Buck tells her. "You just survived it. That's enough for right now."

Ava nods, forcing down another bite. The tightness in her shoulders doesn't disappear, but it loosens — eased by the quiet, by the safety of being here, held between them.

***

It's early evening, the sun dipping low and casting the apartment in a warm, golden glow. Buck is out with his parents — a joint therapy appointment, then dinner after. Eddie is still at work, finishing the last hour of his shift. Ava is home alone, bored, restless, missing him.

The first text comes in at 5:07 PM:

Miss you. 😘

At the station, Eddie glances at his phone and smiles, fingers still wrapped around his radio as he finishes logging a report. Two more calls to go.

5:12 PM:

Still miss you. Getting kind of lonely.

An image is attached. It's not explicit — just her thighs, bare, wrapped in one of his T-shirts. The angle is enough to spike his blood pressure. He shifts in place, jaw tight.

5:15 PM:

I could be waiting for you like this. Naked. On your bed. But I guess I'll just entertain myself...

Eddie stops mid-step. His response is sharp.

Ava. Knock it off. I'm at work.

You could fix that. Come home and punish me 😇

He doesn't hesitate.

You want to be punished? Fine. Don't move from that bed. You're mine the moment I walk through that door.

6:02 PM. The front door slams shut.

Ava is exactly where she promised she'd be — sprawled across their bed, bare except for one sleeve of his shirt sliding down her shoulder. Keys clatter onto the counter. Heavy, deliberate footsteps cross the hardwood.

Then — silence.

The bedroom door creaks open. Eddie fills the doorway; his gaze locked on her like he's already decided what comes next.

The scent of smoke and hard work clings to him. His face is a mask of controlled intensity, the kind he probably wears facing down a blazing hallway. It sends a thrill straight through her core.

"You think that was funny?" His voice is low and dangerous.

Her pulse skips. "You said you missed me..."

He doesn't answer. Just grips the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head, slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving hers.

"Turn over," he says, tone leaving no room for argument. "Face down."

She moves instantly, breath hitching as she settles on her stomach. The air shifts — heavier now, charged — and the mattress dips under his weight as he comes closer. The scent of him, warm and familiar, curls around her, and her skin prickles in anticipation.

Eddie hikes up the oversized shirt she's wearing, baring the backs of her thighs, the curve of her ass. His gaze roams over her, heavy and possessive, and she feels it like a touch.

His hands smooth over her skin — warm, sure — before parting her legs with practiced ease. The first smack lands with a sharp, ringing crack, enough to sting but not wound. She gasps into the pillow.

"You wanted attention?" His voice is calm and dangerous. "Now you'll get all of it."

Another smack follows. She flinches, not from fear but from anticipation. His hand trails after, soothing the heat he's just raised, fingers spreading and kneading. Her hips twitch toward him, her body already giving her away. She's soaked, aching, and he knows it.

"You don't come until I say," Eddie murmurs, his voice low and rough like gravel. "You so much as breathe wrong, and we start over."

She nods quickly, but his gaze sharpens. Not enough.

"Words," he orders.

"Yes, sir," she breathes, the sound reverent.

It pulls a guttural sound from deep in his chest, not because she's teasing, but because she means it. Because she trusts him with that part of her.

He slides two fingers into her — slow, but unforgiving. The curve of them is perfect, hitting that spot again and again until she's gasping, trembling, clawing at the sheets. Her body tightens, desperate for release.

"Don't come. Not yet," he says, firm.

She whimpers, thighs trembling, as he pulls back. Then he builds her up again — slow pressure, precise strokes, his hand spreading her open, dragging her right to the edge. And again, he stops. She sobs into the pillow, desperate, needing, aching.

A third time — it's almost cruel. Her whole body shakes, pleasure locked inside her like a live wire, waiting to detonate.

He unbuckles his belt, the leather sliding free with a sharp hiss. The sound makes her flinch. He undoes his jeans, frees himself. He is brutally hard, the head flushed and leaking.

When he flips her over, her skin is flushed and glowing, her eyes glassy with need. She looks ruined already. Beautifully wrecked.

He braces over her, forearms caging her in, his face inches from hers. He reaches down briefly to retrieve a condom from the nightstand drawer, tearing it open and rolling it on with practiced ease. He nudges at her entrance, rubbing himself through her slick folds, teasing them both.

"Eyes on me when you come," he says, quiet and sure.

Then he pushes inside — deep, steady, a slow, claiming thrust that steals her breath. She arches into him, mouth falling open as a cry rips from her throat. He sets a ruthless, driving rhythm, each snap of his hips a claiming. The bedframe knocks against the wall in a steady, brutal tempo.

"Eddie—please—please, I can't—" she gasps, desperation bleeding into every word.

"Now," he growls, voice tight and breath ragged. "Come for me."

She shatters — back arching, a full-body climax ripping through her like a wave breaking. The cry that tears from her is raw, her hands clutching at him, at anything, as she falls apart beneath him. He follows with a harsh groan, spilling into her as he buries his face in her neck, breath stuttering against her skin.

They collapse together, tangled, slick with sweat and afterglow. Her pulse races under his palm as he strokes her hip, his other hand brushing damp hair from her forehead.

He presses a kiss to her shoulder — soft, grounding. "You good?" he murmurs.

She smiles into his chest. "Very."

"Next time you want attention," he warns, "just ask. Don't tease me while I'm trying to keep people alive."

Her grin is unrepentant. "But it worked."

He huffs a quiet laugh and kisses her temple. "You're gonna be the death of me."

"And yet," she says softly, "you always come home."