The Ghost of Us: A Blackwood Asylum Reckoning
Description: The life you and Colby shared behind the scenes of the XPLR brand wasn't just a career; it was a slow-motion collision. From the high-pressure, late-night origins in Kansas to the toxic, performative spiral of the LA house, the tension between you was always a wildfire waiting for a spark. When the team tore apart, it left only wreckage. 122 days later, a mandatory investigation into the horrors of Blackwood Asylum serves as the stage for a violent, desperate reclamation of everything that was lost, buried, and broken between you two.
If your names Elena then imagine another name.
The Kansas Kitchen: The Catalyst
It started in that cramped, dimly lit Kansas kitchen—the birthplace of the brand. It was 3:00 AM, the air thick with the smell of stale pizza and the hum of overclocked hardware. Sam was pacing, manic with the dream of moving to LA.
"We go vertical," Sam said, his voice hitting a sharp, excited pitch. "We take the channel, we grind. Y/N, you’re the brains, the backbone. I’m not doing this without you."
Colby was hunched over a CPU case, thermal paste staining his fingers. He went dead still, his jaw locking. He didn't look up, but his voice was a low, strained rasp. "Yeah. Y/N is coming. We don't function as a unit without them." In his head: She’s only saying yes for the work. She’s already looking for a way out, and this is just the easiest way to keep her in sight until she realizes I’m not worth the effort.
Your hand moved to the mouse at the same time his did. Your fingers locked—a pulse of heat that traveled straight to your spine. You turned, and his pupils were blown wide, black voids in the dim light. He was looking at your mouth, his breath hitching, the sound audible over the PC fans.
"Colby," you whispered, a plea for him to finally see you.
He ripped his hand away, his chair screeching against the linoleum. "We’re losing time on the render," he snapped, his voice tight, bordering on a growl. "Finish the project, Y/N. Don't look at me like that. I know you think I'm a mess—you don't have to pity me."
II. The LA Cycle: The Theater of Cruelty
The LA house was a sprawling, hollow monument to the brand, but for you, it was a pressure cooker of unsaid things. Colby used every woman he brought home as a barricade, a way to convince himself that he was unreachable, and therefore, un-losable.
The Elena Incident:
Elena was walking through the kitchen, laughing a little too loudly, her hand draped possessively over Colby’s arm. Colby didn't look at you, but the way he pulled her closer—fingers digging into her shoulder—was an obvious, performative display. When he cornered you in the pantry, he didn't say a word. He stood so close his chest almost brushed your back, forcing you into the corner against the shelves. He slammed his palm against the wood right next to your head, the vibration rattling the pasta boxes. He just stood there, breathing in ragged, uneven hitches, smelling of stale tequila and that desperate, jagged scent of a panic attack held at bay. He didn't look at you, just glared at the wall until his knuckles turned bloodless and white.
You didn't acknowledge him. You didn't even flinch. You squeezed past him, the contact of his arm against your shoulder feeling like a live wire.
Later, from the couch, you heard the low, tense murmur of the guys. Corey was sitting on the edge of his seat, his gaze flicking between you and Colby. "Jesus, man," Corey whispered to Elton, shaking his head. "Look at them. It’s like they’re two magnets forced to repel each other. Colby’s brings Elena in, acting like a complete, arrogant prick just to see if Y/N breaks, and Y/N just... nothing. Y/N acts like the guy doesn't exist. It’s a fucking powder keg."
The David Incident:
When you brought David to the house, the mood shifted from toxic to volcanic. You were standing in the den, David’s arm around your waist. Across the room, at the kitchen island, Colby was standing motionless, his eyes tracking you like a predator watching a deer. He was gripping a tumbler of whiskey so hard his knuckles were bulging, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like the bone might snap. He didn't come over. He didn't confront you. He just stood there, radiating pure, unadulterated, black-hearted rage, his eyes locked onto David’s hand on your waist with enough intensity to burn a hole through the fabric of your shirt.
Elton stood up, noticing the way Colby’s breathing had become shallow and labored. He walked over and placed a firm, steadying hand on Colby’s shoulder, trying to physically pull him out of the spiral. "Colby, man, listen to me. Take a fucking breath. You’re scaring everyone, and David is just a guest. Just walk away before you lose it."
Colby jerked his shoulder away with a violent, jarring shove that nearly sent Elton stumbling into the fridge. He didn't yell at you—he yelled at the room, his eyes wild and bloodshot. "Don't tell me to breathe!" he roared, his voice cracking with a mix of fury and pathetic, raw desperation. "They’re trying to erase me from the equation! You’re all just standing there, watching this like it's a fucking show, waiting for me to be the villain! You're waiting for me to hit rock bottom so you can write me off as the bad guy! Fine! If that’s what you want, keep watching. I'm not going to be the one to blink first!"
He stomped out of the kitchen, slamming the door so hard the framed photos in the hallway rattled off the walls. You stayed in the den, frozen, your heart hammering against your ribs. You hadn't exchanged a single word with him, but the entire room was thick with his misery, the silence screaming louder than any argument ever could.
The Final Argument: Why You Left
The breaking point came on a Tuesday night in the office. You were surrounded by drive arrays, trying to finish a cut. Colby walked in, three drinks deep, his face flushed with a volatile mix of self-loathing and aggression. He didn't say a word, just stood behind you, watching the screen.
"You're cutting it wrong," he snapped, his voice a jagged blade.
"I'm cutting it for the story, Colby. Not for your ego," you replied, your hands not stopping.
He slammed his hands onto the desk, leaning over you, his hot, whiskey-tainted breath hitting your neck. "My ego? You want to talk about ego? You sit there in the dark, judging every move I make, acting like you’re the only person in this house with a soul. You think you're better than me, don't you?"
"I think you’re a coward!" you shouted, finally spinning the chair around to face him. "I think you’re so terrified that someone might actually see you for who you are that you push everyone away before they have the chance to leave you! You don't want a team, Colby! You want an audience that’s too scared to tell you you’re losing your mind!"
"I'm losing my mind because of you!" he roared, grabbing your shoulders, his grip bruising. "Everything I do, every girl I bring home, every fucking risk I take in these houses—it’s all to see if you’ll finally blink! To see if you’ll finally tell me to stop! But you just watch me! You just sit there with that blank, pathetic look on your face like I'm some fucking science experiment!"
"I don't blink because I'm heartbroken, you idiot!" you shrieked, shoving him back. "I watch you because I’m waiting for the person I fell in love with to come back! But he’s not there! You killed him with every lie and every ego trip! I'm not leaving because you're a mess, Colby. I'm leaving because you're destroying the only thing I have left—my respect for you!"
He looked like he’d been struck. His face went ghostly pale, the rage draining out and leaving only a hollow, vibrating desperation. "If you walk out that door," he whispered, his voice cracking, "don't you dare think about coming back. Because I won't be here. I'll be exactly what you think I am."
"Then consider it done," you said, your voice cold as ice. You packed your bags while he stood in the doorway, trembling, unable to look you in the eye.
The Fallout & The 122 Days
Ten minutes after you drove away, the kitchen exploded.
"Are you happy, Colby?" Sam shouted, throwing a piece of equipment onto the table. "They’re gone! Because you couldn't keep your ego in check for five minutes!"
"I don't need them!" Colby screamed, hurling his whiskey glass against the wall. It shattered. "They were just waiting for a reason to leave! I did us a favor!"
"You did yourself a favor!" Sam roared, stepping into his space. "You’ve spent months pushing them, tormenting them, and for what? You’re too much of a coward to say a single word, so you just act like a prick instead? You’ve ruined the dynamic, Colby. You’ve ruined the channel, and you’ve ruined the only person in this house who actually gave a damn about you!"
Corey stepped in, his voice low and dangerous. "He's right, man. Everyone saw you pushing them. You were desperate for them to notice you, and now you’ve just pushed them right out the door. You’re pathetic."
Colby stared at them, chest heaving, eyes wild. "I didn't ruin anything!" he sobbed. "They never cared! They were just waiting for me to be the mess they could finally write off!"
The silence stretched for 122 days. You spent every night in the quiet, the void of the house echoing in your own. Then, at 3:00 AM, your phone lit up. It was Sam.
"Y/N," Sam’s voice was weary, strained. "Look, we’re doing Blackwood Asylum. It’s been months, but we’re at a breaking point. Colby... he’s not the same. He’s a shell of himself. He hasn't left his room in a week, and I don't know how else to get him out. We need you. Just this one, please. For the sake of the team."
Blackwood Asylum: The Reckoning
The air in the Blackwood infirmary was a graveyard of cold, heavy silence, broken only by the erratic clicking of your K-II meter. You and Colby were circling each other like wounded animals, the space between you crackling with the kind of static that usually precedes a lightning strike.
The Investigation
Sam was halfway down the hall, his flashlight beam cutting through the gloom, but you were locked in the infirmary with Colby. Every time you moved to adjust the tripod, he was there—an intrusive, looming presence.
"You're doing it wrong," Colby growled, his voice vibrating through the cramped room. He didn't look at you, but he stood close enough that you could smell the sharp, clean scent of his soap battling the musty, metallic rot of the asylum.
"I’m getting the baseline, Colby," you retorted, refusing to flinch. "If you’re so desperate to play director, go find Sam."
"I don't want Sam!" he exploded, finally turning on you. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and frantic. He slammed his hand against the rusted metal cart, the clang echoing like a gunshot. "I want you to stop acting like I’m a ghost! I’ve been living in a house full of people, and I haven't heard a single word from you in four months. Are you trying to kill me, or just torture me?"
"You killed us, Colby!" you screamed, spinning to face him. "You built a wall of bodies and lies, and you expected me to climb over it?"
"I was drowning!" he roared. He shoved the cart aside, the metal screeching across the floor, and backed you against the heavy iron door of the infirmary. That was when it happened—the latch, long corroded, finally gave up. The door swung shut with a violent, final thud, sealing you into the darkness.
The Reckoning
The silence that followed was suffocating. You were trapped in a space no bigger than a closet, the air thick with the smell of mold and pure, unadulterated desperation.
"Open the door," you breathed, though your heart was hammering against your ribs.
Colby didn't move. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hitching. "No. Not until you hear me. Not until you feel how much I've been suffering."
He didn't wait for a response. He seized you, his hands tangling into your hair, his grip tight enough to pull your head back. He kissed you—a violent, bruising collision of teeth and tongue that tasted of salt and absolute, bone-deep need. It was a kiss that demanded everything: an apology, a claim, a plea.
He lifted you effortlessly, your back slamming into the iron door as he hauled you up, your legs locking around his waist. His hands were everywhere—frantic, clumsy with desperation—tearing at your clothes, his palms burning against your skin.
"You think you’re the only one who hurt?" he groaned into your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, his tongue tracing the pulse that was fluttering wildly. He dragged your shirt up, his calloused thumbs digging into your hips, dragging you flush against him. You could feel the rigid, aching line of him against your stomach, the friction of his jeans against your own damp, throbbing heat.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, drowning in a mix of fury and adoration. "I want you to feel every second of what you did to me," he rasped.
He didn't bother with foreplay. He pushed inside you in one brutal, agonizingly sweet thrust that made you scream into the dark. It was a collision of skin and sweat, the sound of your bodies slapping against the iron door echoing in the small space. He drove into you, his movements primal and punishing, every stroke a testament to the 122 days of silence he had endured.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, your nails digging into the muscles of his back, your body arching into him with every heavy, rhythmic lunge. He was relentless, his hands gripping your thighs so hard he left vivid bruises, his gaze locked onto yours, forcing you to bear witness to his shattering.
"Look at me!" he growled, his voice cracking as he hit a rhythm that made your vision blur. "You're not leaving. You're never leaving again!"
He reached his peak with a guttural, primal roar that vibrated through your chest, his body shuddering against yours in powerful, wave-like contractions. You climaxed moments later, your body bowing, your voice raw, as you clung to him, the only thing keeping you tethered in the dark.
Slumped against the iron door, the cold seeped into your skin, but you were still burning. Colby’s arms were wrapped around you, his forehead pressed into the crook of your shoulder, his heart hammering against yours like a trapped bird.
"I thought I was going to lose my mind," he whispered, his voice shattered, his lips brushing against your sweat-slicked skin. "Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you walking away. I thought I deserved it. I thought I was just the guy who ruined everything because I was too broken to love you right."
"You were a nightmare," you whispered, stroking the back of his neck, your hands still trembling.
"I know," he choked out, pulling back to look at you, his eyes wet in the dim moonlight filtering through the high window. "I know. But I’m done. No more cameras, no more games. If you want to keep hating me, that’s fine, but you’re going to do it while I’m holding you."
"I don't hate you," you admitted, the words finally breaking free. "I never did. That was the problem."
He pressed his forehead to yours, a shaky, relieved laugh escaping him. "Then let me fix this. Let me spend the rest of my life proving that you were right to stay."
The silence that followed wasn't the heavy, suffocating static of the last four months; it was the quiet of an ending, and a terrifyingly new beginning.
Outside that rusted iron door, the muffled, concerned voice of Sam called out. "Colby? Y/N? You guys okay in there? We heard a bang."
Colby didn't move. He kept you pressed against him, his chest still heaving, his fingers splayed possessively across your back. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes shut tight, as if he were trying to memorize the feeling of you against him. The smell of the decaying asylum seemed to fade, replaced by the warmth of his skin and the lingering, frantic energy of what you’d just shared.
"Colby?" Sam’s voice grew tighter, more insistent. "We’re going to force the latch if you don't answer."
Colby finally pulled back, just an inch, his eyes focusing on your face with a terrifying, raw intensity. He reached up, his thumb tracing the line of your lower lip, which was swollen and bitten. "They want the show, Y/N," he rasped, his voice barely audible. "They want the footage, the drama, the 'XPLR' brand. Are you ready to tell them?"
You felt the lingering phantom of his touch on your skin, a map of every bruise he’d left behind. You knew what he meant. Walking out of that room meant ending the act. It meant the end of the performative distance, the end of the women brought home like trophies, and the end of the "dynamic" that had kept everyone walking on eggshells for a year.
"Tell them what?" you whispered, your heart still struggling to find its rhythm.
"That I’m not a villain," he said, a jagged edge of insecurity cutting through his calm. "And that you’re not a guest. That we’re not a 'brand' anymore. That we’re just... us."
He didn't wait for your answer. He reached over your shoulder, his hand shaking slightly as he grabbed the rusted latch. With a sharp, sudden movement, he shoved the door open.
The light from Sam’s heavy-duty flashlight flooded the small space, blinding and harsh. Sam and Corey stood there, frozen, their expressions shifting from concern to stunned realization. They didn't have to ask. They saw the way your clothes were disheveled, the way you were still clinging to Colby’s hoodie, and the way Colby was standing—not as a rival, but as a shield, his arm firmly around your waist, pulling you into his side.
"Whoa," Corey breathed, stepping back, his hand falling from the door frame.
Sam’s flashlight beam dipped, scanning the two of you with a mixture of shock and, surprisingly, an immense, weary relief. He looked at the wreckage of the cart Colby had shoved, then back to Colby’s defiant, unwavering glare.
"The infirmary is compromised," Colby said, his voice hard, leaving no room for argument. "We’re done here. We’re heading to the van."
"Colby, man—" Sam started, taking a step forward.
"I said we're done," Colby snapped, but his grip on you tightened, his thumb stroking your hip in a silent, grounding motion. He looked at you, a silent plea for support, for partnership. "We're going home. Not the office. Not the house. Home."
As you walked past Sam and Corey, you felt the eyes of the crew on you. You didn't look back. You didn't care about the footage, or the edit, or the narrative they had spent months building.
Outside, the night air was biting and cold, a sharp contrast to the furnace of the infirmary. You climbed into the backseat of the van, the leather cool against your skin. Colby slid in right behind you, shutting the door with a final, echoing thud that cut off the sounds of the asylum.
He pulled you into his arms, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing finally beginning to steady. For the first time in 122 days, the static in your head stopped. There was no brand, no audience, and no performance. There was just the steady hum of the van engine and the man who had burned his own world down just to see if you were still waiting in the ashes.
"You're not going anywhere," he whispered, his voice vibrating against your skin. It wasn't a demand anymore. It was a promise.
You closed your eyes, leaning into him, and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe it.
The drive back was a blur of shifting shadows and the monotonous hum of tires on asphalt. The tension that had defined your existence for months had evaporated, replaced by a heavy, profound exhaustion. Colby didn't let go of you for a single second; his hand remained firmly laced through yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles with a rhythmic, hypnotic pressure.
When you pulled into the drive of the house—not the sprawling, hollow set of the LA mansion, but the smaller, quieter place you had retreated to after the breakup—Colby killed the engine. The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of everything that had been said and left unsaid.
He turned to look at you, his eyes searching your face in the dim cabin light. He looked older, the lines around his mouth deeper, the bravado completely stripped away.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I don't know how to be the person you need me to be without falling back into the toxic patterns. I’ve spent so long equating 'passion' with 'destruction' that I’m terrified I’ll wake up tomorrow and try to ruin this, too."
You reached out, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. The vulnerability in his expression was more terrifying than any ghost you’d hunted in the asylum. "Then stop trying to be who you think I need," you said softly. "Just be the person who walked into that Kansas kitchen with a dream and a heart that was actually capable of caring. That’s the version I’ve been waiting for."
He let out a shaky, jagged breath, leaning his forehead against yours. "I’m never letting you walk away again. I meant what I said in there. I’ll burn the brand down if it’s the only way to keep us from becoming... that."
"We don't have to burn anything down, Colby," you replied, though your own voice caught. "We just have to stop letting the cameras decide who we are."
He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours—not the desperate, bruising kiss of the infirmary, but a slow, reverent reclamation. It was a promise of a future that hadn't been scripted or edited for a thumbnail.
As you walked into the house, the atmosphere felt different. The air wasn't thick with the volatile static of the past year. It was just quiet. He led you to the living room, not turning on any lights, just letting the moonlight filter through the windows. He sank onto the sofa, pulling you down into his lap, and simply held you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breathing syncing with yours.
"I’m sorry," he mumbled into your skin, his voice muffled. "For all of it. For the girls, for the ego, for the silence. I was a coward."
"You were," you agreed, but there was no bite in it now. You carded your fingers through his hair, feeling the tension drain out of his shoulders. "But you’re here now."
"I'm here," he repeated, gripping your waist as if he were afraid you might dissolve into mist. "I’m not going anywhere."
For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just sat there, listening to the house settle around you, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against your chest. The trauma of the last few months—the 122 days of void, the public fallout, the isolation—began to feel like a fever dream you were finally waking up from.
Outside, the world continued to spin, the XPLR brand continued to churn in the digital ether, and the fans continued to speculate. But in that room, in the quiet, you weren't the "brains" or the "backbone" or the "narrative device." You were just Y/N, and he was just Colby.
He lifted his head, his eyes dark and solemn, reflecting the moonlight. "Tomorrow," he said, his voice firm, "we figure out what comes next. We handle Sam, we handle the channel, and we handle the reality of us. But tonight..." He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your pulse point. "Tonight, I just want to know you’re real."
You pulled him closer, the final embers of the long-standing fire between you finally settling into a warm, sustainable glow. You were done with the theater. You were ready for the life that came after the final edit.
The peace lasted exactly until the sun began to bleed over the horizon.
You were stirred awake by the sharp, rhythmic vibration of Colby’s phone on the glass coffee table. He was still dead to the world, his arm a dead-weight across your waist, his breathing deep and even. You didn't mean to look, but the screen flared with a harsh, bright light, illuminating the living room.
SAM: We’ve got a problem. The footage from the infirmary just uploaded to the server automatically. If we don’t get a statement out, or a cut ready, the internet is going to tear us apart by noon. Colby, pick up. We're on our way to your place.
Your heart plummeted. Automatically uploaded.
Colby stirred, his eyes snapping open. He saw the tension in your face, the way you were staring at his phone, and he followed your gaze. When he read the text, the warmth that had softened his features all night vanished, replaced by that cold, sharp-edged hardness you knew so well.
"They're coming here?" you whispered, the reality of the situation hitting you like a physical blow. The "brand" wasn't just going to let you walk away. It was an entity, hungry and relentless.
Colby reached for the phone, his jaw tightening. "Let them come," he hissed, his voice dangerous. "I’m not cutting that footage. I’m destroying the drives."
"Colby, you can't just delete it," you said, sitting up, panic rising in your chest. "If it's already on the server, Sam has access. If you destroy the local drives, you’re just proving to them that there’s something in that footage worth hiding. You’re giving them the narrative."
He stood up, pacing the small living room, his fingers running through his messy hair. He looked like a cornered animal again, the vulnerability of the night before evaporating under the pressure of the looming deadline. "I don't care about the narrative! I care about us! They want to exploit what happened in that room for views? I’ll sue the channel into the ground before I let them turn us into content."
A heavy knock rattled the front door—fast, aggressive, and impatient.
"Colby! Open up!" Sam’s voice boomed from the porch, followed by the sound of tires crunching on the gravel. Corey was with him; you could hear the low, urgent murmur of their voices.
Colby turned toward the door, his hands balled into fists. He looked at you, a flicker of that old, volatile fire in his eyes. "Go to the bedroom," he ordered, his voice low. "Don't let them see you. I’ll handle them."
"You're not 'handling' them alone," you snapped, standing your ground. "If you act like the villain, they’ll treat you like one. Let me talk to them."
"They don't want to hear from you, Y/N! They want to hear that I'm back on board, that the 'dynamic' is fixed, and that we're ready to spin this into a three-part series on the 'Blackwood Asylum Incident'!" He strode toward the door, but you grabbed his arm, spinning him around.
"Is that what you think?" you challenged, your voice trembling with frustration. "That everyone is out to get you? That’s what started this whole mess! If you shut them out again, you’re proving them right. You’re proving that you are the guy who ruins everything. Is that what you want? To be the guy who hides, or the guy who stands up and tells them it's over?"
The pounding on the door intensified.
"Colby! We know you're in there!" Corey shouted. "Sam’s got the lawyers on the phone. We need to know if you're quitting or if we're dealing with a PR nightmare!"
Colby’s face went white. He looked at the door, then back at you. For a second, you saw the fight in him—the urge to lash out, to break something, to push everyone away just to protect the fragile peace you’d found.
He took a jagged breath, his hands shaking as he reached for the deadbolt. "If I open this door," he whispered to you, his voice thick with emotion, "everything changes. There’s no going back to the way it was."
"Good," you said, stepping up beside him. "Open it."
He twisted the lock, and the door swung wide. Sam and Corey stood on the porch, looking haggard, their faces etched with stress. Sam held a laptop, his eyes darting from Colby to you, his jaw dropping as he took in the scene—the disheveled room, the tension, and the look of cold, hard defiance on your faces.
"Well," Sam said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy calm. "I see you've decided to quit the team. But you forgot one thing, Colby. You don't own the footage. And right now? The world is already starting to watch."
The air on the porch turned frigid. Sam’s thumb hovered over the screen of his laptop, his expression a volatile mixture of betrayal and cold, calculated desperation. Behind him, Corey looked between the two of you, his face a mask of weary realization.
"The world is watching?" Colby repeated, his voice dangerously low. He didn't move, but the sheer predatory stillness of his posture made Sam flinch. "You leaked it, didn't you, Sam? You didn't just 'upload it to the server.' You pushed it to the public channel."
Sam didn't blink. "I had to. The rumors were already swirling, and the engagement metrics were bottoming out. I’m saving the brand, Colby. I’m saving us."
"Don't you dare say 'us'," you stepped forward, your voice slicing through the tension like a blade. "You didn't save anything. You just sold a private moment for a spike in subscribers."
"I sold a product!" Sam snapped, finally losing his composure. He gestured wildly with the laptop. "That’s what this is! It’s what you signed up for, it’s what you built! You think you can just disappear for four months, walk back into a haunt, and then act like the 'content' doesn't belong to the audience? You’re delusional."
Colby’s hand moved—not toward Sam, but toward the doorframe, gripping it so hard the wood groaned. "It’s over, Sam. The brand, the channel, the 'dynamic'—it’s done. Take the footage, take the ad revenue, take whatever the hell you want. But we’re out."
"You can't just quit!" Corey interjected, his voice rising in panic. "We have contracts, sponsorships, a full production schedule! If you walk now, you’re looking at a breach of contract that will strip everything you own."
"Then let them take it," Colby said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He turned his head to look at you, his eyes softening for just a fleeting second before snapping back to his team. "Everything I own is standing right here. That’s more than enough."
Sam stared at you, his eyes narrowing with a flash of genuine malice. "You think you’re winning, don't you? You think you can just ride off into the sunset? Look at the comments, Colby. Look at what they’re already saying."
He flipped the laptop screen around. It was a live feed of the comment section on the leaked footage. It was a wildfire of toxicity: accusations of staging the tension, rumors about your relationship being a PR stunt, and thousands of fans picking apart every frame of the infirmary scene, turning your most vulnerable moment into a grotesque, voyeuristic spectacle.
"They aren't looking for the truth," Sam sneered. "They want the blood. And you just gave them a feast."
The silence that followed was suffocating. You could feel the walls of the house closing in. Colby looked at the screen, his face draining of color as he saw the public dissecting your private agony. His composure shattered—not into anger, but into a haunting, hollow realization.
"They're right," he whispered, his eyes unfocused. "I am the villain. I’m the reason this is happening."
"Colby, no," you reached for him, but he pulled away, his hands shaking violently.
"I did this," he rasped, his voice breaking. He backed away into the hallway, his eyes wide and panicked. "I let it go this far. I thought I could control it, but I’m the one who turned us into a spectacle."
He turned and bolted toward the stairs, leaving you alone on the porch with Sam and Corey. The screen of the laptop continued to glow, a strobe light of insults and intrusive questions.
"Well," Sam said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "That’s the Colby we know. Let’s see how long it takes for him to break completely, shall we?"
He turned to walk away, but you didn't move. You stared at the back of the house, where Colby had just disappeared. The drama wasn't just about the brand anymore—it was about whether or not he would ever forgive himself for what he had let become of you both.
You left Sam and Corey on the porch and turned toward the stairs, your pulse hammering. You weren't going to let the internet or the brand destroy him. Even if you had to drag him through the wreckage of his own mind, you were going to pull him out of the fire.
You sprinted up the stairs, the sound of your own frantic breathing echoing in the hallway. You didn't care about Sam, you didn't care about the breach of contract, and you certainly didn't care about the toxic, scrolling feed of public vitriol. You only cared about the man who had just looked at you with eyes that seemed to be collapsing inward.
You found the bedroom door locked.
"Colby," you said, your voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through your veins. "Open the door."
Silence. Just the muffled sound of him pacing—short, uneven steps that suggested he was tearing the room apart.
"Colby, if you don't open this door, I’m kicking it in," you warned. You didn't hesitate. You drew back and slammed your heel into the wood right next to the latch. The frame splintered with a sharp crack, and the door swung open.
The room was a disaster. He had ripped the sheets off the bed, and his camera gear—the expensive, high-end lenses he treated like children—was scattered across the floor, some of them shattered. He was standing in the center of the room, his hands pressed hard against his forehead, his hair standing up in wild, frantic tufts.
"Get out!" he roared, without looking at you. "Don't look at me! I’m the monster they think I am, Y/N! I’m the guy who monetized our fucking misery! I’m the guy who let them strip-mine every single second of what we had left!"
"Look at me!" you shouted, crossing the room in two strides. You grabbed his wrists and jerked his hands away from his face.
His eyes were bloodshot, pupils dilated with a terrifying mix of self-loathing and hysteria. He tried to yank his arms away, but you held fast, forcing him to meet your gaze.
"You think you’re the monster?" you hissed, your voice vibrating with an intensity that made him blink. "You are the guy who made a mistake. You are the guy who lost his way. But you are not the product, and you are not the comments section. If you give up now, then you’re the villain they want. If you sit here and let them define you, then you’re just as shallow as they say."
"It’s not that simple!" he choked out, his voice cracking. "They’re destroying you too! Because of me!"
"Then let them try!" you challenged, slamming your hand against his chest, right over his heart. "Let them talk! Let them post! They don't know us. They only know the brand. And I’m telling you, right now, the brand is dead. You killed it, I killed it, Sam killed it. It doesn't exist anymore."
He slumped, his knees hitting the floor with a dull thud. You went down with him, your arms wrapping around his neck, pulling his head into your chest. He was shaking, a deep, bone-rattling tremor that spoke to the months of suppression he’d been living through.
"I’m so tired," he whispered into your sweater, his voice muffled and broken. "I’m just so tired of performing."
"Then stop," you said, stroking his hair, your touch gentle but firm. "We’re going to walk out of this house. We’re going to leave the gear. We’re going to leave the accounts. We’re going to go somewhere where nobody knows the name XPLR."
He looked up, his expression guarded, still haunted. "You’d really leave it all? All the work, all the years?"
"I’d leave it all to keep you sane," you promised.
He stared at you for a long time, the silence in the room finally shifting from destructive to heavy and contemplative. Then, he did something you hadn't seen him do in years: he exhaled a long, shuddering breath and leaned into you, letting his guard drop completely.
"Okay," he whispered, a faint, fragile spark of hope returning to his eyes. "Okay. But first, we have to deal with what's downstairs."
He stood up, pulling you with him, and walked toward the bedroom door. But just as he reached for the handle, his phone buzzed again—a continuous, jarring sound. He didn't look at it. He looked at you, his grip on your hand firm and unshakable.
"Whatever they say," he said, his voice hardening, "don't let go of me."
You squeezed his hand back. "I’m not going anywhere."
Together, you walked out of the room and toward the top of the stairs, ready to face the wreckage of the life you’d built, and the uncertain, beautiful silence of the one you were about to start.
The stairs felt longer than usual, each step down a descent back into a reality that was actively trying to consume you. Sam and Corey were still in the living room, their silhouettes framed by the harsh morning light bleeding through the curtains. Sam was pacing, his phone pressed to his ear, his voice a frantic, low-pitched drone of legal jargon and PR crisis management.
As you and Colby reached the landing, the conversation abruptly died.
Sam stopped, his eyes fixed on your joined hands. He looked up at Colby, his face a mask of disappointment that curdled into something much darker. "You’re still here," Sam said, as if he’d expected Colby to have fled or collapsed by now. "The lawyers are drafting the statements. We need you to sign off on the narrative, Colby. We’re framing this as a 'creative breakdown' during an intense haunt. It justifies the behavior, it saves the ad sense, and it keeps the audience invested in the recovery arc."
Colby didn't even flinch. He tightened his grip on your hand, pulling you down the final steps until you were standing in the center of the room, effectively cutting Sam off from the exit.
"There is no 'recovery arc'," Colby said, his voice terrifyingly steady. "And there isn't going to be a statement. You’re done, Sam. The brand is done."
Corey let out a dry, humorless laugh, pacing away toward the kitchen. "You’re living in a fantasy, man. You think you can just walk away? You have liabilities, debts, obligations—not just to us, but to the people who funded this 'Blackwood' series. You walk, they don’t just come after the channel, they come after you."
"Let them come," Colby replied. He looked at Sam, really looked at him, with a cold clarity that seemed to unsettle the other man. "You’ve spent years turning my trauma into content, Sam. You’ve spent years turning my love for this person into a strategic narrative for the views. Every 'prank,' every 'challenge,' every time you pushed me into a dark room and told me to get a reaction—you were eating me alive."
Sam’s jaw tightened. "I made you a star, Colby."
"No," you interjected, stepping forward, your voice ringing clear and sharp in the quiet room. "You made him a product. And you used me as the packaging. It’s over."
Sam looked at the two of you, searching for the crack, for the moment where one of you would cave. He flicked his gaze to the laptop, still open on the counter, where the comments were now moving so fast they were a blur of digital noise. "You’re going to be destroyed," he whispered, almost kindly. "You’ll have nothing left. No platform, no money, no identity. You won't even be able to rent an apartment without some fan stalking you or some tabloid digging up the 'truth' about your 'breakdown'."
Colby finally stepped forward, moving into Sam's personal space. He didn't look angry anymore; he looked completely, utterly free. "The truth is," Colby murmured, his voice low and intimate, "I haven't felt alive in three years. I’d rather have nothing left than one more day of pretending that any of this was real."
He reached out, not to strike Sam, but to take the laptop. Sam didn't resist; he seemed stunned by Colby’s absolute lack of volatility. Colby closed the lid with a slow, deliberate click.
"Corey, Sam," Colby said, gesturing toward the door. "Leave the keys to the studio. Leave the hard drives. If you try to take the server logs, I’ll file the police report for digital extortion myself. And believe me, with the footage you just leaked, a judge will be very interested in exactly how you treat your employees."
Corey hesitated, glancing at Sam. Sam stood there for a long moment, the silence stretching until it felt like the very foundation of the house was straining under the weight of it. Then, Sam sighed, a sound of profound, exhausted defeat. He didn't argue. He didn't threaten. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a master keycard for the studio, and dropped it onto the coffee table with a hollow thud.
"You're making a mistake," Sam said, his voice flat. "But it's your funeral."
They walked out. The screen door creaked, then slammed shut. The sound of their footsteps on the gravel faded, leaving you in a silence so profound it felt like a ringing in your ears.
Colby turned to you. He looked exhausted, his shoulders sagging, but there was a light in his eyes that hadn't been there in years. He leaned his forehead against yours, his hands trembling as they moved to cup your face.
"We have nothing," he whispered, his voice thick with a mixture of terror and exhilaration. "No plan, no future, no idea where we’re going."
"We have the morning," you said, looking out the window as the sun finally climbed over the horizon, painting the world in shades of pale, honest gold. "And that's a start."
He kissed you—a simple, quiet kiss that felt more like a vow than anything he’d ever said to you. "Where do you want to go?"
"Anywhere," you promised. "As long as it's not on camera."
The house felt different in the absolute quiet that followed. It wasn't the heavy, suffocating silence of the past year, nor the jagged, brittle silence of the breakup; it was the empty, peaceful quiet of a clean slate.
Colby let go of your hand only to walk to the kitchen window, watching as Sam’s car disappeared down the long, winding road toward the highway. He didn't look back until the last tail-light vanished. When he turned around, he didn't look like the man who had been pacing the floorboards in a fit of hysteria hours ago. He looked hollowed out, stripped to the studs, but solid.
"They're going to scrub the channel," he said, his voice devoid of any lingering rage. "They'll rebrand, they'll find a new narrative, and in a month, the algorithm will bury us. We’ll be a cautionary tale. A 'where are they now' video that gets three million views before everyone forgets."
You walked over to him, leaning against the counter. "Is that what you're afraid of? Being forgotten?"
Colby laughed—a short, genuine sound that seemed to surprise him. "No. I'm afraid of being remembered as the guy who lost everything. But then I look at you, and I realize I didn't lose anything. I just stopped pretending."
He reached out, his hand hovering over the laptop Sam had left behind. He didn't open it. Instead, he slid it across the counter, letting it drop into the trash bin with a heavy, final clatter.
"What now?" you asked, though you already knew.
"Now," he said, moving to pull you into his arms, "we become nobodies. We pack the essentials. We drive until we hit a town where nobody knows what an 'XPLR' is, where the internet is slow, and where the only thing we have to record is the sound of our own lives."
He looked around the living room, at the cameras and microphones that had been the architecture of your existence for so long. "I'm leaving it all here," he decided. "Let Sam deal with the inventory. It’s all tainted anyway."
He led you to the bedroom. You didn't pack your life into boxes; you packed a single duffel bag with clothes, a few books, and the things that actually belonged to you—not the brand, not the fans, not the digital archive of your shared misery. As you zipped the bag shut, the house felt less like a home and more like a set that was being struck after a long, grueling play.
When you walked out the front door for the last time, the air was crisp, smelling of pine and early morning dampness. You didn't look back at the windows, didn't wonder if there were hidden cameras, didn't care if the neighbors were watching.
Colby started the engine of his personal car—the one that wasn't used for stunts or filming—and the roar of it was the only sound in the driveway. He looked at you in the passenger seat, his hand resting on the gear shift. There was no producer to check the lighting, no sound guy to level the audio, no audience to perform for.
"Are you scared?" he asked, his voice low.
"Terrified," you admitted, and for the first time, the word felt honest. "But for the first time in years, I’m not scared of you."
He nodded, a small, tired smile touching his lips. He put the car in gear, and as you pulled away from the house, the sun hit the windshield, blinding and bright. You didn't check the rearview mirror. You just kept your eyes on the road ahead, watching the miles tick by, finally, beautifully, unscripted.
For the first time in your life, you didn't know what the next scene was going to be, and as you looked over at Colby, watching the tension finally leave his shoulders, you knew that was exactly how it was meant to be. The story of "The Ghost of Us" had ended in that asylum; the story of you—just you and him, in the quiet, unrecorded dark—was just beginning.
Two years later. A small, rugged cabin in the Pacific Northwest, tucked away where the trees are so dense they swallow the sound of the wind.
You are sitting on the porch, a sketchbook in your lap, watching the light hit the mountains. There are no cameras, no rigs, no production schedules. Colby walks out of the cabin, no longer wearing the tight, performative armor of the LA years. He looks healthy, his eyes clear, his hair grown out. He carries two mugs of coffee and sets one down beside you, his hand lingering on your shoulder.
"The new edit is done," he says, a small, proud smile touching his lips.
It’s been six months since you both quietly launched your own platform—a subscription-based narrative project called The Archive. It wasn’t about cheap thrills or manufactured drama; it was about high-concept, grounded, character-driven horror that respected the intelligence of its audience. There were no "pranks," no screaming for the algorithm. Just stories that felt human, haunting, and deeply, viscerally real.
It had grown slow, but with a ferocity that defied all logic. You had achieved the one thing Sam never could: a community that didn't just consume, but cared.
Colby pulls out his phone, his thumb hovering over the dashboard. "We hit three million subscribers today. No marketing. No hype. Just the work."
You smile, leaning back against him. "They’re listening because we finally stopped shouting."
Meanwhile, back in the sprawling, sterile halls of the XPLR studio in LA, the atmosphere is dead.
Sam sits at his desk, staring at a monitor that displays the "New XPLR" analytics. The numbers are abysmal. The recent series—a chaotic, hollow mess of forced reactions and scripted 'ghost encounters'—has been torn apart by the very audience they fought to keep. The comments aren't just angry anymore; they’re bored. The brand, once a juggernaut, has become a punchline.
Corey walks in, looking tired and gray. He drops a folder on the desk. "The sponsors are pulling out, Sam. They say the engagement is fake. They’re all moving their budgets to The Archive."
Sam doesn't speak for a long time. He pulls up The Archive’s latest feature—a masterfully crafted investigation into a local legend, devoid of jump scares, filled with genuine atmosphere and heart. He watches a clip of you and Colby working, and for the first time, he sees the difference. They aren't acting. They aren't fighting the room. They are connected.
He looks at his own studio, filled with unused equipment and paid actors, and then back at the screen. The realization hits him with a physical force: he didn't lose Colby and you because you were "broken." He lost you because he had turned a human connection into a commodity, and he had forgotten that people eventually stop buying what feels hollow.
"We tried to manufacture what they have," Sam whispers, his voice thick with a sudden, crushing regret. "And we ended up with nothing."
Back at the cabin, the sun is setting, casting long shadows across the deck. Colby’s phone pings—a notification from his former manager, followed by an email from Sam. You don't read them. You don't have to. You know what they say.
Colby taps the screen, selects 'Block,' and sets the phone face down on the table. He takes your hand, his grip firm, grounded, and entirely his own.
"Let them figure it out," he says, turning his back on the digital world to look out at the mountains. "We have a story to finish."
He pulls you up, and you head inside, leaving the ghosts of the past exactly where they belong: in the dark, behind you, never to be recorded again.
The transition from the digital world to the reality you built was quiet, but it was profound. The cabin wasn't just a home; it was a sanctuary where the air didn't feel thin or manufactured. Every morning, the only thing you had to report to was the horizon.
Back in Los Angeles, the silence in the old office was becoming a physical weight. Sam had tried to force a pivot—hiring new "personalities," drafting new "formats"—but without you and Colby, the heart of the channel was gone. It had become a hollow echo of its former self, and the audience, once rabid for content, had become an unforgiving critic.
One evening, a notification popped up on the shared tablet you and Colby kept for The Archive’s administrative updates. It was an email from Sam, forwarded through a legal intermediary. It wasn't the usual aggressive demand for contracts or threats of litigation.
Subject: I saw the new series.
I watched the Blackwood retrospective you posted last week. I didn't watch it to critique it. I watched it because it was the first thing in years that felt like the work we set out to do in Kansas.
I’ve spent the last six months looking at the metrics, the comments, and the hollowed-out mess this place has become. I thought if I just adjusted the lighting, or pushed the narrative harder, or brought in more talent, I could recapture the energy. But it was never about the production value, was it? You two were the lightning, and I was just the guy holding the rod, hoping to catch the strike.
I see you now. Not as assets, but as the only people who actually understood what we were building. I regret the way I handled the end. I regret thinking that I could own a legacy that you were actually living.
The studio is closing at the end of the quarter. The investors are out. I’m moving back home to figure out if there’s anything left of the person I was before the LA cycle. I’m sorry I couldn't be the friend you needed when you were both drowning.
Colby read the email over your shoulder, his hands resting on your hips. He didn't gloat. He didn't offer a sarcastic remark. He just exhaled, the sound trembling with the release of a ghost he’d been carrying for years.
"He finally gets it," Colby whispered. "But he’s a few years too late."
"Do you want to reply?" you asked, leaning back against him.
Colby reached out, his fingers hovering over the delete icon. He looked at the cabin around you—the wood-burning stove, the stacks of books, the maps of locations you’d actually wanted to visit for the sake of the story, not for the sake of a thumbnail.
"No," Colby said, his voice firm. "We don't owe him a bridge back. We just owe it to ourselves to keep moving forward."
He deleted the email, leaving no trace, and stepped out onto the porch. You followed him, the cool evening air wrapping around you. Out there, the stars were so bright they looked like they were within reach.
He took your hand, leading you toward the trail that headed deeper into the woods—a place where you were currently scouting for a new, self-produced narrative. It wasn't about the views, and it wasn't about the legacy of XPLR. It was about the silence you had earned, and the stories you were finally telling on your own terms.
As you walked into the shadows of the pines, the last flicker of the "brand" died, leaving only the sound of your footsteps on the earth. You were done with the theater, done with the ghosts, and finally, for the first time in your life, you were exactly where you belonged.
The forest behind the cabin had become your own private laboratory of narrative, a place where the only thing at stake was the integrity of the story.
You and Colby were halfway up the ridge, checking the framing on a portable, non-intrusive camera setup you’d designed together. It wasn't about high-octane gear; it was about capturing a mood that felt honest. Colby was adjusting the aperture, his movements fluid and precise, entirely devoid of the frantic, performative energy that had defined his earlier career.
"The lighting is perfect," he remarked, standing back to look at the clearing. "It feels... empty. In a good way. The kind of empty that makes the audience project their own fears into it, rather than us forcing them to be scared."
You nodded, checking the audio levels. "It’s quiet enough that they’ll actually hear the story, not just the music swells."
"I think that’s what we missed for so long," Colby said, turning to look at you. The late afternoon light caught his profile, softening the edges of a face that had once been plastered across millions of screens, perpetually braced for the next headline. "We were so loud. We were so busy screaming to be heard that we forgot that the best way to get someone’s attention is to whisper."
As you worked, the silence of the woods was broken by the distant, rhythmic crunch of gravel. You both froze, the reflex of the brand instantly sparking—that old, ingrained instinct that visitors meant disruption, cameras, or content.
But when you reached the edge of the clearing, you saw only a lone car parked at the trailhead. It wasn't a studio van or a sleek PR vehicle. It was an old, beaten-up truck that looked like it had driven across the entire country just to get here.
Elton climbed out. He didn't look like the high-energy manager or the frantic mediator of the LA days. He looked tired, his shoulders carrying the weight of a year spent picking up the pieces of a collapsed empire.
Colby stood his ground, his hands steady at his sides. "Elton," he said, his voice neutral.
Elton stopped ten feet away, keeping his hands visible, his expression apologetic. "I’m not here to bring you back, Colby. I’m not here to represent anyone. I just... I was passing through, heading back to the Midwest, and I had to see if it was real. If you were actually okay."
He looked at the small, professional, minimalist gear you were using, then back at the woods. "I watched the latest upload. The Archive. It’s beautiful."
"It’s just us," you said, stepping up beside Colby.
"It’s what we always promised ourselves we’d do," Elton replied, his voice cracking slightly. "Before the houses. Before the stress. You guys won, you know that? You got out, and you built something that actually lasts. Sam? He’s still trying to chase the ghost of what you left behind. He doesn't get it yet. He still thinks the magic was in the equipment."
Colby stepped forward, his posture losing its last vestiges of defensive tension. He looked at Elton, seeing the man who had once been his closest friend, not just his employee. "The magic was never in the equipment, Elton. It was in the fact that we used to actually like each other."
Elton nodded, a slow, sad smile forming. "Yeah. We did."
He didn't stay long. He didn't ask for a feature, didn't ask for a shoutout, and didn't mention the channel. He just brought a sense of closure—the final, lingering thread of the old life being clipped away. As he drove off, he didn't even look back, disappearing into the dust of the road.
"He’s the last of them," Colby said softly as the sound of the truck faded into the trees.
"Does it bother you?" you asked, leaning into his side.
Colby shook his head, his eyes fixed on the path ahead—the path that led deeper into the woods, deeper into your own story. "No. It makes it real. We aren't being watched anymore. We aren't being followed. We're just living."
He took your hand, his grip warm and absolute. You turned away from the trailhead, away from the world that was still trying to figure out how to exist without you, and walked into the dark, quiet sanctuary of the pines. The story of the past was finally, completely, closed—and the future, entirely unrecorded, lay waiting in the quiet.
The cabin had long since ceased to be just a project; it was the foundation of a life built on absolute, unscripted truth. Three years had passed since you left the wreckage of LA, and the woods had witnessed a transformation. You weren't the people who had been hollowed out by the XPLR brand anymore; you were something sturdier, something grown from the quiet.
The wedding didn't happen in a venue, or a chapel, or under the scrutiny of a lens. It happened in the clearing where you’d filmed your first successful piece for The Archive.
There were no guests, no PR coordinators, and no "content plan." Just the two of you, under the sprawling canopy of ancient pines, the air smelling of damp earth and coming rain. Colby wore a simple white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the forearms that had held you through every jagged, messy night of the transition. He looked at you with a reverence that made your breath hitch—a look that held no performance, only the raw, exposed truth of a man who had finally found his home.
"I don't have a script," he whispered, his hands steady as he took yours. His palms were warm, grounding. "I don't have a pitch, and I don't have a closing hook. I just have me. And I want all of you."
You didn't need a script either. You spoke your vows into the quiet of the woods, a promise of a life that would never be edited, never be monetized, and never be shared with anyone but the two of you. When he kissed you, it wasn't a shot for a highlight reel; it was a reclamation. It was the feeling of everything finally locking into place.
The reception was just as private. Back inside the cabin, the fire was roaring, casting flickering, amber shadows against the log walls. The rain finally began to fall, a steady, rhythmic drumming against the roof that insulated you from the rest of the world.
Colby backed you against the heavy oak table, his hands sliding up your thighs, his touch burning even through the layers of your wedding dress. The intimacy was overwhelming—a stark, beautiful contrast to the public degradation you’d once endured. Here, there were no cameras in the corners, no producers waiting for a reaction. There was only the heat of his skin and the absolute, terrifying freedom of being completely owned by the one person who knew exactly what you were worth.
He lifted you onto the table, his movements urgent but impossibly gentle. He kissed the sensitive skin of your neck, his stubble grazing your pulse, his breath hitching in his throat. "Finally," he groaned, his voice rough with a hunger that had been building for three years. "Finally, I don't have to share you with anyone. Not even a lens."
He pushed your dress up, his fingers tracing the lace of your lingerie with agonizing slowness, his eyes locked onto yours, demanding you bear witness to his adoration. You arched into him, your nails dragging down the muscles of his back, the friction of his clothes against your skin heightening the electric current running between you.
He thrust into you in one smooth, driving motion, a guttural sound of pure, unadulterated release ripping from his throat. It was a collision of skin, sweat, and a love that had been forged in the fire of everything you’d destroyed. He moved with a rhythm that was purely primal, his hands gripping your hips, his thumbs pressing into your skin until he left marks—a map of his possession that no one else would ever see.
"You're mine," he gasped, his voice cracking as he reached his peak, his body shuddering against yours. "Only mine. No more brand, no more noise. Just this. Just us."
You clung to him, your body bowing, your voice raw, as you found your own shattering release in the quiet of the cabin. The storm outside raged, but it was nothing compared to the quiet, steady fire you’d built inside.
Later, as the rain subsided and the embers in the fireplace cast a dying, orange glow across the room, you lay tangled together in the sheets. Colby rested his head against your chest, his hand splayed over your heart, feeling its steady, rhythmic beat.
"We made it," he whispered, his eyes closing, a look of profound peace on his face.
"We did," you agreed, stroking his hair.
He drifted off, his breath deepening into sleep, a man who no longer had to fear the dark because he was finally, truly, in the light. You looked out the window, past the trees, knowing that out there, the world was still chasing the ghost of the brand you’d abandoned. But here, in the silence, you were finally free. The edit was done. The story was yours. And it was perfect.
The morning after the wedding broke with a clarity that felt almost surreal. The air in the bedroom was still, scented with woodsmoke and the lingering, musk-heavy sweetness of the night before. You shifted, the movement dragging the heavy wool blanket with you, and felt the weight of Colby’s arm across your waist.
He was already awake, lying on his side, watching you with an expression so vulnerable and unguarded that it felt like looking at a secret. The harsh, erratic light of the camera strobes from your past lives seemed a thousand years away, replaced by the soft, filtering glow of dawn through the pines.
"You're real," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and an underlying thread of wonder. He reached out, his calloused thumb tracing the line of your collarbone, his touch light, reverent. "I keep waiting for someone to yell 'cut,' or for the feed to glitch. I keep waiting for the fantasy to end."
You turned to face him, drawing a breath that finally, truly, felt like it belonged to you. "There’s no director here, Colby. Just us."
He smiled—a slow, genuine movement that reached his eyes. He pulled you flush against him, the friction of his skin against yours a reminder of the night that had solidified everything. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, and finally, his lips lingered against the corner of your mouth.
"I have a confession," he whispered against your skin.
You traced the outline of his tattoo, feeling the hum of his pulse beneath your fingers. "What is it?"
"I kept the drives," he admitted, his voice quiet. "The ones from Blackwood. The ones I said I’d destroy."
Your heart did a small, sharp jump. You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. "Why? I thought we were done with that."
He shifted, propping himself up on an elbow, his expression solemn. "I didn't keep them to look at them. I kept them to remember who we were before we became the people the internet wanted us to be. I kept them as a reminder of the exact moment I stopped being the villain and started being the man who deserved to wake up next to you."
He reached over to the nightstand, sliding out a small, unassuming hard drive from the drawer. He didn't plug it in. He just held it in his palm for a second, feeling the weight of it, and then set it aside—not as a weapon, not as leverage, but as a relic.
"I’m done with the archives," he said. "I’m done with the past."
He leaned down, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was slow, deep, and tasted of promise. It wasn't the frantic, desperate need of the infirmary, nor the raw, unpolished hunger of the wedding night. It was the quiet, confident intimacy of two people who had finally reached the shore after a long, dark swim.
As he pulled you under the covers, the world outside—the critics, the broken analytics, the ghosts of the XPLR brand—ceased to exist. There were no metrics for this, no way to measure the depth of the peace you had found in the mountains.
Later, you walked out onto the porch together, coffee in hand, watching the mist rise off the valley floor. The forest was waking up, the birds beginning their morning chorus, the world moving forward in its own unscripted, beautiful way.
Colby leaned against the railing, his arm hooked around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. He didn't reach for his phone. He didn't check for a signal. He just looked at the horizon, his face open and calm.
"What do you want to do today?" he asked.
You looked at the woods, then up at the clear, expansive sky, and realized that for the first time in your life, the answer didn't have to be a 'bit' or a 'concept.'
"Whatever we want," you said.
He grinned, the sound of his laughter blending perfectly with the morning air. "Yeah. I like the sound of that."
He turned, taking your hand, and led you back inside. The door clicked shut, the sound final and absolute, sealing away the last echoes of the life you’d left behind, and leaving you finally, completely, at home in the silence.
The silence of the cabin was no longer an escape; it was a foundation. Over the next two years, the woods became a place of healing, the kind of quiet that allowed for things to finally grow. You and Colby had built a life that functioned on a rhythm entirely your own, far from the frantic hum of the industry.
But history has a way of circling back, usually when you’ve finally stopped looking for it.
It started with a knock on the cabin door on a rainy Tuesday. It wasn't the aggressive, demanding rhythm of the past; it was tentative, almost shy. When you opened the door, you found Sam and Corey standing on the porch, drenched in the downpour. They looked older—the bravado of the LA studio days stripped away, replaced by the weary lines of men who had spent years chasing a shadow that never caught up.
Colby stepped up behind you, his hand resting firmly on your waist. He didn't tense, he didn't reach for a camera, and he didn't hide. He simply looked at them.
"We saw the news," Sam said, his voice quiet, lacking its old, sharp-edged command. He wasn't looking at the cabin like a set; he was looking at it like a home. "About The Archive ending its run. We heard you were... settling down."
"We are," Colby said, his voice steady. "What do you want, Sam?"
"Nothing," Corey spoke up, his gaze dropping to the floor. "We just wanted to apologize. Properly. Not on a stream, not through a lawyer. We spent two years trying to recreate what you two had, and all we did was burn out every person who worked with us. We realized... it was never the content. It was the fact that we treated you like products instead of people."
Sam looked up, his eyes searching Colby’s, then lingering on the slight, unmistakable swell of your stomach beneath your oversized sweater. He froze, his expression shifting from regret to a profound, softening realization.
"You're having a baby," Sam whispered, the vanity of his past life seemingly cracking.
Colby’s hand moved instinctively to your waist, his fingers splaying protectively over your stomach. A small, genuine smile touched his lips—not the practiced grin of a thumbnail, but a look of overwhelming, private joy. "Yeah," Colby said softly. "We are."
The tension that had defined your past relationships shattered. There was no more "brand" to argue over, no more ego to manage.
"I'm sorry," Sam said, and for the first time, he actually sounded like the guy you’d met in that cramped Kansas kitchen years ago. "I hope they have a better childhood than the one we tried to sell them."
You stepped forward, the anger that had defined your departure long since replaced by a weary sort of peace. "They will," you said firmly. "Because they’ll never know a camera lens as a parent."
They didn't stay long. They didn't ask for a follow-up, or a comeback, or a collaboration. They simply stood there in the rain for a moment, two ghosts of a life you had outgrown, and then they turned back to their car. As they drove away, leaving behind the dust of the driveway, the sense of finality was absolute.
Back inside, the cabin felt warmer, tighter. Colby pulled you into the kitchen, his hands trembling slightly as he touched your stomach. He pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and rhythmic.
"Everything we wanted," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Everything we fought for."
You leaned into him, feeling the life inside you and the man who had burned down the world just to build this one with you.
"The edit is finally perfect," you murmured, closing your eyes.
Colby laughed, a soft, rich sound that filled the room. "No more edits, Y/N. Just the story. From here on out, it’s just the story."
He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, and for the first time in years, the future didn't feel like a cliff you were jumping off—it felt like a sunrise you were finally, truly, waking up to see.
Five years after that rainy afternoon, the cabin had expanded, both in space and in soul. The forest was no longer just a backdrop; it was a playground.
Their daughter, Maya, was a wild, laughing force of nature with Colby’s piercing eyes and your stubborn spirit. The cameras were long gone, replaced by worn-out sketchbooks, mud-caked boots, and the chaotic, beautiful debris of a life actually being lived.
It was a summer evening, the air thick with the scent of pine needles and the distant rumble of a coming storm. Maya was finally asleep, the house settling into that delicious, heavy quiet that only comes after a day spent running through the woods.
You were in the kitchen, clearing the dinner dishes, when Colby came up behind you. He didn't speak; he just wrapped his arms around you, his chin resting on your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin. You were older now, the sharp, jagged edges of your twenties smoothed over by the steady, unbreakable foundation of the life you’d built.
"She’s finally out," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against your back. His hands slid down, tracing the curve of your hips, his touch familiar, possessive, and electric.
"She’s exhausted," you laughed softly, leaning back into him. "That hike took it out of her."
"She gets her energy from you," he replied, his lips grazing the sensitive spot behind your ear. "Which is lucky for me, because you still have plenty left."
He turned you around, his eyes dark, heavy with a hunger that hadn't faded—if anything, it had only deepened, tempered by the absolute security of the years between you. He lifted you easily onto the counter, his palms burning against your skin even through the fabric of your shirt.
The kitchen, once a place of late-night renders and volatile arguments, was now a sanctuary. He pulled your shirt up, his calloused fingers grazing your skin, and you shivered as his mouth found your pulse point. Every touch was an act of devotion, a slow, deliberate reclamation of every inch of you.
"I still can't believe this is ours," he rasped, his eyes locking onto yours as he eased your jeans down, his touch worshipful. "No crew, no schedule, no audience. Just us."
"Just us," you breathed, your head falling back as his tongue traced a path down your throat, his teeth grazing your collarbone.
He moved between your legs, his body a familiar, grounding weight. When he pushed inside you, the sensation was a profound echo of the first time you’d finally felt safe with him—a slow, deep, agonizingly sweet slide that made you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders.
He set a rhythm that was steady and unhurried, a testament to the thousands of nights you’d spent learning each other's bodies in the dark. He watched your face, his gaze searching, tender, and intensely focused, as if he were trying to memorize your pleasure for the hundredth time. The way he moved—with such profound, knowing intimacy—was a sharp contrast to the brutal, desperate encounters of the past. This wasn't a reclamation or an apology; it was an affirmation.
"Look at me," he whispered, his voice thick with adoration.
You opened your eyes, meeting his. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his movements deepening, pulling a raw, ragged sound from your throat. The pleasure was a mounting, tidal wave, pulling you under until there was nothing left but the friction of his skin against yours and the absolute knowledge that you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
When you climaxed, he groaned your name, his body shuddering against yours in a powerful, synchronous wave, holding you as if you were the only thing tethering him to the earth.
Afterward, the house was silent save for the rain beginning to tap against the glass. You lay tangled together on the kitchen rug, the cool wood beneath you, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. He pulled a blanket over the both of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breathing slow and satisfied.
"I remember the kitchen in Kansas," he whispered, his voice barely audible in the dark. "I remember being so terrified that I was going to ruin everything."
"You did," you teased gently, running your fingers through his hair. "For a while."
He let out a soft, contented hum, shifting so he could press a kiss to your chest, right over your heart. "Yeah. I did. But I think I got the ending right."
You looked up at the ceiling, at the life you’d built in the silence, and smiled. Outside, the world was still spinning, still chasing the digital ghosts of people you used to be. But in here, in the warm, dark quiet, the story was finished. And it was perfect.
