Sunflower

[missadangel]

Two Wrongs, One Right

Joel Miller x Immune F!Reader

11 - The Woman He Saved from the World

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Summary: You find yourself locked inside that goddamn hospital with no real way out, while your father is ready to cut you open if it means saving his cure. Joel may be the only man ruthless enough to get you out alive—but first, he has to survive Abby. Chapter W.C and Warnings: 14.6k ⚠️This chapter contains significantly darker, more disturbing and emotionally intense material than previous chapters. Read warnings at your own risk if you want to avoid spoilers... HEAVY ANGST, graphic violence, extreme blood and gore, gun violence, shootings, stabbing, execution-style killing, multiple character deaths, Abby and Joel confrontation, serious injuries, open wounds, heavy bleeding, panic attacks, PTSD, trauma flashbacks, Joel reliving past losses, Joel believing Reader is dead, non-consensual medical procedures, forced blood extraction, attempted bone marrow extraction, needles and injections, Cordyceps experimentation, infected test subjects, body horror, terminal illness implications, discussion of Reader’s possible death, hospital uprising, morally gray choices, morally gray everyone, discussion of a cure, Joel choosing Reader over other lives, William and Joel confrontation, protective/possessive Joel, Joel and Tommy fighting together to save reader, protective Tommy, execution of medical staff, helplessness, hurt/comfort, near-death experiences, Joel carrying Reader through gunfire. A/N: I cried so much while writing this chapter. I felt everything Joel was going through so deeply, and honestly, parts of it were incredibly difficult to put into words. I really hope you enjoy it, and I’m sorry it took me this long to finish. Thank you for being patient with me. ❤️ Chapter's Song: Agnes Obel — The Curse. “And their hope grew with a hunger to live.”

-YOU-

Cold metal presses against your cheek. For a few seconds, that is all you know. Cold. Metal. Pain. A dull, violent pulse beats beneath your right shoulder, spreading down your arm and across your chest with every shallow breath you take. Your eyelids feel too heavy to lift. Your tongue tastes like blood. Something chemical clings to the back of your throat. You try moving your hand. Metal rattles somewhere nearby. Your eyes snap open. A stained concrete floor fills your vision. Too close.

You’re lying on your side beneath flickering fluorescent lights, one arm trapped awkwardly beneath you while the other rests beside a rusted drain cut into the floor. Your wrists are free. That surprises you first. Then the bars do. Thick iron bars stretch from floor to ceiling a few feet away, welded between old hospital pillars. A heavy padlock hangs outside the door. A cell. Your stomach drops. You force yourself upright. Pain tears through your shoulder so hard the room flashes white.

“Fuck—” Your back slams against the wall. You bite down against the scream clawing its way up your throat and press one hand over the fresh bandage wrapped around your shoulder.

Clean gauze. Too clean. Somebody treated the gunshot. Not well enough to stop the throbbing. Well enough to keep you alive. Your breathing turns sharp. 

Joel. Taxi. The hospital.

Memory slams back all at once. Clouser standing beneath the floodlights. William with a gun pressed against his head. The revolver kicking hard inside your hand. Blood bursting from the side of Clouser’s face. Then— The bullet. Your shoulder snapping backward. Joel shouting your name. Hands grabbing you. Too many hands.

You remember fighting. Of course you fought. A Wolf’s nose breaking beneath your forehead. Another choking when you drove your fingers into his throat. A medic leaning over you while someone tried cutting through your jacket. You twisting free. Your elbow connecting with a jaw. A metal tray crashing to the floor. Scissors in your hand. Someone screaming— “She’s got a weapon!”

You remember burying the scissors deep into a soldier’s thigh. Then someone caught your injured arm and pulled. Pain. Bright enough to erase the room. A needle flashing near your neck. You grabbed the medic’s wrist. Almost broke it. Another body slammed into your back. Then the sharp sting just beneath your jaw. Warmth flooding through your veins. Your legs turning useless. Clouser’s blurred face hovering above you. His voice far away. “Enough.” Then nothing.

Your hand moves automatically toward your neck. A small puncture mark sits beneath your jaw. “Son of a bitch.”

You grab the bars and drag yourself onto your feet. The room sways violently. You tighten your grip until your knuckles whiten and wait for the floor to stop moving. No windows. No clock. No way to tell how long you’ve been unconscious. “Joel?” Your voice echoes through the corridor. Nothing answers.

You pull yourself closer to the bars and look around properly. The space beyond your cell is wide and rectangular, lined with abandoned examination bays. Faded plastic curtains hang in torn strips from rusted tracks along the ceiling. Numbers remain painted above each section. 

TRIAGE ONE. TRIAGE TWO. TRIAGE THREE. 

An old emergency intake ward. The WLF must have converted it into a holding block after taking the hospital. Efficient. Close to the ambulance entrance. Close to the operating rooms. Close to the elevators leading underground. Easy to bring prisoners in without the rest of the building seeing them. Easy to decide whether they became recruits, corpses— Or experiments.

Your eyes move toward the cells across from yours. Three of them. Empty. At least they look empty. Dark stains spread across the floor of the nearest one. Old blood. The farthest contains a torn mattress, a metal bucket and deep scratches carved into the wall. Not random. Words. Most are too small to read from here. One isn’t. 

DON’T LET THEM TAKE YOU DOWNSTAIRS.

Your pulse slows. Then something scrapes beyond the double doors at the end of the ward. You straighten instantly. Pain tears through your shoulder again, but you ignore it. Footsteps approach. Two people. Maybe three. Your body goes still. Not relaxed. Ready.

The doors swing open. A woman enters first. Her light brown hair is pulled tightly away from her face, its length woven into a practical braid down her back. She is young. Probably younger than you. She wears dark WLF fatigues beneath a weather-stained military jacket, the sleeves pushed partway up her forearms. A rifle hangs across her back, while the pistol strapped to her thigh sits within easy reach. Her frame is strong without being bulky. The controlled balance of someone who trains because survival depends on it, not because she wants anyone watching. Everything about the way she moves says soldier. She stops several feet from your cell. The man beside her doesn’t. He keeps walking until he is only a few feet from the bars.

Rain-darkened hair curls loosely near his temples, a little longer around his ears. A narrow mustache shadows his upper lip, joined by faint stubble tracing his jaw. His WLF gear resembles hers—a dark shirt beneath an olive tactical vest, cargo trousers tucked into scuffed combat boots. A knife rests at one hip. A pistol at the other. His posture is looser than hers. Almost casual. But his dark eyes never stop moving. Your hands. Your injured shoulder. The lock. The narrow space between your body and the bars. You dislike him immediately. Maybe it’s the half-smile sitting too easily on his face. The expression of a man who enjoys knowing something you don’t. He looks like the kind of asshole who would smile while lying straight to your face.

The woman says nothing. Just stares. You stare back. You consider asking about Joel. The question climbs halfway up your throat. You swallow it again. No. They don’t need to know what he means to you. Not yet.

The man speaks first. “So... This is her?” His eyebrows lift as he looks you over. “This is the girl who got fourteen of our people killed in one day?”

Your jaw tightens. Fourteen. You thought it was closer to twelve. Good to know.

The man steps slightly nearer. “Thought she’d be bigger.”

You lean closer to the bars. “Open the door.”

His mouth twitches. “Yeah?”

“Then we can introduce ourselves properly.”

A short laugh escapes him. “She’s funny.”

Your eyes remain on him. “People usually laugh more before I break their teeth.”

His expression sharpens slightly. You tighten your grip on the bars. “You here to take revenge for your friends?” Your gaze moves between them. “Take a number.”

The man’s amusement disappears. “Those people had families.”

You give him a flat look. “Do I look like I give a shit?” His jaw tightens. You continue before he can answer. “Funny thing about your Wolves, though. Met two of them trying to run all the way to Santa Barbara.”

Something flashes across his face. You smile without warmth. “Real loyal family you’ve built here.”

The last trace of amusement leaves his face. He steps toward the bars. The woman speaks without looking at him. “Manny.” One word. Quiet. Enough to stop him.

He exhales through his nose and shifts back, but the anger remains visible beneath his expression.

The woman finally steps closer. You study her. There is something behind her eyes you cannot name. Pain, rage, perhaps. Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with the fourteen soldiers. “How much does he mean to you?”

Every muscle in your body locks. The reaction lasts less than a second. Still long enough for her to see it. You angle your head slightly. “What?”

“Joel Miller.” She says the name as if she has said it a thousand times before. In dreams. In prayers. Between clenched teeth. Something ignites behind her eyes when she repeats it. “How much does he mean to you?”

The question itself should not frighten you. The way she asks it does. There is anticipation in her face. A terrible, almost hopeful kind of anticipation—as if she wants the answer to hurt. You keep your voice level. “Why?”

Her gaze searches yours. Whatever she finds makes the corner of her mouth twitch. “Good. When I kill him, I’ll know there’s someone left who understands what it feels like.” Your blood turns to ice. She watches the realization move across your face. “The fact that it’s you is almost poetic.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“He slaughtered an entire hospital for that girl.” Her voice remains controlled, but her eyes begin to shine. “Soldiers. Nurses. People who had already surrendered.” She swallows. “An unarmed doctor.”

Salt Lake. The Fireflies. Joel carrying Ellie out beneath the gunfire. Your pulse begins pounding inside your ears. “And now he’s come all the way here for another one.”

You step closer to the bars. “Were you a Firefly?”

For a moment, she says nothing. Then— “Dr. Anderson was my dad.”

There it is. The wound beneath everything else. Her eyes glisten, but no tears fall. Not yet. Manny looks away. You stare at her. “The defenseless doctor you’re talking about was about to cut open a fourteen-year-old kid.” Her expression changes. You don’t stop. “He was about to cut me open too. For a cure none of you could prove would even work.”

“My dad knew what he was doing.”

“Your dad was going to kill us.”

“He was going to save—.”

“Joel saved us.” You cut her off. Her jaw tightens. You move so close that only rusted iron separates you. “How he did it, who he had to go through—” Your voice drops. “I don’t give a shit.”

Abby crosses the remaining distance in one violent step. Her hand shoots through the bars and fists into the front of your shirt. “Say that again, you fucking bitch.”

You move faster. Your good hand clamps around her wrist. You jerk her arm hard against the bars, trap it between two lengths of iron and catch one of her fingers before she can pull free. Then you bend. A sharp crack cuts through the ward. Abby cries out. Manny lunges forward. You twist harder. “Touch him and I’ll break the rest.”

“Shit! Abs!” Manny grabs Abby by the shoulder and yanks her backward. “Stop!” Her hand tears free from your grasp. She staggers away, clutching her finger against her chest, fury blazing across her face. Manny’s pistol is halfway out of its holster. Yours would already be in his throat if there weren’t bars between you.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

All three of you turn. Clouser walks into the converted triage ward with two heavily armed Wolves behind him. A fresh bandage wraps around the side of his head, covering what remains of his ear. Blood has already begun seeping through the white material near his temple. Not enough. His gaze moves from Abby’s injured hand to Manny’s half-drawn weapon. Then to you. 

Manny slowly lets go of his pistol. “Just getting acquainted with your daughter.” He glances toward you. “Charming girl. Must run in the family.”

Clouser’s expression does not change. “I told you she isn’t here for you.”

Abby turns away from the cell, still cradling her injured hand. “Where is he?” She doesn’t need to say the name this time. You know exactly who she means.

Clouser continues walking. Neither hurried nor concerned. “I also told you that information comes at a price.”

Manny shifts beside her. “Isaac’s not coming down here.”

Clouser stops a few feet away. “That sounds like your problem.”

Abby takes a step toward him. “You’ve lost your fucking mind.”

The two Wolves accompanying Clouser raise their rifles slightly. Manny’s hand returns to his pistol. Nobody draws. Not yet. Clouser barely notices. “Isaac is bleeding the WLF dry over an island and a religious war he cannot win.”

“You don’t know anything about this war,” Abby snaps.

“I know your people are deserting faster than he can execute them.”

Her face hardens. Clouser gestures vaguely toward the hospital surrounding you. “I know your soldiers are dying from bites, arrows, infections and his obsession with the Scars.”

“You think that serum makes you a leader?”

The smallest smile touches his mouth. “No.” He looks toward her as if the answer should be obvious. “The fact that they cannot survive without it will.”

Your stomach twists. Apparently, while you were gone, your father had graduated from mad scientist to aspiring dictator.

Abby stares at him. “You’re experimenting on our people.”

“I’m saving them.”

“You’re killing them.”

“Temporary instability is not failure.” Clouser’s tone remains maddeningly calm. “It is data.”

Manny lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Is that what we’re calling the bodies downstairs?”

Clouser’s expression sharpens. “Careful.”

“No.” Abby steps closer. “You be careful.” Her voice rises. “You’ve got half the hospital locked down. Soldiers disappearing into quarantine. Families threatening to leave—and now you’re trying to turn Isaac’s command against him?”

“They will not leave.”

“You sound pretty fucking sure.”

“Their children require treatment.” Clouser glances toward the floor beneath you. “Treatment only I can provide.”

Abby’s face twists with disgust. “Are you fucking serious?”

“People follow Isaac because they fear him.” Clouser’s eyes move slowly between Abby and Manny. “They will follow me because they need me.”

“That cure doesn’t do shit,” Abby snaps. “Everyone knows it. The first chance they get, they’re going to put a bullet in your head.”

“This time it will work.”

Abby scoffs.

Clouser looks toward you. “It already has.”

Your stomach tightens.

“The tissue taken from her bite showed a response we have never seen before. Her blood stabilized one of the patients.” His gaze lingers on you. “You may see the results for yourselves.” A faint smile touches his mouth. Then he looks back at Abby. “She is proof that survival is possible. Isaac would reduce that proof to a weapon. Something to send through spore-filled tunnels and unleash against the Scars.”

“And you see her as what?”

Clouser answers without hesitation. “Mine.”

Revulsion crawls across your skin. You slam both hands against the bars. “I’m gonna tear your fucking throat out.”

One of the guards flinches. Clouser doesn’t. “Sweetheart.” His tone is almost indulgent. “There’s no need to get so worked up. You’ll tear your stitches.”

“Come closer and I’ll tear yours.”

Manny’s mouth almost twitches again.

Abby ignores both of you. Her eyes remain fixed on Clouser. “You bring me Joel Miller.” She glances toward your cell as she says it. Making certain you hear every word.

Clouser tilts his head. “You bring me Isaac.”

“Alive?”

“Very.”

“And Miller is mine.”

Your body hits the bars. The entire structure shakes. You grip the iron hard enough for rust to cut into your palms. Clouser turns toward the doors. “We will continue this conversation somewhere quieter.”

Abby does not move immediately. Neither do you. Your eyes remain locked through the bars. You shake them again. The metal groans beneath your hands. “Abby!”

She stops at the doors. Looks back. “You asked me how much he means to me?” Your voice drops. “Enough to make what he did in Salt Lake look like mercy.”

For one beat, Abby only stares at you. Then something in her face breaks. “You fucking—”

She surges toward the cell. Manny catches her by the arm before she reaches the bars and hauls her back. “If you put one hand on him, I swear to God I will get out of this cage.” Your voice carries through the entire ward. “I’ll tear this hospital apart room by room. And I’ll kill every motherfucker standing between me and him.”

Abby tears her arm free from Manny’s grip. Her eyes remain fixed on yours. “If you live that long.”

Then she turns and walks out.

Nearly an hour passes. At least, you think it does. You sit in the corner of the cell with your injured shoulder pressed against concrete, examining the rusted nail balanced across your knee.

You found it beneath the torn mattress and spent fifteen minutes working it loose. Not much. You have done more with less. You pull the leather belt free from your trousers and wrap one end around the nail until the spike sits upright between the folds. Ugly, but useful. Not enough to win against four armed Wolves. Enough to open a throat, take a gun and get out.

Joel is somewhere inside this hospital. Or already being taken to the woman who looked at you as though his death had been keeping her alive for years. You force the thought away. He is alive. He has to be. And Taxi— Your throat tightens. No. One problem at a time.

A metallic scrape comes from beyond the double doors. You are on your feet before they open, the belt wound around your palm and the nail hidden behind your thigh. Four soldiers enter the ward. Two remain near the cell with their rifles raised while the others approach the lock. The rifles are a performance. Clouser needs you alive, and everyone here knows it.

The taller soldier notices the hand behind your back. “Show me.”

You lean against the bars. “Open the fucking door and come take it.”

His jaw tightens. The man beside him pulls a syringe from his vest. Clear fluid. Long needle. Your stomach clenches before you can stop it. His mouth twists. “You want us to do this again?”

The sight of the needle drags fluorescent lights, leather restraints and hands pinning your arms out of memory. You lift your eyes to his. “Stick me with that and I’ll rip it out, bury it in your eye and make you choke on it.”

His smile disappears.

“Don’t sedate her. It will contaminate the neurological readings.”

The voice comes from behind the soldiers. Everything inside you stills. Ten years since you heard it without a wall, gunfire or memory distorting it.

The soldiers move apart. William stands behind them.

Yesterday, beneath the rain and hospital floodlights, you had only seen pieces of him—a bruised face, bound hands, a gun against his head. Now there is nothing between you. White threads through the hair at his temples. Lines cut deeply beside his mouth and beneath his eyes. He is thinner than you remember. Older. Tired in a way sleep could never fix.

He looks at you, and for several seconds the ward disappears. Pain shifts across his face, followed by relief and everything he cannot say in front of the soldiers.

“She’s going to behave,” he says, his voice deliberately clinical. Then his eyes soften. He says your real name quietly, as though unsure whether it still belongs to you. “Won’t you?”

The name catches beneath your ribs. Not Kat. Not the name known in Jackson. The name you were born with, tied to laboratory records and the girl you buried before reaching Wyoming.

His gaze drops toward the hand behind your back. 

Trust me. 

He does not say it, but for one irrational second his eyes remind you of Joel’s—that same steady look when the world is collapsing and he needs you to believe he has already found a way through it.

You bring your hand forward. The soldiers tense at the sight of the belt and nail, but William does not flinch. You unwrap the leather. The nail clatters onto the floor. “There,” you say. “Behaving.”

“Open the cell,” William orders.

The lock clicks. Two soldiers enter and grip you carefully, avoiding the wounded shoulder. Every instinct tells you to fight. Break a knee. Take the pistol. Use the body as cover. But Joel is still somewhere you cannot reach from behind these bars, so you let them hold you. For now.

They march you through older treatment wings until William leads you into a small examination room. Only one guard remains inside. William gestures toward the padded table. “Sit.”

You do, mostly because standing is beginning to require more effort than you want anyone to notice. William arranges gauze, forceps and two glass vials on a tray. Your eyes settle on the syringe.

When he reaches for the bandage around your forearm, you pull back. “The bite,” he says. “I need to look at it.”

“You people already took a piece.”

Something dark crosses his face. He glances toward the guard, who is staring through the observation window. “I know,” William says quietly.

You offer your arm. The stalker’s bite looks worse beneath the examination light, swollen around the badly stitched biopsy site.

William’s fingers hover near it. “You let it bite this deep?”

“It wasn’t exactly a negotiation.”

His eyes lift to yours. You look away, seeing Joel trapped beneath the stalker and the empty revolver in your hand.

William cleans the wound. Antiseptic burns through the torn skin. “Easy,” he murmurs. The familiarity of the word hurts more than the wound.

He brings the needle toward your elbow. You pull back again.

“It’s a small sample.”

A bitter laugh leaves you. “Ten years and nothing’s changed. Still the lab rat. I suppose I wasn’t one to you back then.” You meet his eyes. “I am now.”

William ties a strip of rubber around your upper arm and lowers his voice. “I told you to stay away from Seattle.”

“I didn’t come for you.”

His brow furrows.

“Where’s Joel?”

The needle enters your vein. Dark blood fills the first vial.

“I think you should be more concerned about yourself,” William says.

“I’ve spent enough time doing that.”

His expression closes.

“You’ve been with Clouser all this time. Why are you helping him?”

No answer. William replaces the vial.

“Did you know about Vickie?”

His hand stills. “Yes.”

“And you did nothing?”

William removes the needle, presses gauze against the puncture and nods once. Something inside you cracks, but there is no time to let it open.

“Help me find Joel.”

William begins rewrapping your arm.

“Please.” The word tastes desperate. “I can’t let them hurt him.”

His hands stop. “Do I look like a free man?”

Your jaw tightens.

“What makes a smuggler so important?” he asks.

You swallow. “He’s my family. The kind I never had. The kind I didn’t know how to have until I met him.” Your throat tightens. “He’s the reason I know what it feels like to have somewhere to go back to. I can’t lose him.”

Something changes behind William’s eyes. He draws your sleeve over the bandage and stands. “Come with me.”

The guard remains behind as William takes you through a side door, down two flights of stairs and toward a security door marked B2.

“Where are we going?”

William enters a code and glances toward the camera. “Keep walking.”

The level beyond looks nothing like the hospital upstairs. White coats move between sealed rooms while carts pass carrying blood bags and numbered containers. Everyone acknowledges William with a nod or a quiet, “Doctor.” Respect, or fear disguised as it.

The farther you walk, the more the corridor resembles the laboratories of your childhood. Glass observation rooms. Heavy doors. Numbers instead of names. Only larger. More organised. Worse.

Behind the first window, a man lies strapped to an inclined bed, dark fungal veins stretching along his jaw. The next room contains a grey-skinned woman held upright by restraints. Cordyceps blooms beneath one eye; the other follows you as you pass. Conscious. Another room holds two beds. One body is covered. The other receives blood through three separate lines.

Your steps slow. “What is this? What the fuck did he do?”

The corridor opens into a wider ward. Children lie behind glass with their wrists secured to bed rails. A pregnant woman lies strapped to a table in the next chamber, blackened veins spreading across her bare stomach. A monitor records two heartbeats. One slow. One frantic.

She turns toward you. There is no pleading left in her eyes, only the recognition of one prisoner seeing another.

“You’re experimenting on pregnant women?” The words tear out of you. “And fucking children?”

William turns. A cart passes behind him carrying blood bags labelled with the numbers on the doors.

“What are you doing with their blood?”

“Trying to reproduce what happened to you.”

Your gaze snaps toward him.

“When we learned Marlene had found another immune girl, we were on the other side of the country.”

“Ellie.”

“Clouser never stopped looking for you. News of another immune person led us toward Salt Lake. Anderson and Clouser knew one another before the outbreak. According to Clouser, Anderson was an incompetent man stumbling toward the right answer for the wrong reasons.”

“Sounds like him.”

“When Clouser learned the Fireflies had both immune subjects, he was afraid.”

“Because someone else was going to cut me open?”

“That too. But Clouser never believed the cure was simply a growth inside the brain. The Cordyceps and the host work together. Destroying the brain destroys the system producing the immune response.”

Your stomach tightens.

“Ellie’s infection convinces new Cordyceps that she is already colonised,” William continues. “Her immunity hides.” His eyes drop to your bandaged arm. “Yours fights back.”

The corridor seems to narrow around you.

“When we reached Salt Lake, Anderson was dead,” he says. “The Fireflies were scattered. The hospital was full of bodies. Marlene among them.”

“Joel,” you murmur. “I escaped while he was getting Ellie out. We didn’t know each other then. I ended up in Jackson, and that is where we met. Was Ethan the reason you sent me there?”

William nods. “His father was a good man. I believed you would be safe with the people he trusted.”

“Why didn’t you follow?”

William’s attention shifts toward the next room. A small boy lies beneath a white blanket, no older than ten. Dark veins branch beneath the skin of his arms.

“The hospital was attacked after you escaped. FEDRA learned we had worked with the Fireflies. Three years in a prison camp followed by five more running. Eventually Clouser found Isaac.”

“And the WLF saved you?”

“They took us in. Doctors were useful.” William looks through the glass. “For a while, I thought we had found a future.”

“Vickie?”

“The WLF found her unit after you destroyed the others. She had been bitten.”

“He tested the serum on her,” you say. “Then used her to find me.”

“Yes.” William’s voice begins to fracture. “I never told them you were in Jackson. If I went to you, they would have followed. But that is not the whole truth. I chose to stay. I had a family here. Friends. A home.”

The boy’s arm trembles weakly beneath the blanket. You look between them. “He’s your—” The word refuses to come. “When was he bitten?”

William turns toward you. “No one down here was bitten.”

Your stomach drops. The children. The pregnant woman. The numbered rooms. “They infected them.”

“Clouser needed subjects at different stages, ages and immune responses.”

You look through the glass at the boy. William’s jaw locks as he watches his son’s fingers twitch.

“Do you know the most important thing the last ten years taught me?” he asks. “Never waste mercy on a man who does not deserve it. Given enough time, mercy becomes permission.” His hand presses against the window. “I spared Clouser. I convinced myself some part of him could change.” William’s reflection trembles in the glass. “Then he infected my son.” The words settle heavily between you. “He used Daniel to keep me beside him. Every dose of serum came with a condition. Every improvement bought another month of obedience. I told myself I was staying for him.”

When he turns back, something harder has entered his face. “But it is over now. Daniel has passed the stage the current serum can reverse.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I have known for weeks.”

“William—”

“Clouser should have died the night you escaped.” The words come low and vicious. “I had my hands around his throat. I could have ended it. But I couldn’t. I was a coward who still believed men could change, still believed in humanity.” He looks across the ward. “Everyone here is paying for that mercy.”

You watch him turn away from the glass. “Why did you bring me down here? You could’ve told me upstairs.”

“No,” he says. “I couldn’t.”

Only then do you notice the nurse watching William instead of the cameras. When your eyes meet hers, she turns one monitor away from the corridor. A doctor leaving a numbered room gives William a small nod. Farther down, an armed guard deliberately blocks a security lens.

The people moving through this ward are not all Clouser’s.

William looks toward the children behind the glass. “You said the smuggler was your family.”

“Joel.”

His eyes return to yours. “Joel,” he repeats, the name unfamiliar in his mouth. “This is where families like mine come to die. Every hour Clouser remains in control, another person becomes a number on a door.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“Clouser trusts no one else with you. He will oversee your procedure himself and bring his research team, his guards and every record that matters into one secured room.”

Understanding begins to form. “You’re using me to draw him out.”

“I’m asking you to keep him there.”

“While I’m strapped to a table.”

“You won’t be unconscious.”

“That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No. It is supposed to keep you alive.” William lowers his voice. “When the power goes out, his people will be cut off. Mine will take the corridors. You keep Clouser inside until we reach you.”

“And then?”

The security door opens before William can answer. A young technician hurries into the corridor, clutching a folder against his chest. “Dr. Devane. Subject One-Six-One.”

Something in William’s face changes. “What about him?”

“Post-infusion response markers are rising. The fungal regression has accelerated, neural activity is stabilising and his inflammatory markers have fallen almost thirty percent.”

William takes the folder. “How long?”

“Twenty-three minutes.”

“That isn’t possible.”

“We ran the bloods twice.”

“What did you give him?”

The technician hesitates. His gaze flicks toward you. “The sample collected upstairs.”

Your blood.

You look through the glass at Daniel. His fingers move faintly against the sheet. Not a tremor. Something deliberate.

“What’s happening?” you ask.

“Ah.” Clouser enters with two Wolves behind him, his steps slow and unhurried. Every muscle inside you locks. “There you are.” He looks past you to the technician. “And the news has already travelled. Efficient as ever.”

William turns toward him. “Is it true?”

Clouser’s smile gives nothing away. “See for yourself.”

“The results were confirmed twice,” the technician says. “Fungal activity has decreased. Neural response is stabilising, and the inflammatory markers are continuing to fall.”

William’s eyes move to Daniel. “How quickly?”

“The first measurable change appeared less than six minutes after the infusion.”

William goes still. Even you understand enough to know that should not be possible. Six minutes is barely enough time to produce a measurable systemic change, let alone force an infection that far gone into retreat.

“The sample taken from her produced an immediate systemic response,” the technician continues. “We have never recorded anything like it.”

William scans the results. His face remains controlled, but the paper bends beneath his fingers. “One response proves nothing.”

“No,” Clouser agrees. “But it proves considerably more than we knew yesterday.”

Then he turns toward you. “In that case, the operation is cancelled.”

For one disorienting second, you think you misheard him. Even William looks up. “What?”

Clouser smiles. “I’ve decided not to open your skull.”

Relief tries to rise inside you. Something in his expression kills it before it can. “Your blood has become considerably more interesting.”

“You’re postponing the operation?”

“I’m replacing it.”

William’s expression remains controlled, but you see the effort it costs him. His plan depended on an operating theatre—Clouser, his guards, his research team and every record that mattered sealed inside one room when the lights went out. Now there will be no theatre. No gathered team. No trap.

“What are you proposing?” William asks.

“Serial blood collection. Bone marrow. Tissue from the bite and the previous biopsy site.” Clouser looks at you as though discussing equipment. “Then controlled exposure while we monitor the immune response.”

Your stomach turns. “You’re going to infect me again.”

“You cannot technically be infected.”

“Then put it in your own fucking veins.”

Clouser ignores you. “If these results are reproducible, Daniel may finally have a chance.”

William’s eyes move toward his son. Only for a second. But you see it. So does Clouser.

The technician shifts uneasily. “Should I prepare another infusion?”

William does not answer. That silence is enough.

Clouser turns toward the Wolves. “Take her upstairs. Procedure Room Seven.”

William’s gaze snaps back to him. “She is injured.”

“That is not our priority.”

The soldiers seize your arms and drag you toward the door. You search William’s face for the plan, for some indication that the lights will still go out. He meets your eyes and gives nothing away. Perhaps because Clouser is watching. Perhaps because he no longer knows.

You twist against the soldiers, but pain tears through your wounded shoulder and your arm buckles. William takes one step after you.

Clouser moves between you. “Stay with your son, Doctor.”

William stops. The words are not a suggestion.

As the security door opens, you look back at him. He is still holding the folder, still staring after you while Daniel’s monitor marks its steady rhythm behind the glass.

For the first time since William opened your cell, you understand that whatever happens next will not follow his plan.

The soldiers pull you through the door.

It closes between you.

The soldiers struggle with you all the way upstairs. You drag your heels through doorways and twist whenever their grip shifts, forcing them to readjust every few steps. The wound in your shoulder burns with each movement, but the pain keeps you sharp.

Clouser follows without hurrying. By the time they force you into Procedure Room Seven, his breathing has not changed.

The room is smaller than an operating theatre. A narrow bed stands beneath an adjustable lamp, surrounded by monitors, steel trays and collection equipment. Clear tubing hangs beside sealed syringes and rows of empty vials.

Two scans glow on the screen across the room.

You recognise the first immediately. Ten years have passed, but you spent too much of your childhood beneath machines not to know your own brain. A pale, branching mass curls through the left side.

The old scan.

The second is recent. What once resembled thin roots has become a dense white web, spreading through tissue that had been clear ten years ago.

For a moment, you stop fighting.

Clouser notices. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You tear your eyes from the screen. He has removed his coat and is fastening a surgical gown around his neck while an assistant prepares the instruments beside him.

“What happened to it?”

Clouser pulls on a glove. “It matured. Every bite you survived, every concentration of spores you inhaled, exposed it to a new variation of the organism. Each time, your body adapted. The growth expanded, refined its response—and yet it never converted you.” The second glove snaps around his wrist. “And you object when I call you a miracle.”

You say nothing. Your attention drifts back to the pale network branching through tissue that should have belonged only to you.

“I no longer resent you for running that night,” Clouser continues. “Had I operated then, the organism may have been too immature. We might have removed it before the process became stable—or discovered nothing we could reproduce.” He studies the screen with something dangerously close to admiration. “But now we know your blood actively suppresses fungal replication. Something circulating through your system forces Cordyceps into regression.” His gaze settles on you. “Ten years ago, I had a theory. Now I have proof.”

The soldiers force you toward the bed. You plant your feet.

“Secure her properly,” Clouser says. “She has a history of damaging valuable equipment.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

One soldier locks an arm around your waist while the other grabs your wrist. You drive an elbow into the first man’s ribs, but the second catches your injured arm.

Pain breaks your balance.

They force you onto the mattress. One pins your shoulder while the other pulls a restraint across your waist.

The assistant lifts a syringe.

“No.”

He glances toward the instruments. One needle is narrow and familiar. Another is thick enough to reach bone. “The marrow collection will be extremely painful.”

“Sedation would alter the immune response,” Clouser says. “I need it unfiltered.”

The assistant hesitates but nods. The soldier reaches for your left wrist. You let the arm go slack, and he mistakes it for exhaustion.

The instant his grip loosens, you twist beneath him and drive your shoulder into his chest. He crashes against the bed. You seize the assistant by his coat, drag him between you and the raised rifles and tear the pistol from the soldier’s holster.

“Fuck!”

“Gun!”

“Drop it!”

The assistant chokes as you press the barrel beneath his jaw. Rifles snap toward you from both sides. “Tell me where Joel is.”

Clouser’s head turns sharply. “You will not leave this room.”

“I didn’t ask to leave.”

“Miller is beyond your reach.”

“Where is he?”

Clouser looks at the trembling assistant, then back at you. “You believe his life matters to me?”

The man goes rigid.

No fear. No hesitation. Nothing.

You cannot trade a life Clouser already considers disposable. You shove the assistant aside. Before the soldiers can fire, you reverse the pistol and press the muzzle against your own temple.

Clouser’s expression changes. The amusement vanishes. His shoulders stiffen beneath the surgical gown, his eyes fixed on the barrel. You would swear he would show less fear with the gun against his own head.

One soldier starts forward.

Clouser throws up a gloved hand. “Don’t. Lower the rifles. Now.”

The weapons descend.

“You need me so bad, right?”

Clouser takes one slow step forward. “Do not do anything irrational.”

A breathless laugh escapes you. “Irrational?”

“Killing yourself will not improve your position.”

“It’ll ruin yours.”

Your finger settles against the trigger.

Clouser stops.

Behind you, ten years of growth glows across the screen. His research. His cure. His miracle.

“You need my blood,” you say. “The tissue, the neural response, the organism inside my skull. You need all of it intact.”

“You do not understand what you are threatening.”

“I grew up in your fucking laboratories.” Your thumb finds the safety. The metallic click fills the room. “I know exactly where I’m aiming.”

His hands rise slightly. “You kill yourself, and Miller still dies.”

“Then keeping him alive is the only way you keep me alive.”

“You will gain nothing from this.”

Clouser steps forward again. You begin to squeeze the trigger. He stops. “One bullet through here and your miracle ends up on the wall.”

His jaw tightens. “What do you want?”

For the first time, he is asking.

“Where is Joel?”

His eyes move toward the nearest soldier. “Transport Three,” the man says. “East service road. They left twenty minutes ago.”

Already in a vehicle. Already beyond your reach. Maybe being taken to Isaac. Maybe to the woman who had looked at Joel as though she had been waiting years to kill him.

“Tell them to stop.”

Clouser studies you. “That vehicle is operating under direct orders.”

“Then give it new ones.”

“You cannot reach him from here.”

“I don’t need to. Get me a radio. Stop the truck and put Joel on the other end.”

Clouser looks at your finger, then at the scan. Finally, he turns toward the soldier.

“Contact Transport Three.”

The man pulls the radio from his vest. “Transport Three, this is Medical Control. Respond.”

Static crackles.

“Transport Three.”

“Stop the vehicle.”

A pause. “Say again?”

Clouser takes the radio. “This is Clouser. Halt immediately and secure the road.”

“Doctor, we have standing orders to deliver the prisoner. We’re less than ten minutes from the handoff.”

“There will be no handoff.”

“We take transfer orders from Isaac’s command.”

Clouser’s gaze remains fixed on you. “The immune subject has a loaded weapon against the growth in her brain. If she fires, every possibility of reproducing the immune response ends with her.”

The room goes silent enough for you to hear the hum from the screen behind you.

Clouser’s voice hardens. “Stop the vehicle.”

“Understood.”

Brakes hiss through the radio. “Dismount,” Clouser orders. “Cut Miller loose and leave him the truck.”

“Doc—”

You keep your eyes on him. “His equipment.”

“Return his belongings,” Clouser says. “Leave him one rifle, his sidearm and a handheld radio. Then move away from the vehicle.”

The man on the other end mutters something you cannot hear.

Clouser’s voice drops. “Do it.”

Metal doors slam through the speaker. Clouser passes the radio back to the soldier, who approaches you carefully. “Hold it where I can speak.”

The soldier stops beyond your reach and raises the radio toward your mouth.

For a moment, there is only static.

Then a distant voice says, “Prisoner’s out.”

Your heart strikes hard against your ribs.

“Put him on.”

-JOEL-

The truck stops hard enough to throw Joel against the metal wall. He lifts his head, blinking through the blood dried along his temple. His wrists are bound behind him, his legs nearly numb beneath his weight. Outside, boots strike wet asphalt and voices rise in sudden argument. Joel shifts in the dark, searching for anything he can use. The rear doors open before he finds it, and grey daylight floods the compartment. Three Wolves stand in the road. Their rifles are ready, but none is pointed at him. That worries him more.

One climbs inside and cuts the restraints around his wrists. Joel works the feeling back into his fingers while the soldier drops his pack beside him. His revolver rests on top.

“Get out.”

Joel remains seated. “The hell’s goin’ on?”

The soldier does not answer. He holds out a radio. “Take it.” Joel looks from the device to the men outside. One of them places a rifle inside the cab before retreating several yards from the truck. It feels like a trap. But if they wanted him dead, they have had twenty minutes to do it. Joel takes the radio.

“Talk.”

Static crackles. Then your voice reaches him.

“Joel?”

His entire body locks.

“Kat?”

He hears a single breath leave you through the speaker.

“Where are you?” he demands. “You still in that hospital?”

“Listen to me.”

“What did they do to you?”

His eyes lift to the Wolves. The nearest man looks away.

“They touch you?”

“Take the truck.”

“What?”

“Drive north. Get past their checkpoints and away from the hospital.”

“I ain’t leavin’ you there.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Like hell I am. Tell me where you are.”

“You can’t get to me.”

“Watch me.”

“Joel…” Your grip tightens around the pistol pressed to your temple. The soldier holding the radio keeps his arm extended toward your mouth, careful not to move within reach. Clouser stands across from you, both gloved hands raised, his attention fixed on your finger against the trigger.

“If you give a damn about me,” you say, “you’ll get in that fucking truck and go.”

Joel’s face hardens.

“Don’t you dare—”

“I’m getting out.”

The lie comes too quickly. Joel hears it.

“How?”

“William has people inside.”

“That ain’t an answer.”

“It’s all I can give you.”

“You’re lyin’.”

You close your eyes for half a second. “I need you to trust me.”

“Darlin’—“

“When you’re clear, call this channel again.”

“And then what?”

“Sing me the song you wrote for me.”

Joel stares at the radio.

“What?”

“The song. Nobody else knows it. If I hear it, I’ll know you’re alone. I’ll know they didn’t force you to say you were safe.”

Faintly, behind your voice, he hears someone breathing. Then Clouser speaks.

“Time is passing.”

Joel’s blood turns cold. “That him?”

You do not answer. “Get in the truck. If I don’t hear from you in ten minutes—” You raise your voice, no longer speaking only to him. “—I pull the trigger and put everything inside my skull across the fucking wall.”

Silence falls across the road. Joel stares at the radio, his jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

“You reckless—” He drags a hand over his face. “Goddammit, Kat.”

One of the Wolves gestures toward the cab. “You heard her.” Joel holsters the revolver, grabs the rifle and climbs behind the wheel. The channel cuts. Joel starts the engine. The Wolves retreat as the truck surges forward. He watches them in the mirror until the rain swallows them, then drives north through streets broken by roots, wreckage and abandoned cars.

He knows what you expect him to do. Keep going. He also knows he never will.

The last WLF checkpoint appears ahead. Its guards raise the barrier reluctantly and watch him pass. Joel drives until the hospital disappears behind ruined buildings and no headlights follow him.

Eight minutes.

He pulls beneath the remains of an overpass and kills the engine. Rain spills through cracks in the concrete as he climbs out with the rifle and checks the road, the rooftops and the tree line. Nothing moves. He grabs the radio.

“Kat?” Static answers. “Kat, I’m clear. You hear me?”

Several seconds pass before your voice returns.

“Sing.”

Joel leans against the truck.

“Are you hurt?”

“Sing the song.”

“Fuck—Tell me you’re all right.”

“Joel.” Your voice is thinner now. “Sing the fucking song.”

He closes his eyes. For a moment, there is only rain ticking against the roof of the truck. Then he sings.

“After all these years runnin’ round,

Flyin’ high and fallin’ down…”

His voice is rough without the guitar beneath it, worn down by blood, fear and the distance between you. But it is him. Only him.

Your eyes burn. A tear slips toward your jaw, but you do not wipe it away. You cannot move the hand holding the gun, and you refuse to let Clouser see the other one tremble.

“Well, the time has come at last,

To rest my heart and ease my past…”

Joel’s voice catches on the final word. He swallows and forces himself to continue.

“I’m gonna leave these blues behind,

For some other fool to find…”

Clouser watches you from across the room. The pistol remains pressed to your temple, but the pressure has begun to ease. His eyes flick toward the nearest soldier.

Joel looks down the empty road as he sings.

“He won’t care and I don’t mind…”

An engine growls somewhere beyond the overpass. Joel straightens. Headlights appear through the trees, moving quickly toward him. He shoulders the rifle but keeps the radio close.

“Hide me, babe…”

Your eyes close. His voice trembles.

“Hide me, babe.”

The final words fade into static. For one suspended moment, neither of you speaks. Then Joel presses the radio closer.

“You stay alive,” he says. “I’m comin’ for you.”

“Joel—”

“You hear me? You stay—”

You lower the pistol. Only an inch.

Clouser’s eyes snap toward the nearest soldier. The blow strikes your wrist before you see it coming. The pistol flies from your hand and skids beneath the steel cabinet. Another soldier drives you back against the bed as the radio is torn away from your mouth.

“Kat?”

Static tears through Joel’s speaker.

“Kat! Fuck!”

Static tears through Joel’s speaker.

The approaching vehicle stops across the road. Doors open, and armed figures spill into the rain.

Joel barely looks at them.

He shoves the radio against his belt and turns for the truck. If the road south is blocked, he will drive through them. Around them. Over them. Whatever it takes to get back to the hospital.

His hand closes around the driver’s door. A gunshot cracks through the rain. The bullet punches through the metal inches from his fingers, throwing sparks across the side of the truck. Joel jerks back and raises the rifle in the same movement.

A young woman steps out from behind the headlights, her hair pulled tightly away from a face hollowed by exhaustion. A pistol hangs steady in her outstretched hand, smoke curling faintly from the barrel.

“Joel Miller!” 

Joel settles the rifle over her chest. She stares at him as though she has spent years imagining this exact moment. “I’m Abby.”

Joel gives her a brief, impatient look. “That supposed to mean somethin’?”

A man emerges near the other headlight, moving toward Joel’s right with a rifle raised. Abby glances toward him. Manny keeps his sights on Joel. “It’s him.”

Joel sees what they are doing. Abby holds his attention while Manny moves wide enough to catch him from the side. Their truck blocks the road south.

Back to the hospital.

Back to you.

“Looks like you know me, congrats,” Joel says. “I don’t know either of you. Move the truck.”

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

Joel’s eyes flick toward the silent radio at his belt. “Then say whatever you came to say.”

Abby stops several yards away. “Where was the last place you saw the Fireflies?”

The question settles differently. Joel looks at her properly now. “Salt Lake.”

“Saint Mary’s Hospital.” Her grip tightens around the pistol. “Do you know how many people you killed that day?”

Joel says nothing. He has thought about that hospital during the year since he left it. The corridors. Marlene in the garage. The bodies he stepped over with Ellie unconscious in his arms.

Sometimes, in the quietest part of the night, he has wondered whether there had been another way.

He has never regretted the one he chose.

“The doctor,” Abby continues. “You shot him in the head.” Joel remembers the man raising the scalpel after being warned to step aside. The body falling beside the operating table. “He was my dad!”

Joel’s attention drifts past her toward the road. Clouser may already have taken the gun from you. You could be strapped back onto that bed, another needle in your arm, your blood filling his tubes while you lie there unable to fight.

The last thing Joel heard was your voice disappearing into static.

He cannot stand here answering for a dead man. “If you came for an apology, you ain’t gettin’ one.”

Abby raises her pistol. Manny’s rifle follows. “Put the gun down,” she says.

Joel’s voice cuts through hers. “You want me, fine. But you’re standin’ in my way.” 

“What’s the hurry?” Abby asks. “Another hospital to tear apart?” Joel’s expression changes. She sees it. “The other immune girl,” Abby says. “That’s where you’re going.”

“If I have to.”

“She threatened to kill herself for you.” Something bitter twists at the corner of Abby’s mouth. “Clouser’s probably got her back on the table already.”

Joel settles the rifle directly over her chest. “Last warning.”

Manny takes another step sideways. Joel shifts the barrel toward him without looking away from Abby.

“Don’t.”

Manny stops. “You think you can take both of us, you stupid old man?”

Abby does not flinch. “You don’t get to walk away from me. I’ve carried you for a year.” Her voice begins to shake. “You don’t get a quick death.”

Joel glances once toward the hospital road, then back at her. “You talk too damn much.”

He fires.

The bullet destroys the headlight beside Abby. Glass bursts across the road as she dives behind the truck. Manny opens fire.

Joel drops behind the transport vehicle. Rounds tear through the rear doors and hammer against the frame. He lands on his injured side, rolls and drags his pack from the open cab.

The radio crackles at his belt. “Kat?”

A bullet shatters the mirror above his head. Joel ducks as fragments scatter across his shoulders.

Manny moves along the far side of the road while Abby keeps Joel pinned behind the engine block. They know how to work together.

Joel checks the rifle.

Half a magazine.

Enough.

He fires beneath the truck, forcing Manny back, then punches a second round through the panel beside Abby. Before either of them can recover, he moves.

Joel comes around the hood and drives the rifle stock across Manny’s mouth. Manny answers by slamming his weapon into Joel’s ribs. Pain folds through Joel’s side.

“You’re dead, motherfucker,” Manny spits through the blood.

Joel answers with his forehead. Bone cracks.

Manny staggers back, cursing in Spanish. Abby strikes Joel from behind and drives him into the truck hard enough to tear the rifle from his hands.

Her fist catches him beneath the jaw. Joel answers with an elbow that snaps her head sideways. Abby comes back immediately.

He catches her gun hand and smashes it against the side of the truck.

Once.

Twice.

The pistol drops.

“You took everything from me!”

Joel shoves her away. Abby drives her knee into his stomach and throws him onto the road. The radio tears loose from his belt and skids across the asphalt.

She kicks it beyond his reach, plants her boot against his chest and draws a knife.

Every second he spends here belongs to Clouser. Joel’s fingers search blindly among the shattered headlight glass.

“Somethin’ happens to her because you kept me here,” he says, “we’ll see who joins your daddy first.”

His hand closes around a jagged piece of glass. He drives it into her thigh.

Abby screams and recoils. Joel catches her ankle and tears her feet from beneath her.

Manny raises his rifle. “Abby!”

A high-powered shot cracks across the road. Manny’s head jerks sideways. For a fraction of a second, he remains standing. Then he collapses beside the truck, blood spraying across Abby’s face.

She stares at him. “Manny?”

Another shot tears into the road beside her.

Sniper.

Joel knows the report of that rifle. He looks toward the fractured walkway overlooking the road.

“Tommy?”

Tommy stands behind a broken concrete barrier, rifle braced against his shoulder.

“Get the hell off my brother!”

Abby looks from Manny’s body to Joel. Whatever control remained in her disappears.

She launches herself at him.

They hit the ground together. Her hands close around Joel’s throat, thumbs driving beneath his jaw.

“You killed him!”

Joel grips one wrist, but the other tightens. Darkness creeps into the edges of his vision. “Had enough of you,” he forces out.

Tommy fires, but Abby and Joel roll against the truck before he can find a clean angle. The round buries itself in the metal beside them. “Goddammit, Joel!”

Abby tears the knife from her belt. Joel catches her wrist with both hands, the blade trembling inches above his throat.

“You should’ve died in that hospital!”

She forces it lower. The edge slices across Joel’s side.

Then a boot drives into Abby’s ribs.

Tommy steps between them and brings the stock of his rifle across her face.

“Stay down!”

Abby spits blood and tackles him into the truck. Joel forces himself upright and catches her from behind before she can drive the knife into Tommy’s stomach.

She fights them without any concern for what breaks—clawing at Joel, kicking blindly at Tommy, reaching desperately toward Manny’s body.

“You fucking murderer!” she screams. “You shot him and walked away!”

Joel forces her to the ground and traps one arm beneath his knee. Tommy pins the other against the road. Still, Abby strains beneath them, Manny’s blood smeared across her face.

“You took him from me.”

Joel draws his revolver and aims between her eyes.

For the first time, Abby stops fighting. Her chest rises and falls beneath them as she looks directly into the barrel.

“Do it.”

Joel’s finger settles against the trigger.

“Come on,” she says, louder now. “Kill me like you killed my father.”

Joel says nothing.

“Look at me!” Abby bucks beneath them, her voice breaking into a scream. “Look at me and fucking do it!”

Joel looks down at her. For one brief second, he does not see the knife that opened his side or the woman who came here to torture him. He sees grief left too long without anywhere to go. A child who built everything she became around the moment someone took her father away.

His finger remains still.

Abby sees it. “What?” she spits. “You could do it to him, but not me?”

“Shut the fuck—” Tommy tightens his hold.

“Come on, you fucking coward! Do it!”

Joel still does not fire.

Not in that single second.

Something vicious twists across Abby’s face.

“Fine.”

Her free hand tears loose and disappears beneath Manny’s body. Her fingers close around his pistol.

“I’ll do it myself.”

She swings the weapon toward Joel.

Tommy fires.

The shot tears through Abby’s back. Her body jerks beneath Joel, and Manny’s pistol discharges into the road, the bullet passing close enough for him to feel it cut the air beside his face.

Abby tries to raise the weapon again. Her arm trembles, refusing to obey. The pistol slips from her fingers and lands beside Manny’s hand.

She stares up at Joel, fury fighting against the shock in her eyes. Her mouth moves, but only a wet breath escapes. “Damn you…” Then she goes still.

Joel keeps the revolver trained between her eyes for several seconds. Finally, he lowers it and pushes himself away.

Tommy looks from Abby to Manny. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Joel retrieves his rifle and looks at Abby once. There is no satisfaction in his face. No relief. Only time lost. “How the hell did you find me?”

“Followed the Wolves after they moved you from the hospital.”

“That ain’t what I asked.” Joel’s eyes narrow. “Why are you even in Seattle?”

“Ellie wouldn’t let it go. Kept saying something was wrong—that you wouldn’t stay quiet this long unless you were dead or in trouble.”

“The kid was right.”

“Usually is. Annoying as hell, but right.”

Joel studies his brother. “You left your boy and came all the way out here?”

“He’s with his mama. Safest place he could be.”

“Maria know you’re here?”

Tommy looks down while gathering ammunition from Manny’s rifle. His silence is answer enough.

“You’re a damn idiot.”

“Says the man I just pulled out from under two Fireflies.” Tommy catches Joel by the shoulder. “Hold still. You’re bleeding.”

“So are you.”

“Mine ain’t pouring out.”

“Tommy.”

Something in Joel’s voice strips the humour from his brother’s face. “They have her.”

Tommy looks toward the hospital beyond the ruined streets.

“In there?”

“Clouser’s got her. Last I heard, she had a gun against her own head.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“She did it for me.” Joel looks down at the silent radio. “Made them let me go. Then the line went dead.”

Tommy studies his face. “You two are dangerously fuckin’ alike.”

“She’s worse.”

Joel reaches for the driver’s door, but pain locks through his side. Tommy takes the keys from his hand. “I’m driving.”

“I can drive.”

“You can bleed and shoot. Pick two.” Joel glares at him. Tommy opens the passenger door. “Get in before your stubborn ass falls over.”

Joel climbs inside with the rifle across his knees. Tommy starts the engine while Joel picks up the radio. Static answers. He changes the frequency. Nothing. His hand tightens around the device.

Tommy glances toward him. “She’s strong, Joel.”

The radio erupts in a burst of overlapping voices.

“—all available units return to the hospital.”

Gunfire rattles through the channel.

“Medical personnel are armed. We’ve lost the east wing. Lower containment access has been compromised!”

Another voice breaks through the static.

“Reinforcements to the laboratory entrance!”

“Fall back! Fall—”

A burst of automatic fire drowns out the rest.

Joel’s head snaps toward Tommy. “We need to find her before the whole damn place comes down.”

Tommy slams the vehicle into gear.

“Then let’s go get her.”

The fighting draws them toward the rear of the hospital. Joel and Tommy move through the narrow lane behind the loading docks, keeping close to the concrete wall while gunfire tears through the floors above them. Emergency lights pulse behind shattered windows. Somewhere inside, men shout conflicting orders over the alarms. Tommy reaches the service entrance first. He tries the handle, finds it locked and steps aside. Joel fires once into the mechanism.

“Subtle,” Tommy mutters.

“Ain’t got time for subtle.” They slip inside. The service corridor smells of bleach, smoke and hot electrical wiring. Bodies lie beneath the emergency lights—Wolves, doctors, people in blood-soaked scrubs. Joel barely looks at them.

“Lower level should connect to the east wing,” Tommy says. Joel is already moving. They descend through a concrete stairwell while the battle continues above them. The gunfire becomes muffled underground, replaced by the pounding of boots and the mechanical groan of failing ventilation. The door at the bottom bursts open.

Two armed men rush into the corridor, firing behind them. A third figure follows between them, still wearing a bloodstained surgical gown beneath his coat. In one hand he carries an insulated case marked with a faded biohazard symbol. William and several armed members of his staff appear at the opposite end of the corridor. Gunfire erupts. One of Clouser’s guards goes down immediately. The second dives behind a medical cart and returns fire while Clouser turns toward the service exit. Then he sees Joel. For the first time, surprise breaks through his composure. Joel recognises the voice before the face.

“Tommy—that’s him!” Tommy fires at the remaining guard, forcing him behind cover. “Go!” Joel charges. Clouser tries to turn, but Joel reaches him before he takes two steps. He strikes him across the mouth and drives him into the wall. The insulated case flies from Clouser’s hand, hits the floor and springs open. Rows of glass vials rattle inside fitted foam. Some contain dark, fibrous material. Others hold clear or pale amber fluid packed between melting cold packs. Clouser looks toward the case. Joel hits him again. Clouser drops to one knee. Joel catches him by the front of the gown, hauls him upright and slams him against the wall. “Where is she?”

Clouser coughs, blood running over his lower lip. Joel shakes him hard enough to strike his skull against the tile. “Where the fuck is she?” 

Clouser looks into his face and smiles. “You’re late.”

Something in Joel breaks. His fist catches Clouser beneath the cheekbone. Once. Then again. Clouser folds toward the floor, but Joel keeps hold of him. “Joel!” Tommy’s warning cuts through the corridor. William and three members of his staff have reached them. Their weapons are raised. Tommy stands between the two groups, rifle trained on William while William’s people aim back at him.

“Everybody hold,” William orders. No one lowers a weapon. William’s eyes move past Tommy and settle on Joel. His expression changes.

“You’re Joel.” Joel knows that face. Charcoal smudged across old pages. A man drawn from memory again and again, sometimes with glasses, sometimes without. A name written beneath one unfinished portrait in your careful handwriting.

 William.

Joel releases Clouser and steps toward him. “Where is she?”

“Procedure Room Seven.”

“Tell me she’s all right.”

“She is alive.”

“That ain’t what I asked.” 

Clouser laughs weakly from the floor, wipes blood from his mouth. “Listen to him, Joel. He knows what you’re about to find.”

 Joel starts forward. William holds him back.

“You still need me,” Clouser says. William releases Joel and turns. Clouser looks toward the open case. “The serum is there. Daniel can still be stabilised. The others too, if you stop this now.”

“Yeah?” William reaches into his coat. “I got something for you, you piece of shit,” A sealed syringe appears in his hand. Dark fungal material drifts through cloudy fluid. Clouser’s face drains of colour.

Joel looks between them. “What’s that?”

“A concentrated strain engineered to invade neural tissue quickly,” William says. His eyes remain on Clouser. “His strain.”  

“Cordyceps,” Tommy mutters.

William gives a grim nod. “Modified to spread faster and cross into neural tissue more efficiently than anything found outside this building.”

Clouser begins backing away. “You cannot do this.” 

William kneels in front of him.

“Daniel is alive because of me,” Clouser says.

“Daniel is infected because of you.”

“I gave you proof! Her blood is working. Everything we did brought us here.” William catches him by the jaw and forces his head to the side. Clouser’s composure shatters. “William, listen to me. We can still finish this. We can save him. We can save all of them.” William drives the needle in. Clouser screams. He claws at William’s wrist, but Joel plants a boot against his chest and holds him to the floor while William forces the dark suspension into his bloodstream. Clouser convulses beneath them. The syringe empties. William withdraws the needle. “Death would be mercy.” 

Clouser clamps both hands over the puncture. “The serum. I need it now!” William rises. Clouser scrambles after him on his knees. “William!”  William looks toward two of his men. “Take him downstairs.” They seize Clouser beneath the arms. He fights immediately.

“No! Not the lower ward.”

“Put him in isolation with the subjects he abandoned.” Clouser digs his heels against the floor as they drag him toward the reinforced stairwell.

“You still need me! You don’t understand the protocol!” William closes the insulated case.

“I understand enough.” The stairwell door closes over Clouser’s screams. Tommy watches it shut. “Hell of a way to test his own work.” Joel does not respond. He catches William by the coat.

“Kat…Why’d he say I was late?” 

William hesitates. “She’s sedated.” 

Joel’s grip tightens. “She’s what?”

“We found her restrained in the procedure room. Clouser had begun serial blood collection and was preparing a marrow extraction. Her shoulder had reopened, and she was fighting hard enough to worsen the bleeding.”

“What did you give her?”

“A controlled sedative. She is breathing on her own.”

“Take me to her. Now.”

 William looks toward the people lining the corridor. “Lower your weapons,” he tells them. “It’s over.” Slowly, rifles descend. The last bursts of gunfire above them fade into isolated shots. William takes the case and leads them upstairs. They move through the remains of the revolt. Bodies lie between overturned carts and broken glass. Some wear WLF armour. Others wear lab coats or scrubs darkened with blood. A doctor steps into William’s path. “What about the treatment?”

“Secure the laboratory. Put the samples in cold storage.”

“There isn’t enough,” the doctor says. “Not for the entire ward.” William’s pace falters. Only once. 

Joel notices. “How much did you take from her?”  William does not answer. Joel grabs his shoulder and turns him. “How much?”

“I stopped the marrow procedure and treated the injury.”

“But you kept takin’ her blood.” 

William meets his eyes. “Yes.”

Joel nearly strikes him. Tommy steps close enough to intervene, but William turns and continues toward the east wing. Joel follows because you are ahead of him. Because every second spent hitting William is another second before he sees you. 

The third-floor corridor is quieter than the rest of the hospital. Emergency lights stain the walls red. William stops outside a reinforced door. Joel reaches past him and throws it open. Then he stops. His mind rejects what his eyes show him. For one fractured second, the room refuses to make sense. There is only white light, hanging tubes and the slow pulse of machines. Then the shapes become you.

You lie beneath the adjustable lamp, so still that the bed appears to have been arranged around a body rather than a living person. Your shirt has been cut open across the shoulder and chest. Adhesive electrodes cover your skin, thin wires trailing from them into monitors. Another set disappears beneath your hair near your temple. One arm is extended on a narrow support. A dark line leaves the vein inside your elbow and travels through a collection chamber before descending into a nearly full blood bag. Drops fall into it one at a time. Slow. Steady. Your other arm carries an intravenous line feeding clear fluid back into you. Fresh bandages cover your shoulder and the place near your hip where someone had prepared the marrow site. Bruises circle your wrists. Your lips have lost their colour. Three filled collection bags hang beside the bed. 

You look dead.

Joel’s body understands the sight before his mind does. Every muscle locks. His breath catches beneath his ribs and refuses to rise. The white walls blur as an older terror takes their place. A small body heavy in his arms. Blood soaking through his shirt and running hot between his fingers. Sarah looking up at him without understanding why he cannot make the pain stop. 

No. No, baby girl. Look at me. Stay with me. 

Then Ellie beneath the lights in Salt Lake City. Unconscious on another hospital bed, her skin cold beneath his hands when he lifted her from the operating table. And now you. Still beneath the same merciless white light. 

Too late. 

The thought tears through him. He failed you. His chest clamps shut. His heart strikes once, violently, then stumbles into a frantic rhythm. Joel tries to move toward the bed, but his legs no longer seem connected to him.

“Joel?” Tommy’s voice reaches him through water. Joel presses a hand against his chest, trying to force air into lungs that will not open. Tommy catches his arm.

“Joel. Hey—look at me.” 

Joel cannot.

“She’s breathing,” Tommy says. “You hear me? She’s breathing.” The words are the only thing keeping the room from becoming another grave. Tommy points toward the monitor. “Look.” A green line moves across the screen. A pulse. Joel stares at it. Then the line rises again. 

You are alive.

He forces one foot forward. Then the other. By the time he reaches the bed, his entire body is shaking. Joel touches your face. Your skin is cool beneath his palm. Not cold. Not cold. His fingers slide to the side of your neck, searching desperately for the beat beneath your skin. He does not trust the monitor. He does not trust William or the machines or anyone standing in that room. He trusts only what he can feel. There. Weak but steady. The breath that leaves him sounds almost like a sob. 

Come on, darlin’. 

The words form inside him, but his throat has closed around them. Your eyelids do not move. Joel brushes his thumb beneath your eye and follows the bruising along your cheek. His gaze moves down to the tape, the wires, the line disappearing into your arm. He watches your blood travel through the tubing. Another dark drop falls into the collection bag. Something hot runs down his face. He does not realise he is crying until it reaches his jaw. Joel reaches for the line. William catches his wrist.

“Don’t.” Joel turns toward him. His eyes are wet, but the grief inside them has sharpened into something lethal.

“Take it out.”

“The collection is almost complete.”

Joel draws his revolver and drives the barrel beneath William’s chin.

“I said take it out.” 

Tommy moves beside him, one hand closing around Joel’s shoulder. William slowly raises both hands. “If you pull the catheter without clamping it, you could rupture the vein.”

“Then clamp it.”

“We need the final volume.” 

Joel’s voice breaks as it rises. “Stop taking her fucking blood!” The assistants beside the monitors freeze.

“Listen to me,” William says.

“NO!”

“Joel—”

“You’re William, ain’t you?” The question catches him. Joel presses the barrel harder beneath his jaw. “She drew your face. Wrote your name under it.” William says nothing. “She called herself Kat in. Your daughter’s name.” Joel’s voice trembles with rage. “She wanted you to be the closest thing she ever had to a father. This how you treated her?”

“This is not about her.”

Joel surges forward, forcing William back against the wall. “Everything in this fucking room is about her!”

William looks toward the revolver. “Taking her away will not change what is happening inside her. There may be very little anyone can do for her now.”

Joel pulls back the hammer. “What the—?”

“Joel,” Tommy says quietly. Joel does not look away from William. Tommy studies the filled blood bags and the scans glowing on the wall.

“Hear him out,” he says. “Then we take her.” Joel glances at his brother. For a moment, they are boys again, exchanging an entire decision without speaking. Tommy’s face tells him everything he needs to know. The explanation will not change what happens next. William sees it too.

“Three minutes,” Joel says. “Waste one and you’re done.”

 William turns carefully toward the screen. Two images of your brain glow beside each other. One old. One recent. “The first scan was taken ten years ago. The second was taken today.” Joel sees the pale branching mass inside your skull. In the newer image, it has spread far beyond its original boundaries.

“That’s the infection?”

“It is Cordyceps, but it does not behave like a conventional infection.” William points toward the older scan. “Her exposure began before she was born. Her mother was bitten late in pregnancy, and a damaged form of the organism reached her while her immune system was still developing.” Tommy studies the image. “So her body thought it belonged there.”

“Not exactly. It learned to tolerate one altered colony while recognising later strains as foreign. The original growth established itself in her brain without taking control. Every bite and every concentration of spores introduced a competing strain, forcing the colony to adapt.”

“And it grew,” Joel says.

“Yes.” William points toward the newer scan.

“It produces compounds that prevent new Cordyceps from replicating. Her blood carries part of that response. We infused a small sample into Daniel.” His voice catches.

“My son.” William draws a breath. “His fever fell. The infection began to recede within minutes.” Tommy looks toward the filled bags. “And you think it can cure the others.”

“It can stabilise them. If we isolate what is active in her blood, we may be able to reproduce it without taking more from her.” 

Joel keeps the revolver raised. “At what cost?”

“The thing protecting her is also destroying her!”

Joel’s face empties. “What are you sayin’?”

“The organism maintains control by expanding. Every new exposure causes more growth, inflammation and pressure on the surrounding tissue. I cannot tell you when the balance will fail. It may take years. It may happen sooner if she suffers another bite or prolonged spore exposure.”

“No.” Joel says it quietly.

“I wish I were wrong.”

Joel forces the barrel harder beneath William’s chin. “So you figure she’s dyin’ anyway.”

“That is not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you’re sayin’.”

“I am saying her blood can save people now. Sixteen patients are dying downstairs. Children. Parents.” William’s voice fractures. “My son.” Joel looks toward the nearly full collection bag. “Look, I love her too,” William says. Joel’s eyes snap toward him. William does not retreat. “I remember the day she was born. I watched her take her first breath. I was there when the first scans showed us what had happened inside her. I remember the first time she asked me to call her Kat instead of her own name. I knew whose name she had chosen. I knew what she was asking me to be, even if neither of us could say it aloud.” His gaze moves toward your face. “I brought her books. I sat beside her through the fevers. Every time Clouser looked at her and saw an answer, I tried to make sure someone still saw a child.” His eyes shine. “When she escaped, part of me was terrified for her. Another part was relieved she had gotten away from us.” For the first time, shame breaks through his composure.

“I would not choose this if there were another way. What we collected may stabilise three or four people. The final volume may be enough to begin producing a treatment that does not require her.” He looks toward the blood bags.

“If we stop now, people who could have lived will die.”

Joel looks at you. The wires. The bruises. The blood leaving your body one drop at a time. Then he looks at Tommy. No words pass between them, but the answer moves easily through the silence. Tommy’s jaw sets. His rifle shifts toward the assistants beside the monitors. Joel turns back to William.

“Don’t care.”

William stares at him. “What?”

“I don’t care about your patients. Don’t care about your cure. Don’t care what happens to this whole goddamn world. If she’s got years, they’re hers. If she’s got a week, that’s hers too.” His voice grows quieter. “You don’t get to spend what’s left of her life like it belongs to everybody else.”

“People will die.”

“People always die.” Joel’s eyes return to William. “She ain’t dyin’ for them.” 

William’s expression fills with grief. Joel does not lower the gun.

“I know what you did in Salt Lake,” William says quietly. “You’re really going to do it again?”

Joel’s eyes sharpen, he does not blink. “Unhook her.”

“You heard him. Clamp the line.” William remains still. Joel’s finger settles against the trigger.z

William holds Joel’s gaze for another second. Then he gives one of the assistants a small nod. The woman moves toward the bed with both hands visible. Tommy follows her with the barrel of his rifle.“Slow,” he warns. She closes the clamp above the catheter and peels the tape from your arm. Her fingers tremble badly enough that the adhesive slips twice.

“Keep pressure above the vein,” William says. The catheter slides free. A thin line of blood wells from the puncture before the assistant presses gauze against it and wraps your arm. Tommy gestures toward the remaining wires.

“All of it.”

She disconnects the monitor leads one by one. The green line vanishes from the screen. An alarm changes to a single continuous tone that drives through Joel’s skull. Your chest still rises. That is all he watches. Tommy keeps the others covered while Joel holsters his revolver and pulls off his jacket. 

Only then does he see what they have done to the rest of you. Your trousers have been removed for the marrow procedure. A hospital sheet lies twisted beneath one leg, leaving bruised skin and the bandaged site near your hip exposed beneath the surgical light. Joel’s face hardens. He lays his jacket over you carefully, covering you from your chest to below your knees. He draws the sides together and tucks the heavy fabric beneath you so it cannot fall open when he lifts you. His hand pauses against your cheek. Still cool. Still breathing. 

All of sudden, William moves. 

The sound of the pistol clearing his coat is almost nothing. Tommy turns, but William already has the weapon aimed at Joel’s back. Joel becomes still beside the bed. William holds the gun in both hands, tears shining in his eyes. “I cannot allow you to carry her out of this room.”

Tommy swings his rifle toward him. “Put it down.” 

William does not look at him. “Sixteen people are dying downstairs. Her blood is the first real chance we have ever had. If you take her now, everything we sacrificed becomes meaningless.” 

Joel slowly turns.

William’s pistol trembles. 

Joel fires first.

The bullet enters the centre of William’s forehead. His pistol discharges into the ceiling as his body strikes the wall and folds to the floor beneath the glowing scans. For half a second, no one in the room breathes. The assistants recoil and scream.

One reaches toward the alarm panel. 

Another dives for William’s fallen pistol. 

Tommy fires.

The first assistant falls against the monitor. The second collapses before his fingers reach the gun. The remaining two freeze against the wall. Outside, voices erupt.

“That came from Procedure Seven!”

“Security to the east wing!”

Boots thunder toward the room. Joel turns to Tommy.

“Tommy. Help me.” 

Tommy sees what has settled into his brother’s face. Not rage anymore. Something quieter. Something far worse. He has seen that darkness before—after Sarah, during the years when survival meant doing things neither of them ever named afterward. He also knows Joel cannot carry another hospital out alone. Tommy crosses to the door and tears the privacy curtain from its track. Joel bends over you. He slides one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your shoulders. 

Your head rolls weakly toward him as he lifts you from the bed. “Easy,” he whispers, though you cannot hear him. “I got you, baby. I got you.” He gathers you tightly against his chest. Your face settles against his neck. Your hair brushes his mouth, carrying the faintest trace of rain and smoke beneath the antiseptic. Joel closes his eyes for one brief second.

There you are. Still breathing. Faintly. Barely.

But you are breathing.

And if keeping that breath inside you meant killing every last person left in this world, Joel would do it without hesitation.

Gunfire erupts beyond the curtain. He shifts you higher, keeping the jacket wrapped firmly around your body. His revolver rests beneath your bent knees, secured between his forearm and your weight. The curtain jerks aside. Tommy appears through the smoke, blood freckling one side of his face. “Come on.” 

Joel follows. Two guards lie in the corridor. One still moves, fingers dragging toward his rifle. Tommy fires once without slowing.

“Left side’s clear. Stairwell ain’t.” Shouts echo from both ends of the hall.

“They’ve got the girl!”

“They’re taking her!”

“Do not shoot the subject! She has to stay alive!” Joel’s arms tighten around you. Subject. Tommy glances over his shoulder and sees the change in his brother’s face.

“Keep behind me.” They move. Tommy leads with his rifle raised. Joel stays close, keeping your head tucked beneath his chin. A soldier steps from a side room and aims at Tommy. He sees you in Joel’s arms, and the barrel wavers.

“Put her down!” Tommy shoots him through the chest. More boots pound ahead. “Down!” Tommy shouts. 

Joel drops to one knee and curls himself over you. Gunfire tears through the corridor. Bullets punch into the wall above his head, showering his back with plaster. Tommy fires over him in controlled bursts until his rifle clicks empty.

“Shit.” He ducks behind an overturned cart and reaches for another magazine. A soldier advances through the smoke. Joel lowers you carefully behind the cart, keeping one hand beneath your head until it rests against his folded jacket. He draws the revolver and fires twice. The first round catches the soldier in the shoulder. The second takes him beneath the eye. Joel is back beside you before the body reaches the floor. Tommy slams in a fresh magazine.

“Got her?” 

Joel gathers you into his arms again. “Move.” 

They reach the intersection leading toward the stairwell. A group waits beyond it—Wolves in body armour, hospital security and two doctors holding pistols with hands that shake too badly to aim properly. Behind them stand nurses and frightened civilians who have emerged from the patient wards. A woman grips a photograph against her chest. A man beside her is crying. One of the doctors sees the jacket wrapped around you.

“You can’t take her.” 

Tommy keeps his rifle level. “Get outta the way.”

“My wife is downstairs,” the doctor says. “William said her blood was working.” Joel does not stop. The doctor raises his weapon. “She can save them.”

Joel’s face does not change. “She ain’t savin’ anybody.”

He fires before the doctor can pull the trigger. The bullet catches him in the chest and throws him backward into the people behind him. Joel steps over the spreading blood without looking down, holding you tighter against him as he keeps moving.

Someone behind the doctor shouts, “Shoot them!” The corridor erupts. People scream and scatter into the patient rooms. Tommy fires toward the armed men while Joel turns sideways, placing his body between you and the bullets.

“Stay down!” Tommy shouts. 

Joel lowers you behind the reception counter, one hand protecting the back of your skull. He rises over the edge and fires until the weapons across the corridor fall silent. He checks you immediately. Your breathing remains shallow but even. “I’m gettin’ you outta here, darlin’.” A bullet tears through the counter. Tommy grabs the back of Joel’s shirt and pulls him lower.

“Gotta move.” 

Joel’s cylinder is nearly empty. Tommy points toward a dead Wolf beside a gurney. “Take his.” Joel drags the rifle toward him, checks the chamber and strips two magazines from the man’s vest.

“Now!” Tommy shouts. Joel lifts you again, and they run bent low through the smoke. A nurse presses herself against the wall as they pass. She stares at your limp hand hanging beyond the edge of Joel’s jacket.

“Please,” she whispers. Joel hears her. He does not look back. The stairwell doors are twenty feet ahead when another squad pours from the adjoining corridor. Tommy fires first. The lead soldier drops. The others spread behind pillars and return fire in short, disciplined bursts. Joel and Tommy retreat behind a concrete support.

“We’re pinned,” Tommy says. Joel looks down at you. A smear of blood has appeared along the bandage at your arm. The darkness in his eyes deepens. Tommy recognises it.

“No. You hold her. I got this.” He searches the vest of a dead Wolf and finds a smoke grenade. He pulls the pin and throws it. Thick white smoke pours into the corridor.

“Can’t see them!”

“Watch your fire! The girl’s with them!” 

Tommy steps into the haze. His rifle flashes in the white smoke. One body falls. Then another. Joel follows the sound of his brother’s shots, holding you tightly enough to feel each shallow breath against his chest. A shape emerges only a few feet away. A soldier sees Joel and raises his weapon. Then he sees you. He hesitates. Joel does not. The rifle bucks once against his shoulder, and the soldier disappears into the haze.

“Joel!” Tommy calls. “This way!” A hand catches the back of Joel’s shirt. He turns and drives the rifle stock into a guard’s face, kicks his knee sideways and fires before the man can reach his pistol. The recoil tears through Joel’s wounded side. His vision darkens. He nearly drops to one knee. Tommy catches his arm. “Stay with me.”

 Joel adjusts you against his chest. “’M fine.”

“Keep movin’.”

They enter the stairwell and start down. Gunfire follows them through the door, rounds striking the concrete wall. At the next landing, two guards rush up from below. Tommy shoots one, but his magazine empties before he reaches the second. Joel lowers himself onto the step, braces you against his thighs and fires from beneath your knees. The guard tumbles backward down the stairs. Tommy takes the fallen man’s carbine. By the time they reach the ground floor, a mechanical voice is ordering all personnel to evacuate. Smoke leaks through the ventilation system. The lobby is full of armed men. A barricade of overturned desks and medical carts blocks the main exit. Beyond it, hospital security and surviving Wolves wait with rifles trained on the stairwell.

“Put the immune subject down and surrender!” Joel steps behind the concrete wall. Tommy looks across the lobby. “Too many.”

 Joel studies the emergency exit map beside them. “Loading dock’s west. Hall’s exposed.”

“Got another idea?” 

Tommy searches the pouches on the fallen guard’s vest and finds a fragmentation grenade. “Yeah.”

 Joel sees it. “Do it.” 

Tommy pulls the pin. “When it goes, stay on me.” Joel looks down at your face. Then nods. Tommy throws the grenade over the barricade.

“Grenade!” 

The explosion tears through the far side of the lobby. Glass bursts inward, followed by smoke, dust and falling debris. Tommy moves before the echoes fade.

“Go!” 

He runs low across the lobby, firing into the shapes rising behind the barricade. Joel follows directly behind him with you in his arms. A soldier aims from behind the reception desk. Tommy shoots him. Another appears beside the elevator. Joel shifts you against his left side, draws the revolver and fires across your covered legs. The man falls against the closing doors. Joel secures both arms around you again without breaking stride.

“West hall!” 

Tommy shouts. The loading corridor stretches ahead beneath flickering red lights. The service door at the far end stands partly open, cold daylight cutting through the smoke. Three guards move to block it. Tommy fires until the carbine clicks empty. Two fall. The third dives behind a supply cart. Joel lowers you behind a concrete pillar, his hand cradling the back of your head.

“Stay here.” 

He knows you cannot answer. Still, the words leave him like a promise. Joel rounds the pillar with the captured rifle. The guard fires first, the round grazing Joel’s upper arm. Joel barely reacts. He walks through the pain and fires until the guard stops moving. Tommy reaches the door and waves him forward.

“Clear!” 

Joel drops the rifle and returns to you. He gathers you back into his arms, drawing your face beneath his chin.

“Got ya.” He carries you through the service exit. Rain strikes his face. The loading yard is scattered with abandoned vehicles, bodies and discarded weapons. Gunfire continues behind them as more security teams pour toward the west wing. Tommy points toward an armoured utility vehicle near the gate.

“There!” 

They run. Joel’s wounded side tears wider with every step. Blood warms the inside of his shirt. His vision pulses black, clearing only when he looks down and sees your face. Tommy reaches the driver’s side and shoots out the damaged lock. He climbs inside and leans across to open the rear door.

“Get her in!”

Joel climbs into the back without releasing you. He sits sideways across the seat and pulls you into his lap, one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back. Your head rests over his heart. Tommy starts the engine. Rounds strike the rear of the vehicle.

“Hold on!” 

He slams it into gear and drives through the loading-yard barrier. The metal gate folds beneath the front bumper as gunfire follows them onto the road. Tommy accelerates toward the southern edge of Seattle. Behind them, smoke pours from the shattered windows of the hospital. Flames flicker in one of the upper corridors, half hidden beneath the rain. Joel does not look back. He adjusts the jacket around your legs and pulls you closer until there is no space between your body and his. His hand remains against the side of your neck, feeling every pulse beneath his fingers.

Weak. Steady. Still there.

“Don’t you dare leave me, baby,” he whispers into your hair, his voice cracking despite the warning in it. “Y’hear me? Y’stay with me.” 

Tommy watches them through the rear-view mirror.

Joel’s face is streaked with blood and tears. You lie motionless against him, wrapped in his jacket, one bare foot visible beneath the dark fabric. His brother holds you with the same desperate strength Tommy remembers from another night, another ruined city, another person bleeding in Joel’s arms. Only this time, they had gotten to you before it was too late. 

They had pulled you from that cursed hospital bed. Carried you through the gunfire. Gotten you out alive. F

or now, that was enough. 

Neither brother speaks of the scans or the pale growth spreading through your brain. Whether you have years left or weeks—whether the thing inside you will eventually take you from them—belongs to another day. Until they are beyond Seattle’s borders, only one truth matters. They saved you. Tommy faces the road. The hospital shrinks behind them, leaving smoke, shattered glass and bodies in their wake.

He presses harder on the accelerator and drives toward the gates of Seattle.

please don't forget that your thoughts and feelings about this story matter deeply to me so please share them with me. Thank you for being here. 💋

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[jisungandpedrolover]

Angel, what have you done? Losing my mind over this, aaaahhhh!!! 😭😭😭

Joel seeing her on that table and immediately going back to Sarah and Ellie absolutely destroyed me. The fact that Tommy’s voice was the only thing keeping him grounded. And then Joel checking her pulse himself because he trusted literally nothing else in that room? I am sick over them!! please don't let Kat die, my babies deserve to be happy 🥺🥺🥺

[missadangel]

The Ex Education

Ex husband!Harry Castillo x Ex Wife!F!Reader

series masterlist │previous chapter│next chapter

Lesson 19

Summary: A family emergency turns out to be Eloise with a plan, your hormones have officially entered their dramatic era, and Harry decides to do something dangerously romantic about it. Unfortunately, the past has plans too.

Warnings and WC: 19.8k (yes, I missed writing this much 😌) 18+ MDNI / mature themes, time-jump, fluff, kissing, emotional intimacy, secret beach wedding, surprise wedding, private vows, second wedding / remarriage, Harry becomes the most romantic man alive because his very pregnant fiancée cried over a movie, overly emotional pregnant reader, comedy, hormonal crying, pregnancy cravings, twins gender reveal, high-risk twin pregnancy, pregnant reader, body changes, protective daddy-to-be!Harry, overprotective husband energy, soft Harry hours, second chance romance, exes to lovers, established relationship, mention about orgasm, billionaire romance, rich people problems, elite Manhattan society, family therapy ambush, Eloise being Eloise, family dynamics, childhood wounds, emotional distress, hurt/comfort, pregnancy complications, early labor scare, domestic fluff, banter, humor, old money aesthetics, private love vs public image, OC Characters (Ron=Harry’s assistant, Emily=Reader's bestie, Chloe=Reader's elite friend, Mikey=Readers brother Scarlet&Richard=Reader's parents, Yuliana=Reader's maid, Vivienne=Harry's mother, Sienna=Harry's sister, Dana=Reader's EA (Executive Assistant), Eloise=Harry’s Grandmother.)

authors note: My loves, this chapter kept growing while I was writing it, and I can't believe it almost passed 20k. I almost split it into two parts… but changed my mind. It's officially the longest chapter I've ever written, and I hope you have as much fun reading it as I had writing it. Enjoy! ❤️

• The Songs: Stand By Me — Florence + The Machine You are the Reason — Olivia Penalva

What Belongs to You Will Find Its Way Back

April 13th...

Rhinebeck, New York

Three black cars swept up the long drive to Rhinebeck as though bad news had learned to travel in formation.

From the back seat of the first, you watched the estate emerge through the trees—gray stone, climbing ivy, and tall windows catching the last pale light of the afternoon.

It had always looked peaceful from a distance.

Today, it looked like the kind of place where families gathered to hear something they would never forget.

Harry hadn't let go of your hand since Ron received the call. His fingers remained tightly threaded through yours, his thumb brushing slowly over your engagement ring and across your knuckles in a steady rhythm that was probably meant to calm you.

It wasn't working.

Not when his jaw had been locked for the past forty minutes.

Harry had walked out of a meeting without his coat, picked you up before you'd even had time to change, and ordered the driver toward Rhinebeck without waiting for another explanation.

Across from you, Ron sat unusually still, his phone dark in his hand. He'd already called the house twice.

Both times, Eloise's nurse had given him the same answer.

Mrs. Castillo had suffered a difficult morning. She wanted the family in Rhinebeck immediately.

Nothing more.

"Did she sound frightened?" you asked again.

Ron looked up. "The nurse?"

"Yes."

"She sounded controlled."

"That wasn't my question."

Ron hesitated a fraction too long. Harry's grip tightened around your hand. You turned toward him. "Maybe we should've gone straight to the hospital."

"If she needed a hospital, her nurse would've sent her to one," Harry said evenly. "She knows what she's doing." His voice was calm. Deliberately calm.

It might've convinced anyone else.

Not you.

Harry was terrified. He was simply doing everything he could to keep that fear from reaching you. "Eloise is probably fine," he continued, his thumb brushing over your hand again. "It could be exhaustion. A medication adjustment. Anything."

"You don't believe that."

His gaze met yours. "I believe worrying before we know anything won't help you or the babies."

"I'm all right." You leaned closer, covering his hand with yours. "Hey. She's the strongest woman I know. She's going to be okay."

Harry held your gaze for a long moment, as though he wanted to borrow your certainty but wasn't sure how. "She'd better be," he said quietly.

He lifted your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles before lacing your fingers together once more.

Your free hand drifted instinctively to the gentle curve beneath your dress.

At five months, hiding the pregnancy was no longer possible—not with twins, and certainly not from a man who'd spent the past several weeks monitoring every meal, every yawn, and nearly every step you took.

Harry noticed immediately. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Was that a cramp?"

You smiled. "One of the babies."

"Which one?"

You waited until another tiny flutter danced beneath your palm. "The mischievous one."

Ron blinked. "You can already tell them apart?"

"Of course I can."

"They're identical twins."

"That doesn't mean they have identical personalities."

Another tiny kick answered for you.

You laughed softly. "This one waits until I'm trying to sleep. The other prefers interrupting my calls with Gerard."

Harry considered that. "The second one sounds strategic."

"Definitely a Castillo," Ron said with a smirk.

Harry slowly turned his head. Ron calmly redirected his attention to the window.

Before Harry could answer, the iron gates opened, and the car began its final climb toward the house.

A second car followed close behind.

Through the rear window, you caught a glimpse of your mother and Vivienne sitting side by side, both unnaturally rigid.

Lately, the two women had been spending an astonishing amount of time together.

Ever since you stopped speaking properly to Scarlet... and Harry had grown just as distant from Vivienne.

That, however, was another story.

Probably several.

A third black car turned through the gates.

You frowned. "That's Mikey's car."

Harry glanced over his shoulder.

Ron followed his gaze. "Michael was called as well."

"Of course he was," Harry muttered.

Ron's expression hinted there was more to say. He wisely chose continued employment instead.

The first car rolled to a stop beneath the portico.

Harry was out before the driver had fully opened the door. He rounded the car and offered you his hand. As you stepped out, his other hand instinctively rose above your head, shielding you from the doorframe.

You smiled. "I'm not quite big enough to need help getting out of a car."

"You're carrying our babies." His voice softened. "The least I can do is take care of my queen."

You slipped your hand into his. "You're supervising every limb I own."

Once both your feet were on the gravel, he rested an arm around your waist instead of letting go. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss beneath your ear. "I'm very attached to them," he murmured.

You laughed. "All of them?"

"Every single one."

Behind you, Scarlet and Vivienne climbed out of the second car.

Scarlet looked as though she'd abandoned her reading glasses somewhere along the drive. Vivienne, meanwhile, had lost every trace of color.

Your mother's eyes found yours first. Hope flickered across her face, fragile enough to disappear almost immediately.

She took the smallest step forward. At the same moment, Vivienne looked toward Harry with nearly the same uncertainty.

You felt Harry's arm tighten around your waist. Your fingers quietly found his hand.

No words were exchanged. None were needed. Together, the two of you turned toward the house. Scarlet stopped. Vivienne did too. Ron watched the mothers...

...then their children.

He let out the quietest sigh.

The third car pulled beneath the portico. Sienna stepped out first. Mikey emerged from the opposite side. For one suspended moment...

Neither of them moved. Sienna's hair was slightly less polished than usual. Mikey's tie was missing. The top two buttons of his shirt hung open beneath his coat. He looked exactly like a man who hadn't expected to arrive at his grandmother's estate with Harry Castillo's younger sister.

Harry noticed. Slowly... His attention shifted from Sienna...

...to Mikey.

Mikey straightened immediately. Sienna lifted her chin. Even Scarlet and Vivienne forgot their panic long enough to look between them.

"We ran into each other," Mikey said.

"At lunch," Sienna added a little too quickly.

"She needed a ride."

Vivienne frowned. "Weren't you supposed to be at the gallery all afternoon?"

"I was."

"Then how exactly did you run into Michael at lunch?"

Sienna opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Mikey rescued her. "Manhattan becomes a very small place when two people are hungry."

Scarlet's eyes drifted over his missing tie...

...his open collar...

...and finally the restaurant bag still hanging from his hand.

"Apparently."

Ron glanced toward the company sedan assigned exclusively to Mikey.

"A fortunate coincidence."

Harry remained silent. Which, somehow, was much worse. You felt the exact moment suspicion began arranging itself inside his head.

Questions were coming.

Before the first one could leave his mouth, you caught the front of his coat and gave it a gentle tug.

He looked down.

You held his eyes for a beat.

Not now.

His brows drew together. Somehow...He knew you knew something. He also knew this wasn't the place to ask.

You pulled your coat tighter. "Can we go inside? I'm freezing."

Mikey disappeared from Harry's mind instantly.

His arm settled around your shoulders. "Come on."

Together, you headed for the front entrance.

The interrogation disappeared.

For now.

The front doors were already open.

Two members of staff stood inside the foyer, their expressions solemn. The housekeeper held her hands clasped tightly at her waist, while a young footman stared fixedly at the marble floor.

Something about them felt wrong. Not grief.

Performance.

The realization flickered through you and vanished before you could fully grasp it. Perhaps they had simply been instructed not to say anything. Perhaps your fear was making everything seem strange.

“Where is she?” Harry asked.

“Upstairs, sir,” the housekeeper replied softly. “Her nurse is waiting.”

Scarlet moved first.

Her heels struck sharply against the marble as she crossed the foyer, Vivienne close beside her. Sienna and Mikey followed without looking at each other.

Harry kept one hand at your back as you climbed the stairs.

Too slowly for everyone else. Too quickly for him.

His arm tightened every time you reached another step.

“Harry, ” you warned beneath your breath.

“I’m not carrying you.”

“You were thinking about it.”

A reluctant smile touched his mouth.

You would have answered, but Eloise’s nurse appeared at the top of the staircase. Her face was composed. Almost suspiciously composed. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

Harry stopped in front of her. “What happened?”

Vivienne stepped beside him. “I was gone for two days. She was perfectly well when I left.”

“She’s resting.”

“That isn’t an answer,” Harry said.

“She asked me not to discuss anything until everyone was present.”

Vivienne looked around sharply. “We are present.”

The nurse’s gaze passed over the group, pausing briefly on Mikey and Sienna before returning to Vivienne.

“Yes,” she said. “You certainly are.”

She turned and led all of you down the corridor. The house had gone unnaturally quiet. No distant clatter from the kitchen. No music from one of the sitting rooms.

Only footsteps and the steady ticking of the old clock near the staircase.

At Eloise’s bedroom door, the nurse paused. “Please try not to upset her.”

Vivienne pressed one hand to her chest. “Oh, God.”

The nurse opened the door. The curtains had been drawn halfway, leaving the room washed in muted silver light. Eloise lay beneath a pale cashmere blanket, her head resting against a mountain of pillows.

Her eyes were closed.

For the first time since the call, Harry released your hand.

He crossed the room in three strides. “Abuela?”

Eloise did not respond.

Vivienne hurried to the other side of the bed. “Mama?”

The rest of you gathered near the footboard. Scarlet reached blindly for your hand, and despite everything that had passed between you, you let her take it.

Sienna stood stiffly beside her. Mikey’s usual restless energy had disappeared completely. Eloise’s nurse closed the door behind all of you.

A long moment passed.

Then Eloise took a faint breath. “Is everyone here?”

Her voice was weak enough to make Harry bend closer. “Yes,” he said immediately. “We’re all here.”

“Scarlet?”

“I’m here,” Scarlet whispered.

“Vivienne?”

“Here, Mama.”

“Sienna?”

“Yes, Abuela.”

“Mikey?”

Mikey blinked. “Uh… yes, ma’am.”

Eloise’s eyes remained closed. “Mi reina?”

You stepped closer, Harry’s hand finding yours again. “I’m here.”

From somewhere near the door, Ron cleared his throat. “For the record, I’m here as well.”

Eloise remained motionless. “Ah, Ronald,” she breathed. “I remembered you.”

Ron gave a small nod.

Eloise released a long, tired sigh. Then her eyes opened.

Clear. Sharp. Entirely alert.

“Bueno,” she said.

Before anyone could react, she pushed herself upright against the pillows with surprising ease, pulled the cashmere blanket neatly over her lap, and held out one hand.

Her nurse placed her reading glasses into it.

Eloise slipped them on and looked around the room, visibly pleased by the collection of pale, frightened faces before her. She clapped her hands together once, bright and decisive. “Everyone is here. Perfect. Then we will not waste Dr. Adler’s time.”

Silence.

The door to the adjoining sitting room opened.

A woman in a navy suit stepped through, carrying a leather notebook and wearing the professionally neutral expression of someone who had already been warned about the family waiting for her.

“Good evening,” she said. “I’m Dr. Vanessa Adler.”

No one moved.

Harry stared at his grandmother. “Abuela.”

Eloise adjusted her glasses. “What?”

“Did you fake a medical emergency?”

Her mouth fell open in theatrical offense. “Fake? Ay, por favor (please). I did no such thing.”

“Your nurse said you’d had a difficult morning.”

“I did. My eggs were cold, the coffee was weak, and none of you have answered a direct question in nearly a month. It was a terrible morning.”

Scarlet made an outraged sound. “We thought you were dying!”

“You frightened all of us,” you added. “We came here expecting the worst.”

“I left an entire boardroom without saying a word,” Harry said.

Sienna folded her arms. “That was cruel, Abuela.”

Mikey whined. “I abandoned my dessert.” Everyone looked at him. “What?” he said. “Grief affects people differently.”

Eloise waved one dismissive hand at all of you.

“Dios mío, look at these faces. At my age, death is always somewhere nearby. I never said it had entered the house.”

Vivienne turned toward the nurse. “You allowed us to believe something had happened to her.”

“I said Mrs. Castillo wished to see the family urgently,” the nurse replied calmly. “That was accurate.”

“You trapped us,” Sienna said.

Eloise looked at her over the rim of her glasses. “Had I said, ‘Come to Rhinebeck, niños, there is a therapist waiting to discuss your feelings,’ would you have come?” Sienna opened her mouth. Nothing emerged. “Exactly,” Eloise said. “Do not argue when you know I am right. It gives me a headache.”

Mikey looked between Eloise and Dr. Adler. “You used mortality as a scheduling tool.”

“And you arrived on time for the first time since I met you.”

Mikey considered that. “That’s incredibly manipulative.” Then a slow, appreciative grin appeared on his face. “I like it.”

You stepped closer to the bed. “Eloise, I’m five months pregnant with twins. You cannot summon me by implying that you may be dying. There are currently three heartbeats inside this body, and you frightened all of them.”

Eloise reached for your hand. “Come here, mi reina.”

You gave her a suspicious look but allowed her to take it.

She squeezed your fingers between both of hers, her expression softening. “I am sorry I frightened you, mi amor.”

“You don’t look very sorry.”

“No, because I am not sorry that it worked.”

“Eloise.”

“Ay, let me finish.” She patted your hand. “I would not have done any of this if all of you had not become completely impossible.”

A chorus of protests began.

Eloise lifted one finger. “¡Basta! (enough!)” The room fell silent. “At our last family dinner, Scarlet and mi reina spoke exclusively through the salt and pepper.”

You glanced toward your mother. Scarlet looked away with great dignity.

“Harry and Vivienne exchanged six words all evening,” Eloise continued. “Four of them concerned the rain.”

Vivienne folded her arms. Harry said nothing, which did very little to help his case.

“And now Vivienne is spending every free hour with Scarlet. Just like schoolgirls. Their son and daughter are sulking in separate corners, so naturally the mothers have abandoned them to whisper together.”

Scarlet’s expression became carefully blank.

Vivienne lifted her chin. “We are allowed to enjoy one another’s company.”

“Sí, of course.” Eloise looked between them over the rim of her glasses. “And I am supposed to believe the two of you have no secrets while you disappear for lunches, lower your voices when I enter a room, and suddenly stop speaking whenever one of your children appears.”

Neither woman answered.

Eloise gave a satisfied nod.

“You may fool your children. You may fool one another. But you will not fool this old woman. Whatever you are hiding, whatever ridiculous problem has driven you into one another’s arms, you will solve it.”

Scarlet’s expression remained perfectly composed.

Which, in your experience, generally meant Eloise was right. Sienna lowered her head, hiding a smile. Then Eloise turned toward her.

“And you.”

Sienna blinked. “What about me?”

Eloise narrowed her eyes. “You have been happy.”

Sienna stared at her. “I’m sorry?”

“Too happy,” Eloise said. “Smiling at your telephone. Disappearing for lunch. Wearing perfume in the afternoon.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Sí, sí. And I am a foolish old woman who has never seen a girl hide a man.”

Mikey coughed. Eloise’s head turned toward him immediately.

“And there he is.”

Mikey straightened. “Why am I suddenly involved?”

Eloise looked from him to Sienna and back again.

“I may be eighty-six, cariño, but when it comes to romance, deception, and badly concealed attraction, my mind is still sharper than most of yours.”

Sienna abruptly found the carpet fascinating. Mikey looked toward the window. “Come on, Eloise,” he said with an unconvincing laugh. “This is becoming wildly speculative.”

“Mm-hm.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly does that mean?”

Eloise waved one hand dismissively. “Nothing you need to worry about yet.”

“Abuela.”

“Do not ‘Abuela’ me. If there is something to know, I will know it before you do.”

From near the door, Ron murmured, “At least we now know where the Castillos inherited their observational skills.”

Eloise released your hand and settled back against her pillows, looking around at the family with the weary affection of a woman who had raised too many stubborn people and somehow acquired several more.

“So I have decided that all of you need therapy.”

“We do not all need therapy,” Vivienne said.

“Some people need boundaries,” you murmured.

Scarlet looked at you. “Some people need to communicate instead of freezing out their mothers.”

“Some people need to stop investigating other people’s private lives,” Vivienne added.

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Some people need better judgment regarding men.”

“Ay, Dios mío.” Eloise struck the mattress lightly with her palm. “Listen to yourselves. You sound like children arguing over one toy.” No one answered. “As the eldest person in this family, I am asking for one afternoon without secrets, sulking, investigators, secret lunches, mysterious interviews, and whatever else you are all doing behind closed doors.”

She pointed toward Dr. Adler.

“You will speak to this nice woman. You will tell her the truth. Not the elegant version, not the corporate version, and not the version where you are all innocent little angels. You will solve your problems, or at the very least, you will learn to argue more quietly. I would like to enjoy the rest of my life.”

Dr. Adler cleared her throat and stepped forward.

“My plan is to begin with a few brief private conversations. Afterward, we’ll meet together to discuss the patterns affecting the family as a whole.” She glanced around at the collection of reluctant faces.

“Shall we begin?”

The private sitting room was smaller than Eloise's bedroom, warmer too, with tall windows overlooking the gardens and a low fire crackling beneath the marble mantel. A carafe of water sat on the table beside a box of tissues with the quiet menace of something fully expecting to be needed.

Dr. Adler was already seated in one of the armchairs, her notebook resting open across her lap. She gestured toward the sofa opposite. "Please. Make yourself comfortable."

You lowered yourself carefully onto the cushions, one hand supporting the underside of your stomach. "Comfortable stopped being an available position about three weeks ago."

A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Would another cushion help?"

"If you bring me another cushion, Harry will somehow sense it through the wall and order six more." That earned a soft laugh. You adjusted your skirt and glanced toward the closed door. "I still can't believe Eloise actually did that."

"I'm observing that her method was effective," Dr. Adler replied. "Everyone she asked to come arrived."

"Because we thought she was dying."

"Which says something rather lovely about how much she means to all of you."

You narrowed your eyes. "That sounds suspiciously like therapeutic manipulation."

"It sounds like an observation."

"You're going to fit into this family beautifully."

She smiled, letting the joke pass. Instead, her attention drifted briefly—not intrusively—to the curve of your stomach. "Before we discuss your family… how are you feeling? Is everything going well with the pregnancy?"

You rested your palm over the place where one of the babies had been moving throughout the drive. "I'm about as well as anyone five months pregnant with twins can be."

"Tired?"

"Constantly."

"Any pain today?"

"No. Just pressure, backache, occasional insomnia… and two tiny people with very strong opinions about where my internal organs should be."

She nodded. "And emotionally?"

You looked at her. "That feels like a much more expensive question."

"It usually is."

A comfortable silence settled between you.

Then she asked, "Where would you like to begin?"

You gave her a knowing look. "You already know where Eloise wants us to begin."

"She gave me a broad outline."

"And?"

"I'd rather hear your version."

You sighed. "Of course she did." Another quiet pause. "If we're actually doing this…" You drew a slow breath. "Everything started after I moved into Harry's house."

At the time, you had been barely three months pregnant. The babies were still easy enough to hide beneath tailored coats and structured dresses. The nausea wasn't. Neither was the exhaustion. But Queen Financial had only just begun recovering, and the last thing you wanted was for anyone walking into a boardroom to mistake pregnancy for weakness. For weeks, you carried ginger tea in coffee cups and smiled through mornings when simply remaining upright felt like an act of corporate defiance.

"And your mother knew?"

"Everything."

"Was she supportive?"

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "I thought she was."

When you told Scarlet, she'd cried. She'd held your face, kissed your forehead, and told you that after everything you'd survived, you deserved something beautiful. Then, less than twenty-four hours later…

…the conversation became strategy.

"Her first concern wasn't my health. It was the company."

Dr. Adler remained silent.

"Queen Financial was still fragile. Investors were watching everything I did. And she believed a public pregnancy would overshadow the recovery. She thought it would become the only thing people saw."

Scarlet's voice still echoed in your memory.

You cannot announce this yet, darling. Not until the company is stronger.

At first, you'd agreed. It seemed reasonable. Temporary. You'd wait until refinancing was complete. Then the board transition. Then quarterly earnings. There was always another milestone. Another reason to wait.

"How did that make you feel?"

You looked down at your hands. "Like I wasn't carrying two babies. Like I was carrying a liability."

Dr. Adler let the silence sit. "And the wedding?"

You leaned back carefully. "That was worse."

Scarlet had been thrilled when you and Harry found your way back to one another. She'd told you pride wasn't a substitute for love. That you'd regret letting fear choose your future. But once the ring was on your finger…

…and the pregnancy could no longer be hidden…

Everything came with conditions.

You cannot marry him while you're visibly pregnant.

"I honestly thought I'd misheard her."

"What was her reasoning?"

"That Manhattan would turn it into a circus."

Another memory surfaced.

They'll say Harry rescued you, rescued your company, got you pregnant, and rushed you down the aisle before anyone could ask questions.

"None of that was true."

"No," Dr. Adler said quietly. "It wasn't."

You gave a faint smile. "But she wasn't wrong about the headlines."

The smile faded. "She wanted us to wait until after the girls were born."

Twenty minutes later, Scarlet occupied the same sofa.

Her posture was immaculate, one elegant leg crossed over the other. Even now, she looked more like a woman preparing for a board meeting than a therapy session. Dr. Adler closed her notebook from the previous conversation and opened it to a fresh page.

"Tell me what changed from your perspective."

Scarlet folded her hands neatly in her lap. "She finally looked happy."

Dr. Adler waited.

"I had watched my daughter spend years carrying responsibilities that should never have belonged to her. Then she found her way back to Harry. She was expecting twins. She had a future." A faint smile touched Scarlet's lips. "I wanted to protect it."

"And what did protecting it look like to you?"

"Managing the circumstances around it."

"You mean the company."

"Among other things."

Scarlet glanced toward the window before continuing. "Queen Financial had only just survived the worst crisis in its history. Investors were watching everything. I believed one public pregnancy would eclipse everything she had accomplished."

"And the wedding?"

Scarlet didn't hesitate. "I wanted that to belong to them."

Dr. Adler tilted her head slightly. "Ms. Queen remembers it differently."

"I'm aware."

Scarlet let out a slow breath. "I told her she wasn't a spectacle. My concern wasn't the marriage. It was how the world would rewrite it. I wanted her achievements to remain her own."

Silence lingered for a moment. Then Dr. Adler asked quietly, "And what do you think Queen heard?"

Scarlet's brow furrowed.

"I…"

She stopped.

Dr. Adler didn't rescue her. Instead, she simply waited. Scarlet's shoulders lowered almost imperceptibly. "…That I cared more about appearances than about her."

Another pause. "Was she wrong?"

Scarlet didn't answer immediately. Finally… "No." She looked toward the floor. "Not entirely."

Dr. Adler turned back to you. “What happened after that conversation?”

"I stopped telling her things."

Scarlet's response came without hesitation.

"She punished me."

"I set a boundary."

"She excluded me from the pregnancy."

"She knew the babies were healthy."

"She wouldn't let me attend the next scan."

"She tried to relocate my obstetrician to Rhinebeck."

"I suggested an alternative arrangement."

"She had an examination room prepared in the house."

"It was discreet."

"It had a chandelier."

"The chandelier was already there."

Dr. Adler paused.

"And the flowers?"

Scarlet's eyes narrowed slightly. "Medical rooms are unnecessarily bleak."

Back in your session, you looked toward the ceiling. "Do you see what I'm dealing with?"

"I'm beginning to," Dr. Adler admitted.

"The second baby had already been identified as a girl," you continued. "The other refused to cooperate."

Despite yourself, a smile appeared.

"A few days ago… we finally found out."

Dr. Adler smiled back.

"And?"

"Another girl."

The words still warmed something inside you.

Two daughters.

Two tiny heartbeats.

Two entirely different futures already unfolding.

"And you haven't told your mother."

"No."

"Why?"

You looked down at your engagement ring before answering.

"Because I wanted one thing to belong to Harry and me before it became a theme, a luncheon, a guest list… and twelve thousand flowers."

That earned the smallest laugh.

Then Dr. Adler grew thoughtful.

"So withholding that information became a boundary."

"It did."

"And it remained one?"

"For a while."

"And after that?"

You hesitated.

"…Maybe it stopped being only a boundary."

"A little?"

You sighed.

"Moderately."

One corner of Dr. Adler's mouth lifted.

"Elegantly punitive."

Despite yourself…

You laughed.

"So Harry wasn't exaggerating."

"Oh?"

"He told me your sense of humor usually appears about twenty minutes after your honesty."

You smiled despite yourself.

"He's annoyingly perceptive."

"I've noticed."

Dr. Adler closed the notebook.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Finally, she said,

"I'd like to ask you one last question."

You nodded.

"When Scarlet said she was protecting you…"

"…did any part of you believe her?"

Silence. A long one. Eventually…

"Yes."

"And yet?"

"I didn't need protecting."

"You needed trusting."

Your voice had become barely more than a whisper. "I needed her to trust that I could live my own life."

Dr. Adler nodded once. "I think that's a very important distinction."

She stood, gathering her notebook. "I won't ask you to forgive her today." You looked up. "I don't think either of you is ready for that. But I do think you're both grieving the same relationship."

You frowned. "The same relationship?"

"The one each of you thought you had. And that's usually where healing begins."

By the time Harry took your place on the sofa, Dr. Adler had already filled several pages. She turned to a fresh one and poised her pen above it. “Mr. Castillo. Tell me about your mother.”

Harry settled back, resting one ankle over his knee. “My mother is seeing a man.”

Twenty minutes later, Vivienne answered the same question with visible irritation. “I had dinner with a perfectly respectable gentleman.”

“Four dinners,” Harry said in his own session.

“Three dinners and one lunch.”

“Two lunches.”

Vivienne sighed and looked toward the ceiling. “My son apparently keeps a ledger.”

“There was also a weekend in Connecticut.”

“There were twelve bedrooms in that house,” Vivienne protested.

“That doesn’t make the weekend less concerning.”

“It makes it considerably less intimate.”

“He sent her roses.”

“He is French.”

Harry looked directly at Dr. Adler. “That is not a defense.”

Dr. Adler rested the tip of her pen against the page. “Mr. Castillo, your mother is an autonomous adult.”

“I’m aware.”

“You had the man investigated.”

“Autonomy does not eliminate due diligence.”

"And did your mother ask for your protection?"

"No."

"Then why did you decide she needed it? What are you afraid will happen?"

“He could take advantage of her.”

“Financially?”

“Financially, socially or emotionally. Those things often overlap.”

“And did your mother ask for your protection?”

“No.”

“Then why did you decide she needed it?”

Harry’s fingers moved once against the arm of the sofa. “People rarely ask before something goes wrong.”

“That sounds less like an answer about this man and more like an answer about someone else.”

His eyes lifted to hers. “My father left.”

The words were flat and controlled. Dr. Adler did not immediately begin writing again.

“Your parents divorced?”

“No.”

She paused. “Your mother is still legally married to him?”

“Yes.”

“And yet he has not been part of her life for years.”

“No.”

Harry looked toward the window. “My mother never received an ending. He simply left her with the consequences.”

“And your grandmother?”

Harry’s expression tightened. “She doesn’t remember him.”

“Her own son?”

“Not anymore. We don’t remind her. The last time her condition worsened, the doctors told us to avoid anything that could trigger another episode.”

Dr. Adler regarded him quietly. “So your father’s absence is something the entire family is required to live around, but never fully discuss.”

“That isn’t why we’re here.”

“Perhaps not. But it may explain why another man entering your mother’s life feels less simple to you than it does to her.”

When Dr. Adler later asked Vivienne about Harry’s behavior after Eduardo left, her irritation softened. “He became efficient.”

“That sounds like an unusual response to grief.”

“It was Harry’s response. He dealt with the lawyers, the accounts and every practical problem Eduardo left behind. Sienna was nineteen and furious. Harry called her constantly until she threatened to block him.”

“And you?”

“I was still married to a man who had chosen not to be my husband.”

Vivienne looked down at her hands.

“Harry decided that if Eduardo had abandoned his responsibilities, he would assume all of them.”

“Did you ask him to?”

“No. Harry has never waited to be asked.”

Back in his own session, Dr. Adler said, “Has this new man given you any reason to believe he intends to hurt her?”

“Not yet.”

“So you’re preparing for a betrayal that has not occurred.”

“I’m being cautious.”

Dr. Adler lowered her pen. “Your mother’s marriage never formally ended, your father’s absence cannot be openly discussed around your grandmother, and you have spent years managing the consequences. It makes sense that you want this new relationship verified before you allow yourself to trust it.”

“Allow myself?”

“Yes. Because this is not only about whether your mother trusts him.”

Harry said nothing.

“It’s also about whether you can tolerate her beginning a new life when the old one was never properly closed.”

In Vivienne’s session, Dr. Adler asked, “Does being legally married to Eduardo affect how you feel about seeing someone else?”

Vivienne was silent for a moment. “Sometimes.”

“Guilt?”

“Not toward Eduardo.” Her answer came sharply. “He surrendered any right to ask for loyalty when he left.”

“Then what?”

Vivienne exhaled. “The strangeness of it. Beginning something new when part of my life is still sitting unfinished in a locked room.”

“And Harry knows that.”

“Harry knows everything.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “That is both his best quality and his most exhausting one.”

Later, when Dr. Adler brought them into the room together, Harry sat at one end of the sofa and Vivienne chose the other.

“Harry,” Dr. Adler began, “your mother understands that your actions come from love.”

“And arrogance,” Vivienne added.

“And arrogance,” Dr. Adler allowed. “But she is not asking you to erase the risk. She is asking you to trust her to decide whether it is worth taking.”

Harry looked at his mother. “Does he know you’re still legally married?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know why?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know about Abuela?”

“Only what he needs to know.”

“Has he asked for money?”

“No.”

“Professional introductions?”

“No.”

“Access to the family?”

“No.”

“Has he—”

“Harry.”

He stopped.

Vivienne’s voice softened. “I’m not replacing your father. I’m trying to stop living as though the life he abandoned is the only one I’m allowed to have.”

That silenced him.

After a moment, Harry nodded once. “If something feels wrong, you’ll tell me.”

“Yes.”

“Immediately?”

“Within a reasonable period.”

“Define reasonable.”

Dr. Adler lifted one hand. “No negotiations.”

Harry looked dissatisfied but relented. “Fine.”

“And you will not investigate him further,” Vivienne said.

“I won’t authorize any new investigation.”

“That isn’t the same sentence.”

“It’s the sentence I’m offering.”

“Harry.”

He sighed. “I will not investigate him further.”

“Or ask Ron.”

His silence lasted half a second too long.

Dr. Adler looked at him.  “Or Ron,” he added.

Vivienne’s shoulders eased. She reached over and touched his cheek. “My poor baby boy.”

Harry leaned away. “Mama.”

“You’ve always been so devoted to me.”

“I am forty-six years old.”

“And still my baby.” Vivienne smiled. “When you stop treating me like a helpless abandoned wife, I’ll stop treating you like a worried little boy.”

Harry looked toward Dr. Adler. “Is this therapeutically appropriate?”

She made one final note. “It appears to be working.”

Vivienne patted his cheek again. “My baby boy.”

Harry closed his eyes. “This was a mistake.”

Dr. Adler turned to a fresh page.

Across from her, Mikey settled into the armchair as though he had been waiting his entire life for an audience legally required to listen to him.

"Before we start," he said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial smile, "everything we say in here stays in here, right? I can tell you anything?"

"Within the boundaries I explained earlier, yes."

She regarded him over the top of her notebook.

"Although I was under the impression we would be discussing your problem."

"I don't have a problem."

"Are you certain? You and Miss Castillo appear to be concealing something from your families."

His smile faltered.

"Did Eloise tell you that?"

"She shared several suspicions."

"That woman missed her calling."

"What was her calling?"

"International espionage." He leaned back with a sigh. "Fine. It was a problem. Mostly."

Dr. Adler waited.

"I realized I liked Sienna." Another pause. "I then tried several strategies that failed spectacularly." She waited again. "And eventually everything worked because of my little sister."

That finally earned a smile. "You asked your sister for advice?"

"I did."

He leaned forward again, lowering his voice. "My little sister is the smartest woman I know. Smarter than my mother. If that sentence leaves this room, I'll deny it under oath."

The corner of Dr. Adler’s mouth curved. “And you asked your sister for advice about Sienna?”

“I did. She told me to stop trying so hard and just be myself.” He leaned back, satisfied. “She was right.”

Twenty minutes later, Sienna occupied the same chair. She looked considerably less pleased by Queen's advice. "I'd never thought of Mikey that way before," she admitted.

"He was funny. Different." A small smile appeared. "But whatever this is… it only started last week."

"What changed?"

"He came to an auction I'd curated." A pause. "Everything went downhill after that."

One Week Earlier

The Belcourt Auction House, Manhattan

The auction room was exactly what wealthy New Yorkers liked to imagine culture looked like—polished wood, quiet lighting, priceless objects behind glass, and enough restrained elegance to justify spending absurd amounts of money.

Mikey wandered through it wearing a burgundy velvet jacket, cropped black trousers, martini-print cashmere socks, tinted glasses, and the cream trilby Sienna would later describe as a personal attack against art.

A numbered paddle rested in one hand.

An open packet of gummy bears occupied the other.

He stopped in front of an abstract painting made up of three black lines.

A member of staff approached.

"A striking piece, isn't it, sir?"

Mikey tilted his head.

"Is it finished?"

"…Yes, sir."

"Good for him."

Then he saw Sienna.

She stood near the front beside the auctioneer, dressed in a sharply tailored dark suit that somehow made everyone around her look underprepared.

His grin appeared before he could stop it.

He had come for her. Entirely for her. Mostly for her. He lifted the paddle and waved. Sienna noticed immediately.

Her expression passed through surprise…

…disbelief…

…suspicion…

…and something softer that disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived.

She gave him the smallest wave in return. Unfortunately… So did the auctioneer.

Genevieve Crane smiled from behind the podium.

Mikey, meanwhile, looked at her with absolutely no recognition. An unfortunate situation… considering she remembered him perfectly.

"Two hundred and eighty thousand from bidder seventy-four."

Mikey blinked.

"What?"

The auctioneer rested one hand beside the gavel.

"Two hundred and ninety thousand on the telephone."

Mikey frowned.

"No, I was waving to—"

"Three hundred thousand from bidder seventy-four."

A ripple spread through the room.

Across the aisle, Sienna's eyes widened.

She shook her head frantically.

Mikey pointed at her.

"No. Her. I was waving at her."

"Three hundred and twenty thousand."

"What? No."

The auctioneer's smile never wavered.

"Three hundred and forty?"

Mikey threw both hands into the air.

"Stop looking at my hands!"

"Three hundred and forty thousand from bidder seventy-four."

Sienna mouthed,

Put. The paddle. Down. You idiot.

Mikey stared at the paddle as though it had betrayed him personally.

He shoved it inside his jacket.

The auctioneer waited.

The room fell silent.

"Three hundred and forty thousand, once."

Mikey cautiously raised one finger.

"Can I ask a question?"

"Three hundred and sixty thousand."

"Oh, come on."

"Three hundred and sixty thousand, once."

Sienna covered her face.

"Twice."

Mikey looked at her helplessly.

The gavel struck.

"Sold."

Polite applause echoed through the room.

Mikey remained frozen. "What did I buy?"

The gentleman beside him closed his catalogue. "A seventeenth-century Venetian cristallo marriage goblet."

Mikey stared at the stage.

"Singular?"

"Yes."

"For three hundred and sixty thousand dollars?"

"Plus buyer's premium."

He closed his eyes.

"…I don't know what that means."

The moment the auction ended, Mikey headed straight for the auctioneer.

"Excuse me."

She looked up pleasantly.

"Yes?"

"There has been a terrible misunderstanding."

"Has there?"

"I was waving."

"You raised your paddle."

"To say hello."

"Several times."

"Because you kept selling me things."

"I sold you one thing."

"For the price of an apartment."

She smiled.

"You should probably familiarize yourself with auction procedure, Mr. Queen."

A beat.

"Although I suppose rules have never been your strength."

Mikey frowned.

"…Do we know each other?"

Sienna stopped walking. The auctioneer laughed once. "Typical Mikey."

Recognition finally dawned. "…Genevieve?"

Her smile vanished. "Oh. So you do remember."

"Fuck."

"Perhaps the rules of an auction slipped your mind…

the same way the woman you left alone in a hotel suite apparently did."

Sienna quietly turned away and began speaking to another member of staff.

"Hey."

Mikey hurried after her.

"That was six years ago."

"I was a different person."

She didn't even look at him.

Behind them…

Genevieve smiled.

Mikey slowly turned back toward her. "You vindictive witch."

"You just ruined everything."

Two attendants approached carrying the goblet on a velvet tray.

It was breathtaking. Centuries old. Delicate. Beautiful.

Mikey looked at it with absolutely no emotional attachment.

"Congratulations, Mr. Queen."

"Shall we process the purchase through the Queen Foundation account?"

Mikey closed his eyes. "…Of course it's the foundation account."

He looked at the goblet. "…Well. I bought it. So it's mine."

He reached into his coat… removed the packet of gummy bears… and tipped them directly into the three-hundred-year-old Venetian goblet.

Silence. Genevieve stared. "That object has survived three centuries."

"And now it has purpose."

The administrator held the tablet toward Mikey again. As he prepared to sign, Genevieve leaned closer.

“Try not to forget this one by morning, Mr. Queen. It cost considerably more than the women you leave behind.”

Mikey’s hand stopped above the screen.

He looked at her for a moment, then lowered the stylus. “One second.”

He took out his phone and started a video call. "You asked for it."

The screen rang twice before you appeared. You were seated somewhere bright in a silk blouse, one hand resting beneath the pronounced curve of your stomach. Yuliana stood beside you with a tray of tea.

“Mikey.”

“Hey, baby sister. You look beautiful. Radiant. Glowing.”

“What did you do?”

“That’s hurtful. You don’t even know why I’m calling.”

“You only call me ‘baby sister’ when money, police, or bodily injury are involved.”

“Technically, none of those.”

Dr. Adler interrupted the story. “You called Ms. Queen—your sister?”

Mikey nodded. “She was the only person who could get me out of it.”

“And she did?”

A proud grin spread across his face. “Without even setting foot in the building.”

Mikey turned the phone toward Genevieve. "Someone would like a word."

Genevieve took one look at the screen. "…Queen." Her face fell. "Shit."

Mikey held the phone closer anyway.

The change in your face was almost imperceptible. Your posture remained relaxed and your voice gentle, but every trace of warmth disappeared.

“Genevieve, darling. Listen carefully, because I am five months pregnant with identical twins, I slept for approximately three hours, one of them has mistaken my ribs for a rehearsal studio, and the other appears to be conducting experiments on my bladder. What little patience I have left is reserved for members of my immediate family.”

Yuliana nodded solemnly behind the phone.

Genevieve raised her chin. “Your brother placed a valid bid. He should know the rules.”

“My brother should know many things—auction procedure, women’s names, and when to stop wearing that hat among them. His intellectual limitations are not the matter presently under review.”

Mikey looked offended.

You continued without acknowledging him. “The auction was recorded. Your staff saw him attempting to correct the bid. Half the room watched you accelerate the increments while addressing a registered bidder with whom you have an undisclosed personal history.”

Genevieve’s expression faltered. “That has nothing to do with—”

“It has everything to do with professional conduct. Do not mistake my brother’s stupidity for an opportunity.”

“Hey, sister-” Mikey protested.

You ignored him.

“Michael may be an idiot, but he is our idiot. You used a charity auction to settle a six-year-old grievance with a man who did not even remember you well enough to understand that he was being punished.”

Genevieve’s face flushed.

You studied her for another second. “Also, whatever you’ve been earning by selling antiques to harmless fools appears to have been reinvested in self-tanner. That was an unfortunate decision. The shade is less Saint-Tropez and more decorative terracotta.” Yuliana tilted her head, considered Genevieve on the screen, and nodded again. “And is that Valentino from four seasons ago?” you continued. “Genevieve, honestly. If you intend to humiliate my family in public, at least don’t do it dressed like an archived press sample.”

Sienna’s eyebrows rose.

Mikey beamed at the phone as though you had complimented him personally.

“That is insulting,” Genevieve said.

“No. It is embarrassing. There is a difference.”

Your hand moved over your stomach as one of the babies shifted. “Here is what happens next. You void the sale, apologize to Mr. Queen for the misunderstanding, and return the goblet to its case before he attempts to serve breakfast cereal in it.”

Mikey glanced at the gummy bears. “I wouldn’t use milk.” You gave him a look. He closed his mouth.

Genevieve folded her arms. “And if Belcourt refuses?”

Your smile appeared—small, beautiful, and lethal. “Then the Queen Foundation will dispute the transaction, suspend its annual patronage, and request a formal ethics review into why a senior auctioneer accepted repeated accidental gestures as bids from a former sexual partner without disclosing the conflict.” Genevieve’s lips parted.

“I am currently carrying the future beneficiaries of both the Queen and Castillo families and, regrettably, I am one of the most discussed women in Manhattan. If I say this was personal retaliation disguised as a charitable transaction, by breakfast every board member, donor, and consignor attached to Belcourt will know exactly which phrase to repeat.”

Silence fell around the podium.

Mikey slowly selected another gummy bear.

You tilted your head. “Have I explained the available options clearly?”

Genevieve swallowed. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Ms. Queen.”

“Wonderful. I knew we would understand one another.” Your smile vanished as smoothly as it had appeared. “Yuliana, end the call before she mistakes any more of my attention for social relevance.”

“I love you, baby sister,” Mikey called quickly. “Take care of my nieces.”

“Try taking care of your own reputation for the rest of the day.”

The screen went dark.

Genevieve turned toward the administrator. “Void lot forty-seven.”

The attendants took the goblet from Mikey. Before surrendering it, he scooped the gummy bears out with one hand and dropped them into his mouth.

From across the room, Sienna laughed.

She finished her conversation and walked toward him, glancing once at Genevieve and the retreating attendants. “Let me guess. Queen fixed it?”

“Yes.” Mikey removed his tinted glasses. “Sienna, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.”

“For putting gummy bears in a three-hundred-year-old Venetian goblet?”

“No. Well, partially.” He glanced down at the paddle still protruding from his jacket. “I came to an auction you curated because I wanted to support you, and somehow I made the entire thing about me.”

“That does seem to happen around you.”

“I know.” His confidence disappeared for the first time that afternoon. “But I came because of you. I care about you. More than a little, actually. And when I’m around you, my hands apparently stop communicating with my brain, and then I forget what I meant to say, and—”

Sienna began to laugh again.

Mikey frowned. “This feels like a vulnerable moment.”

“You really are unlike anyone I’ve ever met, Mikey.” She shook her head. “I told you to put the paddle down, and instead you hid it inside your jacket and kept raising your fingers.”

“I panicked.”

“That was obvious.”

“Does the fact that you’re laughing mean you forgive me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What if I buy you dinner?”

Sienna looked at him for a moment. “One dinner.”

By the time everyone returned to the sitting room, the April light beyond the tall windows had begun to fade, softening the edges of Rhinebeck into shades of blue and gold.

Without anyone consciously deciding it, everyone drifted back to the same places.

You settled beside Harry. His hand found yours immediately, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. He didn't ask how your session had gone. Somehow, the gesture promised he would—later, when the answer belonged only to the two of you.

Across from you, Scarlet sat with the same composed posture she always carried into difficult conversations. This time, however, when your eyes met, neither of you looked away.

Beside her, Vivienne crossed one elegant leg over the other. She still looked faintly offended by several events of the afternoon, but no longer refused to acknowledge Harry's existence.

Harry gave her the smallest nod.

It wasn't quite an apology. It wasn't forgiveness. But it was a beginning.

Sienna chose the armchair nearest the fireplace.

Mikey sat on its broad arm without asking.

She looked up at him and, for the first time all day, didn't tell him to move.

Dr. Adler closed her notebook.

"I've heard four very different stories today," she began. "But they've all led me to the same conclusion."

The room grew quiet. "When this family is frightened, none of you asks for control." She looked around the room. "You simply take it." Harry lowered his eyes. Scarlet folded her hands. Vivienne's expression softened almost imperceptibly. Mikey suddenly found the pattern in the rug fascinating. "You investigate." She looked at Harry. "You plan." Scarlet. "You withhold." Your turn. "And sometimes…" her gaze shifted toward Mikey and Sienna, "…you attempt to solve problems before anyone has admitted they're problems."

Mikey slowly raised a finger.

"I feel mildly targeted."

"You should."

A ripple of laughter moved through the room. Even Harry smiled.

Dr. Adler waited until the laughter faded.

"Every one of you described those choices as protection."

She paused. "The person on the receiving end experienced them as control."

Silence settled once more. "I'd like each of you to try something different."

No one spoke. "The next time you're frightened for someone you love… ask them what they need before deciding for them."

Nobody argued.

For this family…

…that alone felt like remarkable progress.

The door opened.

Eloise stepped inside, carrying her cane less as a walking aid and more as a symbol of authority.

She surveyed the room carefully.

No one appeared to be crying.

No one appeared ready to disown anyone.

She gave a satisfied nod.

"Bueno." She tapped the floor once with her cane. "Enough emotional growth for one afternoon." A beat. "Dinner is ready."

"And if any of you start another family crisis before the soup…"

"…I'll schedule a second therapist."

Mikey stood immediately. "What kind of soup?"

"The kind you'll eat."

"That still doesn't narrow it down."

Sienna quietly caught the back of his jacket before he could continue and steered him toward the hallway.

Scarlet and Vivienne followed together, their conversation noticeably quieter than it had been only an hour earlier.

Harry rose beside you, offering his hand.

Once you were standing securely, his palm settled against the small of your back.

"Ready?"

You nodded. "Starving."

"Good."

"I intend to steal at least half your dessert."

"You always do."

"I know."

Together, you followed the others into the corridor. Within moments the sitting room fell silent. Almost.

Dr. Adler slipped her notebook into her leather bag and reached for her coat. A discreet knock interrupted her. The door opened just enough for Ron to step inside before quietly closing it again.

He remained standing. "May I ask you something?"

Dr. Adler smiled faintly. "Is this about the family?"

"No."

"Good."

She gestured toward the empty sofa. "Then it's probably about you."

"I'd prefer not to turn this into a session. If a man has never had a serious relationship but his current girlfriend wishes to get married and he doesn't believe he's ready…" He adjusted his cuff. "…there also happens to be a childhood friend."

Dr. Adler considered him for a moment. "Does your girlfriend know you're emotionally preoccupied with someone else?"

"No."

"Then you shouldn't agree to marry her."

"And the childhood friend?"

"Do you want a future with her or is she simply a safe possibility that allows you to postpone making a difficult decision?"

Ron frowned. "How does one determine that?"

"By telling both women the truth."

He looked genuinely disappointed. "That sounds unnecessarily human."

From somewhere down the corridor came Eloise's unmistakable voice.

"¡Ronald! Harry is already answering emails at the dinner table!"

Ron reached for the doorknob. "This conversation never happened." "¡Ronald!"

"I'm coming, Mrs. Castillo."

The door closed behind him.

April 23rd

A week after Rhinebeck, Queen Financial had settled into a rhythm that was not quite normal, but no longer felt like an emergency. Gerard called every morning with whatever developments he believed required your attention. Dana sent carefully filtered briefings twice a day, having apparently decided anything capable of raising your blood pressure required written authorization before reaching you. Emily and Chloe phoned almost daily, supposedly to discuss work and inevitably ending with questions about the twins, your appetite, and whether Harry had yet attempted to place you under medically supervised house arrest. He hadn't. Technically. By Friday evening, your final call with Gerard had lasted twelve minutes longer than promised. “The revised projections are in your inbox,” he said through the speaker. “You don’t need to look at them tonight.” “You sent them to me tonight.” “I sent them so you would know they exist.” “And now that I know they exist, you expect me not to open them?” “Yes.” “That’s an unreasonable understanding of my personality.” From the other end of the sofa, Harry calmly reached over and removed the phone from your hand. “We’re done,” he said. Gerard did not hesitate. “Thank you, Harry.” “You’re both becoming intolerable,” you informed them. “Monday morning,” Gerard replied. “Good night, Ms. Queen.” The call ended before you could object. Harry placed your phone facedown on the coffee table, well beyond your immediate reach. You looked at him. He looked back. “That was hostile.” “That was twelve minutes past your own deadline.” “I was receiving information about my company.” “You were reorganizing the executive committee from the sofa.” “They needed reorganizing.” “They’ll still need it on Monday.” You narrowed your eyes. Harry had already picked up the television remote. “No more work tonight.” “What are we doing instead?” “Watching a movie.” He moved closer and began scrolling. “No.” You glanced at the screen. “What’s wrong with that one?” “Home invasion.” “It’s listed as a romantic comedy.” “I checked the parents’ guide.” “You checked the parents’ guide?” “I’m being thorough.” You laughed. “Harry.” He ignored you and continued scrolling. Finally he stopped. “This one.” You looked at him suspiciously. “Have you already researched it?” “IMDb. Two reviews. Parents’ guide.” “…Of course you did.” The poster showed two people standing beneath strings of lights beside the sea. “A woman returns to the coastal town where she grew up,” Harry read. “She meets a man renovating an old hotel.” You considered it. Harry nodded once. “No violence. No blood. No psychological torment.” “Finally.” He pressed play. As the opening credits rolled, he stood. “Where are you going?” “Popcorn.” “With actual salt?” He gave you a look. “I’ll be right back.” You settled deeper into the cushions he had arranged behind your back. A minute later Harry returned carrying a large bowl of popcorn. He sat beside you, glanced at the curve of your stomach, and carefully balanced the bowl on top of it. You looked down. Then slowly back at him. “I’m carrying your children.” “I’m appreciating the engineering.” “You’re using me as furniture.” “You’re beautiful in every form, baby.” Before you could answer, he leaned over and kissed you, slow and gentle. You reached for the popcorn.

Your face fell almost immediately. “There’s a rumor of salt.” “We’re watching your sodium.” You sighed dramatically. “This family has become a dictatorship.” The film began exactly as promised. It was gentle, romantic, and occasionally funny without trying too hard. The heroine inherited a weathered seaside hotel. The hero knew how to repair everything except his own emotionally guarded heart. Harry disliked him immediately. “He should tell her why he left.” “It’s been twenty minutes.” “He has already created unnecessary confusion.” You smiled. “That’s how films work.” By the middle of the film, your head had settled against Harry’s shoulder while his fingers moved absentmindedly along your arm. Beneath the blanket, your stomach gave a sudden, unmistakable ripple. Harry looked down immediately. Another tiny movement answered beneath the fabric.

He smiled, leaned over, kissed your stomach, and rested his palm gently over it. “Easy, girls,” he murmured. “We’re trying to watch a movie with your mother.” Another kick answered beneath his hand. You considered it seriously. “I think they want pistachios.” “Five minutes ago they wanted popcorn.” “They changed their minds.” “They’re growing.” “…Fair enough.” He started to stand. You caught his hand. “The roasted ones.” “The roasted ones.” “And bring the whole bag.” Harry bent to kiss your forehead. “One full bag of roasted pistachios coming right up.” As he disappeared toward the kitchen, you settled deeper into the cushions, both hands curving around your stomach as though congratulating the girls on another successful negotiation. On the screen, the film drifted quietly toward its conclusion. The hotel had been restored.

Something tightened painfully behind your ribs. Before you understood why, your vision blurred. One tear escaped. Then another. Within seconds they were falling too quickly to hide. Harry turned immediately. “Hey.” You wiped beneath your eyes, only making the tears worse. “Hey, hey…” He set the popcorn aside at once, his hand instinctively finding your stomach. “What happened? Are you hurting?” You shook your head. “The babies?” “No.” “Then why are you crying, baby?” You pointed helplessly toward the television. “The movie.” Harry looked at the screen, then back at you. “The movie?” “They're just…” Your voice cracked. “They're just getting married.” He stayed quiet. “They're just doing it.” Another tear slipped free. “There isn't a wedding planner shouting into a headset. No ballroom booked two years in advance. No security outside checking guest lists.” You swallowed hard. “No board wondering whether the timing is strategically responsible. No journalists deciding what the wedding means for my company. No headlines about my dress, my body, or whether marrying you affects the markets on Monday.” Harry didn't interrupt. On the screen, the couple exchanged vows while the ocean rolled gently behind them. “They're just getting married,” you whispered again. “They get to live it before the rest of the world starts talking about it.” Harry reached up and gently brushed another tear from your cheek. “Oh, baby.” A shaky laugh escaped you. “I know. I'm crying over a fictional beach wedding.” “I don't think that's why you're crying.” You looked back at the television. The bride had slipped off her shoes. Her guests were laughing. The waves reached the edge of the aisle.

“I don't think I want all of it anymore.” “All of what?” “The spectacle.” The word hung quietly between you. “For years I thought that if I ever got married again, it had to be… perfect.” You gave a tiny, humorless smile. “Perfect enough to justify everything that came before it.” Harry remained silent, listening. “But watching this…” Your eyes drifted back to the screen. “It just looks… peaceful.” You leaned against him a little more. “I don't want our wedding to become public property before we've even lived it.” His hand tightened gently around yours. “I don't want to spend the day wondering which photograph they'll print first… or what the markets will do on Monday.” “You won't.” “We can't control that.” “No,” Harry said softly. “But we can control what we choose to give them.” You lifted your head to look at him. “I want one thing that's ours first.” A pause. “Before anyone turns it into a headline.” Harry studied you for several quiet seconds. “Do you want a beach?” Despite the tears, you smiled. “Maybe.” “Barefoot?” You looked back at the television. “Let's not become primitive.” A laugh escaped him. “Fair.” The newlyweds ran laughing toward the water while their friends chased after them. You watched them for another moment before speaking again. “Besides… Scarlet and Vivienne already decided we should wait until after the girls are born.” Harry listened. “That's still months away.” You looked down at your stomach. “And by then everyone will spend the entire wedding talking about the babies instead of us.” He brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You're the one who said you didn't want to be a bride with an enormous stomach.” “I know.” Your voice softened. “But if it were something like this…” You glanced back toward the beach on the screen. “Small. Quiet. Just family.” A tiny smile appeared. “I don't think I'd care.” You looked at him again. “Everything in my life has to happen in front of an audience simply because I'm a Queen.” Your hand drifted toward the small bowl on the coffee table. It was empty. You stared into it for a long second. “The pistachios are gone.” Your face crumpled all over again. Harry looked from the empty bowl to you just as another sob escaped. “Oh, no.” He cupped your cheek immediately. “Shh, baby. Don't cry.” “I wanted more.” “I'll order more.” “Two bags.” “Two bags.” “And the lemon sorbet.” He had already unlocked his phone. “And those thin crackers Dana brought last week.” His thumb moved across the screen. “Added.” “And strawberries.” He glanced up. “You said pistachios.” “The situation has developed.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Clearly.” “And chocolate-covered pretzels.” “Anything else?” You frowned thoughtfully, genuinely considering the question. “…The little tangerines.” Harry added them without another word before setting the phone aside. “Everything's coming. ” He drew you gently back against his chest. “Now breathe for me.” You nodded, still sniffling as you wiped beneath your eyes. “I’m fine.” A pause. “It’s just the hormones.” His lips brushed the top of your head. “Our wedding will be beautiful, baby.” You curled closer against him. “However we do it.” “Okay,” you whispered. The movie continued quietly in the background, but neither of you was really watching anymore.

Harry's fingers moved slowly through your hair until your breathing gradually steadied. Only then did his eyes drift back toward the television. The bride and groom were laughing barefoot beneath the driftwood arch. No ballroom. No photographers. No headlines. Just the people they loved. Harry watched in silence. His gaze lingered on the weathered wooden arch… the shoreline… the small gathering of family and friends. Then something almost imperceptible softened in his expression. A thought. Nothing more. He said nothing. He simply looked back down at you, asleep against his shoulder, one hand resting protectively over the gentle curve of your stomach. A faint smile appeared.

The Following Morning Chez Akiko

The restaurant had not yet opened for lunch, but the table nearest the kitchen was already occupied by six people who had been summoned with varying degrees of urgency and almost no useful explanation. Emily sat at the head of the table with coffee in front of her. Chloe had arrived carrying two garment bags and the conviction that every crisis could be improved with appropriate tailoring. Dana was answering emails beneath the table, while Ron had placed a leather folder beside his plate and appeared to be the only person who had anticipated an agenda. Mikey was eating something the kitchen had not officially served him. Harry remained standing. “We need to plan a wedding.” Everyone stopped. Mikey lowered the croissant in his hand. “Whose?” Harry looked at him. Mikey considered the question. “Right. Context clues.” Emily leaned back in her chair. “You and Queen are already getting married. After the babies are born.” “Scarlet and Vivienne have interviewed three event planners,” Chloe added. “One of them presented a forty-page proposal for the flowers alone.” Dana finally looked up from her phone. “The preliminary date is being held for late summer.” “And an entire team of professionals is supposed to organize it,” Emily said. “So why are we here?” Harry placed both hands against the back of the empty chair in front of him. “I’m not talking about that wedding.” The table went quiet again. Mikey slowly set down his croissant. “There are two weddings now?” “Technically, yes,” Harry said. Chloe narrowed her eyes. “What exactly are you planning?” “Something private. This weekend.” Six faces turned toward him. Even Ron blinked.

Emily slowly placed her coffee on the table. “Harry, it’s Thursday.” “I’m aware.” “You want us to arrange a wedding in two days?” “A small one.” “Rich people always say that,” Emily said, “before describing a small country.” “No ballroom, no hotel, no press. No guest list beyond the people in this room and immediate family.” Emily studied him. “What changed?” Harry looked down at the table. “We watched a movie last night. There was a wedding on a beach.” He paused, remembering the way your voice had broken when you said the couple had simply been allowed to marry. “She said she didn’t want ours to become public property before we’d had the chance to live it.” The room grew quieter. “No reporters,” he continued. “No analysts deciding what our marriage means for the companies. No photographs released before she chooses them.

She wants something that belongs to us.” “A private beach wedding,” Emily said softly. “Yes.” “Just friends and family.” “Yes.” “And Queen doesn’t know.” “No.” Mikey raised one finger. “Are you sure we’re talking about my sister? She used to plan her wedding while she was still in elementary school.” “I can confirm that,” Chloe said. “There were sketches.” “Sounds like her,” Emily agreed. Ron glanced down at his folder. “Ms. Queen being the only person unaware of her own wedding presents a significant degree of risk.” “Her hormones have made her more emotional lately,” Harry said. “She cried last night because the pistachios ran out.” Emily sighed. "Aw." “Oh, poor thing,” Chloe murmured. “My sister cried during a comedy when she was pregnant with my niece,” Dana added. “No one in the movie was even sad.” “Fine. Whatever she wants, we give her,” Emily said. Harry’s expression remained serious. “That doesn’t mean we decide for her. I’m not bringing her to a wedding and expecting her to perform because everyone is waiting. I’ll show her what I arranged and ask whether she wants to marry me that day. If she says no, the officiant leaves, we have dinner on the beach, and no one makes her feel guilty.” Emily nodded once. “If she says yes,” Harry continued, “everything needs to be ready.” Mikey looked at Harry. “Where exactly is this happening? And how are you telling our mothers? Because mine is not going to celebrate being excluded from wedding planning.” “Scarlet and my mother will be told last.” Ron opened the leather folder. “A sound security decision.” The planning moved quickly after that. Ron would secure a private beach, confidentiality agreements, transport and discreet security. Dana would clear your calendar without making the absence too obvious. Emily took charge of dinner, cake and a small reception, while Chloe handled the flowers and overall design. Then Chloe tapped her pen against the table. “We still have one significant problem.” Everyone looked at her. “The dress.” Harry’s attention sharpened. “What about it?” “She’s carrying twins. Her old measurements are useless, and her body is changing every week. I can’t fit a gown correctly by guessing.” Mikey added. “The dress is important, man. Those hormones can turn into rage when she looks at the photographs ten years from now. I’m warning you in advance.” Chloe pointed her pen at him. “For once, he’s right. We have very little time to make something beautiful and unforgettable.” “How quickly can you do it?” Emily asked.

“I can alter an existing gown if I have accurate measurements tonight. Soft structure, an empire waist, room around her stomach—nothing restrictive.” Chloe turned to Harry. “I need her shoulders, shoulder to floor, bust, underbust and the fullest point around her stomach.” Mikey sat back, delighted. “You’re going to measure a sleeping pregnant woman without telling her why. That may be the most dangerous plan I’ve heard today.” Harry stared at Chloe. “There’s no other way?” “You could tell her.” “No.” “Yuliana could possibly do it,” Ron suggested. Harry shook his head immediately. “No. I’ll do it.” Chloe tore a page from her notebook and slid it across the table. “These measurements. In inches. Don’t pull the tape tight.” Harry studied the instructions as though they described an unfamiliar explosive device. “I’ll handle it.” Ron closed his folder. “I recommend waiting until she’s asleep.” “Thank you, Ron."

That evening, Yuliana met Harry outside his study and lowered her voice as though reporting a delicate security matter. “She fell asleep upstairs.” “In bed?” “She said she was only going to rest for ten minutes.” A small smile touched Yuliana’s mouth. “She was listening to classical music.” Harry glanced toward the staircase, then at the flexible measuring tape concealed in his hand. Perfect. Or as close to perfect as this plan was likely to become. He opened the bedroom door carefully and stepped inside. The curtains had been drawn against the evening light, leaving the room dim and quiet except for the faint piano music escaping from one of the wireless earbuds in your ears. You were asleep on your side, one hand tucked beneath your cheek and the other curved protectively over your stomach. The second earbud had fallen onto the pillow beside you.

Your phone rested on the nightstand, still playing the same gentle piece on repeat. Harry stood beside the bed for several seconds, simply looking at you. Then he unfolded the list Chloe had sent him. This should have been easy. Harry had negotiated acquisitions involving several governments. He had once completed a merger while both legal teams threatened to walk away. He regularly managed people who considered compromise a moral failing. He could measure his sleeping fiancée. Carefully, he sat on the edge of the mattress and removed the remaining earbud from your ear. You made a quiet sound and shifted deeper into the pillow. Harry froze. Your breathing remained even. The first measurement was uncomplicated. He placed one end of the tape near your shoulder and extended it gently across your back, recording the number in his phone.

Shoulder to floor required an approximation from the side of the bed. Chloe had specifically written that an imperfect number was preferable to waking you, although Harry suspected she had not fully considered what would happen if you woke and found him standing over you with tailoring equipment. The underbust measurement was next. Harry stared at the instruction. Then at you. Then back at the instruction. The circumference of your stomach seemed safer. Harry lifted the edge of the blanket and passed the tape carefully around the fullest curve, reaching beneath your side to bring the ends together. Your eyes opened. Harry stopped breathing. You blinked down at the measuring tape wrapped around your stomach, then slowly raised your gaze to him. “Harry.” Your voice was rough with sleep. “What—what are you doing?” “Nothing.” You stared at him.

He was sitting beside you with a measuring tape in both hands. “Nothing?” “I can explain.” “Are you measuring my waist?” Your voice rose sharply as you pushed yourself upright, shock and hurt chasing the last traces of sleep from your face. “No—no, baby. Not like that.” You pulled the tape from his hands and looped it loosely around the back of his neck before he could react. “Harry Castillo, I will strangle you with this.” “Baby, wait.” “You measured me while I was asleep?” “It isn’t what you think.” “What do I think?” “That I was—” “Checking how much weight I’ve gained?” Harry’s expression changed immediately. “No. Absolutely not.” “How many inches was it?” Your eyes began to shine. “I’ve gotten huge, haven’t I?” “No.” “You hesitated.” “I didn’t hesitate.” “You looked terrified.” “Because you threatened to kill me.” “With a fabric tape. You would’ve survived.” The first tear slipped down your cheek. Another followed before you could wipe it away. “I knew I’d gained too much weight.” Your voice broke. “I look awful, don’t I? I’ve become enormous and ugly.” Harry gently removed the tape from around his neck and dropped it onto the carpet. “That is complete nonsense.” He moved closer and cupped your face between his hands. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world.” More tears spilled down your cheeks. Harry wiped them away with his thumbs, his voice softening further. “You’re carrying our daughters. Your body is changing because it’s making room for two people. There is nothing ugly about you. Not one thing.”

You sniffed and looked down at your stomach. “My face is puffy.” “You’re beautiful.” “My ankles are swollen.” “Still beautiful.” “None of my clothes fit.” “I’ll buy you new ones.” “That isn’t the point.” You opened your mouth to continue, but a sudden yawn interrupted you. Your shoulders sagged as quickly as your anger had risen. “I’m so tired.” The abrupt change left Harry staring at you. “I just want to sleep.” His expression softened with relief and guilt in equal measure. “Okay, baby. Sleep.” You lay down again, then caught his wrist before he could move away. “Stay.” “I’m here.” You pulled his arm against your chest and settled around it, resting your cheek near his shoulder. So many emotions had passed through you in the space of a few minutes—anger, humiliation, tears and exhaustion—that Harry could not stop himself from feeling responsible for every one of them. “Will you stroke my hair?” you asked sleepily. “Of course.” His fingers moved gently through your hair, smoothing it away from your face. Every few moments, he bent and pressed a quiet kiss to your temple. Your breathing gradually slowed. “Harry?” “I’m here, baby.” “Don’t measure me again.” “I won’t.” Harry looked down at you suspiciously, but a faint sleepy smile touched your mouth before disappearing. Within moments, your breathing deepened. Harry continued stroking your hair long after you had fallen asleep. At first, he intended to remain for only a minute. Then five. Your fingers stayed curled firmly around his wrist, and every attempt to move made you shift closer. Eventually, Harry lay down beside you fully dressed, one arm trapped beneath your head and the other resting over your stomach. One of the babies moved beneath his palm. A quiet smile crossed his face. “Easy,” he whispered. “Your mother has already threatened me once tonight.” Twenty minutes later, his trapped arm had gone completely numb. He endured another ten. Then a faint snore escaped you. Harry looked down. Your lips had parted slightly, your head angled back against his arm. The snoring had appeared with the pregnancy and grew louder whenever you were exhausted—something you denied with absolute conviction every morning. Another soft snore followed. Harry smiled. “You’d call me a liar if I told you.” He gently touched beneath your chin and turned your head slightly toward the pillow, just as he had on countless nights before. The sound stopped almost immediately. You murmured something indistinct. Harry froze. “Harry…” He bent and kissed your hair. “I’m right here.” Your fingers loosened around his wrist, and your breathing settled again. Moving slowly, Harry reached down for the tape. He passed it around your stomach once more, careful not to pull it tight. When the ends met, he secured the exact point beneath one finger and eased the tape away without losing the measurement. This time, you did not wake. Harry carefully freed his arm, replacing it with the pillow before sitting up. He opened his phone, added the final number to his notes, and sent the measurements to Chloe.

Harry: This is everything I could get. Her reply arrived almost immediately. Chloe: Did she wake up? Harry: Briefly. Chloe: Are you alive? His gaze returned to you. You were sleeping peacefully again, one hand spread across your stomach, your mouth beginning to fall open. Harry: Barely.

He set the phone on the nightstand and watched you for another moment, smiling despite himself.

Saturday Morning

When you opened your eyes, Harry’s side of the bed was empty.

The sheets still held the faint warmth of him, but the room had gone quiet in the particular way it did only when he had been awake for some time. The curtains were partially open, allowing the soft April sunlight to spill across the carpet.

You reached blindly toward his pillow. Nothing.

“Harry?”

No answer came from the bathroom.

You pushed yourself higher against the pillows, one hand automatically settling over the curve of your stomach. “Harry?”

Still nothing.

That was when you noticed the folded card resting against the lamp on his nightstand, placed beside the snow globe.

You reached for it.

Good morning, baby. I have something planned for you. Trust me for a few hours and let Yuliana help you. I’ll see you soon. I love you. H.

You read it twice, then narrowed your eyes at the empty room.

“Trust you with what?”

A soft knock sounded against the bedroom door. Before you could answer, Yuliana stepped inside carrying a tray of tea. Her usually restrained expression had been replaced by a smile she was making very little effort to hide.

You held up the card. “What is happening?”

“I was instructed not to say, Ms. Queen.”

You accepted the tea and took a cautious sip while studying her over the rim of the cup. “You understand that smiling like that only makes you look more suspicious.”

Yuliana glanced at her watch.

“You’re timing me?”

“Perhaps.”

She waited patiently until you finished, then placed the cup aside and offered her hands.

“We should get you up now, Ms. Queen.”

“Why?”

“Several people are waiting for you.”

The way she said it made you immediately suspicious. “Which people?”

Yuliana continued holding out her hands.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Very much.”

With a sigh, you let her help you sit up. One of the babies shifted as you moved, a slow rolling sensation beneath your ribs. You pressed your palm against it. “At least one person in this room should tell me what’s happening.”

“Trokhy terpinnya, Ms. Queen,” Yuliana said gently. “Just a little patience.”

She helped you into your robe, tied it securely around you, then waited while you slipped your feet into your house shoes.

The moment you stepped into the corridor, you heard several voices coming from the dressing room.

You stopped.

Emily appeared first. “Look who’s finally awake.”

“Our Queen has arrived,” Chloe added from behind her.

Emily came directly toward you, placing one hand gently against your stomach. “How are you feeling? And how are these two?”

“We’re confused,” you said. “What are all of you doing in my house?”

“First, breakfast,” Emily said. “There’s a full table waiting.”

“No. First, someone tells me what is happening.”

Chloe exchanged a glance with Emily. “Perhaps it would be easier to show you.”

She opened the dressing-room door.

The room had been transformed.

A small hair and makeup team stood near the windows beside neatly arranged cases and brushes. Fresh white flowers had been placed on the vanity, restrained enough not to resemble one of Scarlet’s productions. Dana stood near the wardrobe holding two phones—yours and her own—while appearing entirely untroubled by the fact that she had confiscated your professional life.

“Good morning, Ms. Queen,” the team greeted.

Your gaze moved from Emily to Dana, then Chloe.

Finally, it settled on the garment bag. “What is that?”

Dana’s smile became dangerously emotional. “Morning, Ms. Queen.”

“What is in the bag?”

The room fell silent.

Emily quietly moved a plate of toast closer to the nearest chair. Dana looked down at the phones.

Chloe reached for the zipper. “Why don’t you take a look?”

She opened the bag.

Soft ivory fabric appeared first, followed by delicate folds of silk, a gracefully structured bodice and a skirt designed to fall around the curve of your stomach without constricting it. There was no excessive beading, cathedral train or rigid corsetry. The fabric caught the morning light with a quiet sheen, elegant without demanding attention.

It looked effortless.

Which meant an extraordinary amount of work had gone into it.

Your breath caught. “Oh, my God. That... looks like—”

A wedding dress.

Not something inspired by one. A real wedding dress. Pinned carefully to the front was another folded card. Chloe removed it and held it toward you. Your fingers trembled slightly as you opened it.

Baby, Chloe and her mother made this for you. I hope it’s close to what you wanted. There’s a car waiting downstairs. At the end of the drive, you’ll find a beach, the people closest to us, and me. I made today possible. Whether we marry here or wait for the wedding they’ve been planning is your decision. I’ll be waiting. H.

You stared at the page until the words began to blur. Then your gaze dropped to the dress again, and understanding arrived all at once.

“Oh, my God, Harry.”

A tear struck the card.

You looked toward Chloe. “That’s why he was measuring me.”

Chloe pressed her lips together, already close to tears herself.

You laughed, covering your mouth as more tears followed. “Oh, that man.”

Emily stood immediately. “Hey.”

“I cannot believe him.”

She placed both hands gently on your arms. “Is that a good cannot believe him?”

You looked down at the note. “He listened to me.”

The words emerged so softly that everyone in the room went still.

Emily’s expression changed. “Yes. He did.”

“And then he made it happen in two days,” Chloe added quietly.

You touched the skirt with your fingertips.

It was beautiful, but not because it was expensive or perfectly made. It was beautiful because nothing about it felt designed for other people to admire.

Harry had remembered the beach, the quiet, the absence of reporters and boards and questions. The moment in the movie when you had cried because two people had been allowed to simply marry each other.

Your face crumpled again.

Chloe hurried toward you. “Oh. I think the crying spell has arrived.”

You nodded, tears already falling.

Emily handed you a tissue. “Get it all out before they start your makeup. This entire team is here to prepare you for today.”

“Then I should wash my face.”

“Yeah.” Emily slipped an arm gently around your waist. “Then you’re eating breakfast, and after that, we’ll get you ready.”

Chloe hesitated. “You do want this, don’t you? Because after five years apart and two babies on the way, I think you two have waited long enough.”

You looked at Chloe, then Dana, Yuliana, and the waiting hair and makeup team.

For one unsteady moment, the reality of it settled over you: a beach, no cameras, no audience, vows spoken before the rest of the world could claim them. Was this really what you wanted?

Then you pictured Harry waiting for you, and the question became almost embarrassingly simple.

Finally, your gaze returned to the dress.

“Yes,” you said. “I want this.”

Bridgehampton

The limousine turned through the gates of the Bridgehampton estate just after four. Beyond the windows, pale dunes gave way to flashes of blue water beneath the soft April sky. The ocean wind moved through the beach grass, bending it toward the private stretch of sand Harry had somehow secured in less than forty-eight hours. Chloe looked mournfully at the view. “The fact that I can’t put any of this on my story is cruel.” “Post one frame and every paparazzi in New York will be outside the gates before we reach the sand,” Emily warned, holding up the one phone Dana had authorized for photographs. “No one posts anything,” you added. “Turn off your location services too.” “They’re already off,” Dana assured you. “Good. Now move closer,” Emily said. Despite her warning, she was already recording, the phone safely on airplane mode. You, Chloe and Dana leaned together while she turned the camera toward you. Yuliana sat opposite, watching with quiet amusement. “Smile,” Emily instructed. “I am smiling,” you said with a laugh as another small movement rolled beneath your hand. “They’re the ones refusing to hold still for the picture.” You glanced at your reflection in the darkened window. “Do I look as nervous as I feel?” “No,” Emily said immediately. “You look radiant.” “Annoyingly beautiful,” Chloe added. Dana nodded. “Exactly as you should.” “Beautiful is insufficient,” Yuliana corrected, studying you with open admiration. “Vy prekrasna (you’re beautiful) Ms. Queen. Prosto neymovirna. (Simply incredible.)” And, inconveniently, they were right. The ivory silk dress fell cleanly from beneath your bust, following the curve of your stomach without trying to conceal it.

Its deep V neckline was softened by delicate embroidery that gathered just above the swell of your belly, while the long skirt moved fluidly around your legs. There was no veil, no heavy train and nothing that required you to become someone else to wear it. You smoothed both hands over your stomach. One of the girls moved beneath your palm. “Apparently they’re as excited as I am.” “They’re half Queen and half Castillo,” Dana said. “Of course they assume the entire event is being held in their honor.” The limousine slowed. Your heartbeat immediately quickened. Emily lowered the phone. “We’re here.”

Down on the beach, Harry checked his watch for what Ron estimated was the ninth time. “She crossed the gate three minutes ago,” Ron said. “She’s here,” Harry replied, and the words came out softer than he intended.

He stood near the small flowered arch in a black tuxedo, his attention fixed on the wooden walkway leading down from the house. Mikey waited beside Ron, while Captain Mateo Alvarez—Richard’s oldest friend and, thanks to Ron’s exhaustive planning, a legally registered officiant—stood nearby with the ceremony papers secured inside his jacket. Sienna adjusted one of the white flowers in her hands. “The florist reinforced the arch. It won’t collapse unless the wind develops personal hostility toward us.” Harry barely heard her. Vivienne approached and straightened his boutonniere, her expression warm with emotion. “Breathe, sweetheart.” “I am breathing.” “You’re waiting aggressively.” Her hand lingered briefly against his lapel. “You get to marry her again. Try to enjoy this part too.” A small smile finally broke through his nerves. Before he could answer, the limousine appeared beyond the dunes. Every conversation stopped. Scarlet immediately moved toward the end of the walkway with Richard beside her. He relied on his cane for balance, his steps slower than they once had been. Scarlet slipped her arm through his without drawing attention to the support she provided. The car came to a stop. Harry went completely still, though from where he stood, the vehicle concealed most of the drive. “They’re here,” Sienna said, already moving. “I’ll go make sure she has everything.” A member of the staff opened the door. Emily stepped out first, followed by Chloe and Dana. Then the attendant offered you his hand. You took it. Emily immediately gathered the skirt so it would not catch beneath your shoes as you carefully stepped onto the stone drive. The ocean breeze caught the silk, pressing it briefly against the curve of your stomach before letting it fall into its clean, graceful lines again. For one suspended moment, no one spoke. Scarlet’s eyes filled before you had taken three steps. “Oh, my baby,” she whispered. “You are so beautiful.” You approached her, and she caught both of your hands. “You too,” you said, looking over her pale blue silk dress, structured hat and entirely unnecessary pearl gloves. “Though you appear to have dressed for a royal garden party.” Scarlet lifted her chin. “I was given forty-eight hours and absolutely no authority. I had to express myself somehow.” Richard sighed beside her. “They’re doing this the way they want, Scarlet.” “I know,” she replied, never taking her eyes from you. “I’m adjusting with remarkable dignity.” You turned toward Richard. “Dad.” His face softened completely.

“My beautiful girl.” His gaze dropped affectionately to your stomach. “How are all three of you?” “Nervous, happy and extremely pregnant.” “That sounds about right.” You hugged him carefully, feeling one of his hands settle against your back. When you pulled away, your gaze dropped briefly to his cane before returning to his face. “You look very handsome.” “I had an important place to be.” Your throat tightened. Before the tears could begin, Mikey appeared and opened his arms. “Baby sister.” He attempted to hug you, only to discover that your stomach reached him first. He looked down between you. “I think your stomach arrived before the rest of you.” “Careful,” you warned. “You’re insulting three Queen women at once.” “I would never.” He bent and spoke toward your stomach. “Your mother has always been this threatening.” You pushed lightly at his shoulder. “Move.” Laughing, Mikey kissed your cheek and stepped aside. Sienna approached carrying a bouquet of white ranunculus, sweet peas and small ivory roses. She placed it gently in your hands before glancing toward the beach. Harry was visible at the other end of the walkway. He had not moved. Even from a distance, you could see the way he was looking at you—as though the rest of the beach had disappeared the moment you stepped from the car. Sienna smiled softly. “Whenever you’re ready.” You took a deep breath, then another, waving your hands to calm your emotions. “Oh, no.” Emily was instantly beside you. “What?” “The crying spell.” She opened her bag and produced a tissue with the speed of a trained emergency responder. Chloe pointed at you. “Do not rub your eyes. We used waterproof makeup, but I refuse to test its limits before the ceremony begins.” “I’m trying not to cry.” “You’re failing beautifully,” Dana said. A laugh escaped through your tears. Emily carefully dabbed beneath one eye. “There. Crisis contained.” Richard moved beside you and offered his arm. You looked at the wooden path stretching across the dunes, then toward Harry waiting at its end. “Are you sure?” you asked softly. Richard straightened, tightening his hand around the top of his cane. “I didn’t spend two months learning to walk across rooms again just to sit down for this part.” Your eyes filled all over again. “Chloe,” you warned. “Ugh, honey breathe,” Chloe said firmly. “We have reached the maximum permitted tears.” Richard smiled and held out his arm once more. “Ready?” You slipped your hand through it, supporting him as subtly as he supported you.

Your gaze returned to Harry. This time, there was no hesitation. “Yes,” you said. “I’m ready."

The first notes of the music drifted across the dunes as you and Richard stepped onto the wooden walkway. Everyone rose. Warm applause followed, unrestrained and familiar. Mikey brought two fingers to his mouth and whistled loudly before stepping directly into the aisle with his phone raised. “Mikey,” Sienna hissed, catching the back of his jacket and pulling him out of the way. “I’m documenting history.” “You’re blocking history.” Laughter moved through the small gathering as he allowed himself to be dragged back beside her, though he continued filming over her shoulder. There were no camera flashes, no reporters calling your name, no phones raised for an audience waiting somewhere beyond the beach. Emily and Chloe recorded from their places, but only so you and Harry could keep the moment. Near the second row, a single videographer followed your progress through a discreet lens, having been warned by Ron so thoroughly that he looked prepared to surrender the camera, memory card and all personal identification at the slightest provocation. Nothing was being broadcast. Nothing had to become public before it belonged to you. The aisle was not lined with investors, board members or distant relatives invited out of obligation. There were only two short rows of chairs, and every person standing beside them was someone whose face you knew well enough to read without effort. Scarlet was already crying behind the sunglasses she had apparently worn to prevent exactly that. Vivienne held one hand over her heart, her expression radiant. Ron remained beside Dana, who was wiping beneath one eye while pretending to inspect Emily’s recording. Lara stood near Scarlet, openly crying without attempting to disguise it, while Yuliana watched you with quiet pride. They were all family. Some had witnessed the first marriage and the way it had broken. Some had arrived later, carrying you through the strange, tender work of finding your way back to one another. But every person standing there had seen enough to understand what this moment meant. They had seen the love, the damage, the silence, the repair—and they had stayed. The realization settled warmly beneath your ribs. Your free hand moved instinctively over your stomach. One of the girls shifted beneath your palm, followed by the faintest answering movement from her sister. You smiled down at them. Richard glanced toward you. “All right?” “More than all right.” The boards of the narrow aisle beneath your low ivory heels were dusted with sand carried over them by the wind.

Beyond the gathering, the Atlantic stretched endlessly blue beneath the afternoon sky, its waves folding softly against the shore and filling the spaces between the music. Then you looked ahead. Harry stood on a low wooden platform beneath the simple arch of white flowers. For one dangerous second, you nearly missed a step. He wore a perfectly cut black tuxedo, the ocean breeze moving lightly through his hair. A white ranunculus and a small sprig of olive rested against his lapel, chosen to match your bouquet without surrounding you with the heavily scented flowers that always made your eyes water. But it was his expression that caught you. The tension he had carried while waiting disappeared the moment he saw you. His entire face softened into a wide, unguarded smile reserved only for you. Richard tightened his hold on your arm before your heel could slip from the edge of the board.

“Careful, darling.” Your eyes locked with Harry’s. Neither of you looked away. Five years apart seemed to compress themselves into those final steps—every wrong decision, every unfinished conversation and every night you had convinced yourself that losing him had been necessary. But the last six months had changed you both. There were no secrets left between you now, no assumptions allowed to grow in silence. You were not walking toward the marriage you had once lost. You were walking toward something you had rebuilt together, deliberately and without anyone else deciding what it should become. In a few moments, you would be husband and wife again. This time, you both understood exactly what choosing one another meant. By the time you reached him, your eyes were wet again. Richard stopped before the platform. Harry stepped down immediately, offering one hand to you before turning toward him. For a moment, neither man spoke. Richard placed your hand into Harry’s. “I gave her hand to you once before,” he said, his voice low with emotion. “But she was never mine to give away. She is my girl because she chose to let me love her like a father.” Your throat tightened. Richard looked from you to Harry. “So this time, I’m not giving her away. I’m asking you to stand beside her properly. Hold on to her. Listen to her. And when life gets loud, don’t let silence do the damage again.” Harry closed his fingers carefully around yours. “I won’t.” Richard studied him for another moment, then nodded. “Good.” You leaned forward and kissed Richard’s cheek. “Thank you, Dad.” His eyes shone as he stepped away. “Go on, sweetheart,” he said softly. “Go marry the man who finally learned how lucky he is.” Harry helped you onto the platform, one hand steady at your waist until you were safely beside him. Captain Mateo waited a few feet away, but Harry appeared temporarily unaware that anyone else existed. His gaze moved slowly over the dress, your hair and the curve of your stomach. “I knew the dress would be beautiful,” he said softly. “I wasn’t prepared for you in it.” The words nearly started the tears again. You looked over his tuxedo with exaggerated consideration. “You look very handsome yourself, Mr. Castillo.” His smile deepened. “More handsome than the first time?” “You’ve aged.” One eyebrow lifted. “Like an obscenely expensive wine,” you added. Harry’s gaze softened. “Then I must be keeping suitable company.” One of his hands settled gently over your stomach. A visible ripple moved beneath the ivory silk almost immediately.

Harry glanced down, smiling. “They look as excited as we are.” “No. They heard their father arranged an excellent wedding cake.” A quiet laugh escaped him. His thumb moved lightly over the embroidered fabric before you looked around at the flowers, the two rows of chairs and the long table waiting farther up the shore. “Harry,” you whispered. “What did you do?” For the first time that afternoon, uncertainty flickered across his face. “Too much?” “No.” You tightened your fingers around his. “It’s more beautiful than anything I imagined.” His expression softened. “Thank you,” you said. “For listening. For all of it.” Harry lifted your hand and pressed his lips to your knuckles. “I wish I had done more sooner.” “We had a great deal to survive first.” “We did.” His eyes remained on yours. “Then we shouldn’t give away any more time.” Captain Alvarez cleared his throat with deliberate patience. “I have married people on boats before,” he said, glancing toward the wooden platform that extended just over the water. “This is apparently the compromise Ron could manage in three days.” Soft laughter moved through the gathering. Ron adjusted his cuff. “A legally valid compromise.” “The best kind,” Captain Alvarez said, smiling before he turned back to you and Harry. “We are gathered here with the people who know and love Harry and Queen best—not to begin their story, because that began many years ago, but to witness the choice they are making today.” The ocean moved quietly behind him. “This ceremony is small by design. There are no strangers here, no audience beyond those invited and no expectation except honesty. Before we continue, I need to ask one simple question. ” His gaze moved first to Harry, then to you. “Have you both come here freely, intending to marry one another today?” Harry answered without hesitation. “Yes.” You looked at the man who had arranged an entire wedding only to ensure you could still refuse it. “Yes,” you said. “I have.” Captain Alvarez nodded. “Then you may speak the promises you’ve prepared.” Harry’s eyebrows lifted slightly. You stared at him. “You prepared something?” “Not a speech.” His fingers tightened around yours. “I don’t need one to tell you the truth.” The last trace of humor faded from his expression as he looked directly into your eyes. “The first time you chose me, I woke up the next morning and watched you sleep because I still couldn’t believe you were my wife.” His throat moved. “Then I lost you. And for five years, I learned exactly how much of my life had been built around loving you.” Your eyes filled. “Harry, don’t make me cry.” His thumb brushed beneath one of your eyes.

“Then you came back,” he said quietly. “And I felt like a prayer I had no right to make had been answered.” A quiet laugh escaped you through the tears. “You gave me a second life with you. You gave me our daughters." He paused, as though even he could not quite believe it. “I promise you this: you will never have to guess where I stand again. No silence, no pride, no misunderstanding will ever come before the truth.” His voice lowered. “I will choose you in every version of our life. I love you more than I did the first time. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful that you chose me twice.” For several seconds, you could only look at him. Around you, no one seemed to breathe properly. Scarlet pressed a tissue beneath her sunglasses. Vivienne’s mouth trembled. Dana looked down quickly, and even Ron appeared suspiciously interested in the horizon. “I loved you when I left,” you said finally, your voice unsteady. “That was the cruelest part. I loved you through every year I pretended I had moved on, and I love you now without fear, without secrets and without one foot near the door.” Harry’s eyes shone. “I choose you, Harry Castillo. I always have. And I always will.” You squeezed his hands. “This time, I intend to stay.” Neither of you moved. The silence stretched until Mikey called from behind you, “You can keep staring after you’re legally married.” Laughter broke through the emotion. Captain Alvarez gave him a patient look.

“It appears we have people here even more impatient than the bride and groom.” His eyes narrowed faintly with affection. “Mikey, you were always like this.” Mikey grinned. “Thanks, Captain.” Then he leaned toward Sienna and whispered, “He loves me.” Sienna covered her mouth to hide her laugh. Captain Alvarez turned back to Harry. “Harry Castillo, do you take this woman to be your wife—to love her, honour her and continue choosing her for the rest of your life?” Harry did not take his eyes from you. “I do.” “And Ms. Queen, do you take this man to be your husband—to love him, honour him and continue choosing him for the rest of your life?” “I do.” Ron stepped forward with the rings. Harry slid yours carefully onto your finger, his hand trembling just enough for you to notice. You placed his ring beside the one he had once worn before,

sealing a promise renewed rather than replaced. Captain Alvarez smiled. “By the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Mikey was already on his feet. “Kiss her!” Others joined him, laughing and applauding. “Kiss!” “Kiss!” “Kiss!” Harry’s arm curved carefully around your waist. He drew you as close as your stomach allowed, his other hand rising to cradle your face. Then he kissed you. Slowly at first, as though the two of you were alone. Then more deeply as the applause rose around you and the ocean wind carried Mikey’s triumphant whistle across the beach. When Harry finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. “Mrs. Castillo,” he whispered. You smiled through your tears. “You always did like calling me that.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “I missed it.”

Later, after champagne had been poured and the official photographs had been taken, Chloe insisted that the bouquet had one final responsibility. You turned your back to the small group gathered behind you and tossed it over your shoulder. The wind caught the flowers, shifted their course and dropped them directly into Vivienne’s arms. She stared down at the bouquet. Then she looked toward Marc, standing several feet away. Marc smiled. Vivienne’s cheeks turned pink as everyone began laughing and applauding. Beside you, Harry’s expression changed slowly. You looked up at him. “Don’t even start.” “I’m not saying anything.” “Your face is saying plenty.” He gave a small shrug. “I’m only wondering whether we can return the bouquet and try again.” You hit his shoulder lightly. “Shut up and dance with me.” The first notes of the music began.

Harry turned toward you and placed both hands at your waist. You slipped your arms around his neck, though the curve of your stomach prevented you from moving as close as either of you wanted. Harry glanced down at the space between you. “I had imagined holding my wife a little closer.” “Your daughters have other plans.” “They’ve been interfering all day.” “They’re making sure you behave.” Harry looked offended. “With my own wife?” “Especially with your own wife.” Harry laughed and lowered his forehead to yours, swaying with you as the music carried across the beach. A few feet away, Scarlet and Vivienne watched with matching tears in their eyes. “They deserved this happiness, didn’t they?” Vivienne whispered. Scarlet nodded. “More than anyone.” Vivienne dabbed at her cheek. “My eyes are leaking.” “So are mine.” Mikey appeared behind them.

“Should I call 911, or is this a shared maternal event?” Both women turned toward him. Sienna burst out laughing, and even Richard failed to hide his smile. You extended one hand toward the others. “Come on. Join us.” Scarlet joined Richard first, moving carefully around his cane. Ron drew Dana into his arms, while Sienna allowed Mikey to spin her with considerably more enthusiasm than skill. Vivienne hesitated only briefly before accepting Marc’s hand. Harry watched them, a trace of old protectiveness tightening his expression. You touched his cheek. “She looks happy.” His gaze returned to you. After a moment, he nodded and relaxed beneath your hand. “She does.” Near the edge of the dance floor, Emily, Chloe and Yuliana formed a loose circle, laughing as they danced together.

Lara clapped in time from her chair until Captain Alvarez offered his hand and persuaded her to join him for several careful steps. There was no ballroom, no orchestra and no audience waiting to judge what the day meant. Only the ocean, the music and every person you had chosen as family. Harry watched them for a moment—the people dancing barefoot or carefully around canes and hems, the laughter carried by the wind, the small, impossible life you had built out of everything that had nearly ended. Then his gaze returned to you. His arms tightened around your waist, and he rested his forehead against yours. “A little late,” he murmured, “but I think we made it.” You cupped his face in both hands. “We did. And we made it beautifully.” Your lips trembled. “Oh, no. I think it’s coming back.” Harry’s eyes softened with immediate alarm and amusement. “No. No crying, we just survived the ceremony. You can give the makeup ten more minutes.” You laughed, blinking quickly. “Okay. I’m not crying.” “Good.” “I’m almost not crying.” “That’s progress.” The wave passed slowly. You breathed in, steadied yourself, and looked up at him again. Harry’s smile faded into something quieter, deeper. “I love you so much,” he said. Your hands rested against his jaw as the music continued around you. “I love you too, Harry.” And while everyone you loved danced around you beneath the open sky, you let the moment stay exactly what it was. Yours.

Days turned into weeks. For a while, you and Harry stayed married only in the places that mattered. At home, in the quiet, his ring never left his finger. But every morning before a public meeting, a board dinner or anything involving cameras, he removed it with an apology he never seemed to grow tired of giving. “I hate it. I want everyone to know you’re my wife.” And every morning, you gave him the same answer. “They will. Wait until our girls are born.” The world still believed the real wedding was coming later—the grand one Scarlet and Vivienne were already designing with terrifying enthusiasm. When reporters asked how the preparations were going, you smiled, touched your stomach and said something harmless about family, timing and taking things slowly. Somehow, the rumors still began.

Did Harry Castillo and Ms. Queen Marry in Secret?

Private Beach Ceremony Reportedly Held in Bridgehampton. No Guests, No Press, No Confirmation: Inside Manhattan’s Most Talked-About Non-Wedding.

Some said Bridgehampton. Some said it had only been an engagement celebration. Some insisted there had been a wedding, but no one could produce a single photograph. You and Harry answered none of it. There were more important things to survive. Your stomach grew heavier by the week, until getting out of bed without assistance became less an act of independence and more an unnecessarily ambitious athletic event. Doctor’s appointments became nearly the only reason you left the house. Everyone else came to you. Emily arrived one afternoon claiming she had only stopped by to bring soup, then sat at the edge of your bed and confessed that she had started seeing the man her mother had hired as a waiter at the restaurant. He was Asian, apparently devastatingly handsome according to Emily’s increasingly unprofessional description, and “too polite in a way that felt dangerous.” Chloe gave her ex another chance and pretended she was being cautious about it, despite the fact that she blushed every time his name appeared on her phone. Scarlet and Richard came regularly under the excuse of checking on you, though Richard spent most of each visit asking the girls whether they intended to let their mother sleep. Lara moved in without ceremony, joining Yuliana in the practical, unspoken agreement that until the babies arrived, you were not to be left unattended for any length of time. Mikey and Sienna came sometimes together, sometimes separately, each visit explained with suspiciously unnecessary detail. Mikey brought stories from the office,most of them delivered with the confidence of a man who had survived another day in corporate warfare and deserved applause for it. Gerard still called when necessary, but even he had begun to respect the boundaries Dana enforced with frightening precision. For the last three weeks, he no longer patched you into meetings unless there was no alternative. Dana kept such careful notes that reading her briefings almost felt like being in the room. Almost. Queen Financial was not healed, not yet. But it was rising. The panic had passed. The structure was holding. The people who had expected you to disappear quietly were beginning to understand that you had only stepped back long enough to breathe. Harry had done the same in his own way. He met with Ron over laptop screens more often than in boardrooms now, choosing home whenever he could. Some afternoons, you would wake from a nap to find him at the foot of the bed, muted on a call, one hand resting absently over your ankle while he listened to Ron speak. By the time you entered your thirtieth week, your doctor stopped sounding politely cautious and began sounding direct. “You cannot be alone at home now,” she said. “Not for long periods. Not with this level of risk.” Harry’s hand tightened around yours. She reviewed the warning signs, the possibility of early labor, the need to avoid stress, overexertion and anything that might trigger contractions. “I’m also recommending pelvic rest from this point forward.” You glanced at Harry. He looked straight ahead.

The doctor continued, perfectly professional. “That means no intercourse, no penetration, and no sexual activity that results in orgasm. Uterine contractions after orgasm are usually harmless in low-risk pregnancies, but in your case, with twins and your current risk factors, we are not encouraging anything that could increase uterine activity.” Harry’s expression did not change, but his hand became very still around yours. You bit the inside of your cheek. He looked like a man receiving a sentence from a judge and refusing to appeal in public. In the car afterward, Harry remained silent for almost three minutes. “You’re being very mature,” you said. “I’m being tested.” You laughed and leaned your head against his shoulder. “It’s only temporary.” “I understand that.” “You look as if someone cancelled Christmas.” “I said I understand it. I didn’t say I enjoyed it.” But he was careful. More careful than you were, sometimes. When you curled into him at night, he kissed your forehead, your hair, your shoulder, then gently put space where space needed to be.

Sleeping became more difficult. Turning from one side to the other required planning, patience and, on particularly humiliating nights, Harry’s assistance. He surrounded you with pillows until the bed looked less like a bed and more like a medical nest designed by a luxury hotel. Still, the girls pressed against your ribs, your bladder, your lungs and every other part of you they apparently considered negotiable. Harry spoke to them every night. “Be kind to your mother,” he whispered, one hand spread over your stomach. “You’ll meet us soon enough.” A small kick answered him. “Not that soon,” he added sternly. You smiled into the pillow. Eight weeks, the doctor had said. Only eight weeks until you would meet your daughters.

Dinner was over when the call came. You were lowering yourself carefully onto the sofa, one hand braced against the armrest and the other resting over your stomach, when your phone began to ring on the coffee table. Unknown number. You frowned, reaching for it. “Who calls after dinner anymore?” Harry glanced up from where he was folding the throw blanket at the other end of the room. You answered before he could say anything. “Hello?” A woman’s voice spoke on the other end. Careful. Professional. “Ms. Queen? My name is Claire Walsh. I’m calling from a long-term care facility—” “A care facility?” you repeated, confused. Harry was beside you before the woman finished her next sentence. He took the phone gently but firmly from your hand. You stared at him. “Harry?” He ended the call. For a moment, neither of you spoke. “What was that?” “Nothing important.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You just took my phone from my hand. And hung up on a woman from a care facility.” “She shouldn’t have called you directly.” The sentence landed strangely. You pushed yourself higher against the cushions, studying him more closely. His face had gone pale, the controlled lines of it too still to be casual. “Harry,” you said slowly. “What is going on?” He looked away. That was enough. You knew every version of his silence. The business silence. The angry silence. The silence he used when he was trying to keep a room from collapsing around someone he loved. This was the last one. “How long have you been hiding calls from me?” His jaw tightened. Your breath caught. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? The last few days—your phone, Ron calling you outside the room, that woman—” “Baby.” “No.” Your voice sharpened. “Tell me. Please. What is going on?"

Harry stayed standing for another second. Then he exhaled, sat beside you and took both of your hands in his. “Last Friday, a woman came to the building,” he said carefully. “Security didn’t let her up. She said she needed to speak to you.” “About what?” “At first, I didn’t know.” Your fingers tightened around his. “And then?” “I saw her again the next day. Outside. I asked what she wanted.” Harry’s thumb moved slowly over your knuckles, as though he was trying to keep you anchored before he had even said the words. “She works at a long-term care facility,” he said. “Your biological father is there.” You swallowed. The room seemed to drop out from beneath you. For a second, you only stared at him. “My… what?” Harry’s face softened with worry. He reached up and brushed his fingers along your cheek. “Breathe for me."

You drew in a thin breath. One of the girls shifted beneath your ribs, and your hand moved instinctively to your stomach. “Continue,” you whispered. Harry nodded once. “She tried Scarlet first because he had been saying her name for weeks. Scarlet refused to speak to her. She tried to reach Mikey and couldn’t. Then she saw your name attached to mine in enough society articles to find the building.” Your mouth parted, but no sound came out. “Why is he there?” you asked finally. “Why is some woman calling me? Why now, after all these years?” Harry looked down at your joined hands. “The woman he left your mother for is gone. She took what remained of his money and disappeared when his illness became inconvenient.” His voice stayed low, measured. “He has Alzheimer’s. Advanced enough that some days he doesn’t know where he is. Some days he asks for Scarlet.

Some days he asks about the little boy.” “Mikey,” you breathed. Harry nodded. “And lately,” he said, softer now, “she said he keeps asking whether the baby was born.” The words moved through you like something cold. The baby. Harry did not answer immediately. Your eyes lifted to his. “Me?” His expression broke just enough to hurt. A tear slipped down your cheek. The daughter he had never met. The child he had left behind before she had even taken her first breath. Harry wiped the tear away with his thumb. “Baby, talk to me.” You stared past him, but all you could see was a man you had never known asking about a baby who had already grown up, married, divorced, survived him, and was now carrying two daughters of her own. “I need to see him.”

Harry’s brow drew together, that familiar deep crease forming between his eyes as his whole face tightened in immediate refusal. “No.” “Harry—” “No. Absolutely not.” “You don’t get to decide that.” “If we are talking about your health and our daughters’ safety, then I do get a say.” “A say, yes. Not the decision.” “You’re thirty weeks pregnant with twins. The doctor said no stress.” “I know what the doctor said.” “Then you know this is exactly the kind of thing she meant.” You pulled your hands back, not harshly, but enough to make him feel the distance. “I have to see him.” “You don’t owe him that.” “I know.” “He left you before you were born. He doesn’t deserve the chance to hurt you now.” “I know.” “Then why?” You pressed one hand to your stomach and swallowed hard. “Because if something happens and he dies, I will never know what was real.” Your voice broke. “I spent my whole life imagining him. When I was seven, I asked my mother about him, and after that I made up versions of him in my head. Younger. Better. Sorry.” You shook your head. “I don’t know if I want to see him. But I need to.” Harry looked at you for a long moment, the fight in his expression slowly giving way to something heavier. You reached for his hand again. “I don’t owe him anything,” you whispered. “But I think I owe something to the seven-year-old version of me who thought he might still come back if she was worth coming back to.” That did it. Harry’s face changed completely. The anger left him first, then the argument. What remained was something softer, almost wounded. “Oh, baby,” he murmured. He reached for you at once, his hand sliding gently over your hair as he drew you closer.

His eyes had gone bright, though he tried to blink it away before you could see. “She was always worth coming back to,” he said quietly. “He was the one who didn’t deserve to find his way back.” Your breath broke against his chest. Harry closed his eyes briefly and let out a slow breath. When he opened them again, his fear was still there. So was the decision. “We go together,” he said.

The facility smelled like lemon cleaner, old carpet and something medicinal underneath. You hated that your first thought was how small everything seemed. The woman from the phone met you near the entrance and spoke softly to Harry while you stood with both hands curved over your stomach. He kept one hand at your lower back the entire time, steady and warm through the thin fabric of your dress. When they brought you to the room, you stopped at the threshold. The man sitting by the window was not the man you had imagined at seven. He was not the famous director whose face you had cut from old entertainment magazines and hidden in the back of your drawer. Not the man smiling beside actresses at premieres, not the man whose interviews you had read in secret, searching for some trace of yourself in the shape of his mouth or the way his eyes held the camera. That man had belonged to glossy paper and childhood invention. This one was thinner than memory had any right to make him. Older than he should have been. His hair had gone almost completely white, his shoulders folded inward beneath a cardigan that looked too large for him. His hands rested in his lap, restless over the blanket. For a moment, you could not breathe. Harry leaned closer. “We can leave.” You shook your head. The man turned at the sound. His eyes moved over Harry first, then found you. He stared. Your body went cold. “Scarlet?” he whispered. Harry’s hand tightened at your back. You tried to speak, but nothing came. The man’s gaze drifted lower, to your stomach. Something in his face changed. Confusion. Wonder.

A grief too late to be useful. “The baby,” he said. Your breath caught. He looked up at you again, eyes wet and empty of recognition. “Our girl?” The room tilted. “No,” you whispered. But he did not understand. Or perhaps some ruined part of him did, because his mouth trembled as he reached toward you with a hand that shook. Harry stepped between you at once. The movement broke something in you. You took a step back before you could stop yourself, one hand rising to your mouth as you looked at the helpless, fragile old man in front of you. He did not look like the man who had destroyed your mother. He did not look like the man who had left behind a pregnant wife and a one-year-old son. He looked small. Lost. Almost pitiful. And somehow, that hurt worse. For years, you had imagined anger would be enough to hold you upright if this moment ever came. You had imagined questions.

Accusations. The clean satisfaction of finally saying what a child could not. But there was no one here to answer you. Only an old man who looked at you and saw your mother. Only a mind trapped in the year he had left. Only the baby he had never stayed to meet, standing in front of him with two babies of her own. You turned away because you could not look at him anymore. Behind you, he murmured something soft and broken. “Scarlet… don’t go.” Your eyes closed. Harry understood before you spoke. “That’s enough,” he said gently. The woman from the facility said something behind you, but you did not hear it. Harry guided you into the corridor, one arm firm around your waist. You made it three steps before the sob broke loose. Harry pulled you into him. “I thought he would be different,” you choked out. “I know that’s stupid. I know he was never good.

But when I was little, I imagined this so many times.” “I know.” “He was supposed to be healthy. Arrogant. Shameless.” Your voice broke harder. “He was supposed to be the man who betrayed my mother and left two children behind. I was supposed to be able to hate him. To ask him why. To make him look at me.” Harry held you tighter. “But he can’t even do that,” you sobbed. “He can’t answer me. He can’t apologize. He can’t even know me.” “Breathe, baby,” Harry murmured. “Please. For me.” “He was supposed to see me.” Your fingers twisted in his jacket. “He doesn’t even know me, Harry.” “I know.” His voice was rough now. “I’m sorry.” You clutched at him, crying too hard to stand without him. “I’m right here,” he said, his hand moving slowly over your back. “You’re not that baby anymore. You hear me? You’re here. You have me. You have Richard—the father who stayed. You have our girls. He doesn’t get to take that from you.” You tried to nod. Harry’s hand moved to your stomach. “Think of them. Just breathe. In and out.” It took several minutes before you could move again.

The woman from the facility followed you into the corridor, holding a worn black notebook against her chest. “I’m sorry,” she said carefully. “There is one more thing.” Harry’s arm tightened around your waist. “Not now.” But your gaze had already dropped to the notebook. “What is that?” The woman hesitated. “They found it among his things when he was moved here. He kept it for years.” Her eyes softened with something like pity. “He knew about you, Ms. Queen. About both of you. It’s only in the last year that the illness began taking names from him.” The words landed too slowly. He knew.

You should have said no. Instead, you reached for it. The cover was cracked at the corners, the pages swollen from age. When you opened it, the first thing you saw was Mikey’s face, cut from a society magazine years ago and pasted crookedly onto yellowing paper. MICHAEL QUEEN CAUSES SCENE AT CHARITY AUCTION A laughless breath caught in your throat. Mikey looked younger in the photograph, grinning at someone outside the frame as if he had absolutely no intention of learning from the incident. The next page was Scarlet. SCARLET QUEEN TO STAR OPPOSITE ROBERT DE NIRO She was impossibly young, impossibly beautiful, her smile bright enough to belong to a woman who had not yet learned how much grief could cost. Then another. QUEEN AND CASTILLO FAMILIES UNITE IN HIGH-SOCIETY WEDDING Your first wedding. Your face beside Harry’s, both of you caught on the church steps, younger and shining with a kind of happiness you had not known enough to protect. Your fingers trembled as you turned the page. MS. QUEEN RETURNS TO NEW YORK A photograph from one of your first major public appearances after joining Queen Financial. Then another. QUEEN FINANCIAL’S HEIRESS STEPS INTO POWER And another. MS. QUEEN SHINES AT ANNUAL GALA Page after page. Your face, collected in silence. Not loved properly. Not claimed. Not protected. Just watched from a distance. Harry looked over your shoulder and went very still. Between the clippings, there were folded letters in shaky handwriting. Scarlet, forgive me. Scarlet, I made a mistake. Scarlet, tell me about my kids. The words blurred. A sound left you before you could stop it. “He…” you whispered. “All those years…” Harry turned toward you at once. “Baby—” “He knew.” Your hand moved to your stomach.

For one second, everything inside you went too quiet. Then a hard tightening pulled low across your abdomen. You gasped. Harry’s face changed instantly. “Baby?” Another wave came before you could answer. Not sharp enough to name, but deep and wrong enough to steal your breath. The notebook slipped from your fingers and hit the floor. “H-Harry.” He caught you before your knees gave way. “No, no, no.” His voice dropped into panic before he forced it steady. “Baby, look at me.” Your fingers clutched at his jacket. “The babies—” Harry lifted you into his arms before you could finish. “I’ve got you.” His voice was calm in the way it became only when he was terrified. “Open the doors,” he called down the corridor. “Now.” The woman from the facility moved quickly, shouting for help as Harry carried you toward the exit. “Look at me,” he said, holding you carefully against his chest. “Breathe for me.” Then he felt it. The warmth soaking through the fabric beneath his arm. For half a second, his mind went brutally blank. Then everything the doctor had said came back at once: thirty weeks, twins, stress, warning signs, early labor, rupture, pressure, do not wait. His hold tightened. “No,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Not yet.” Another pressure rolled through you, harder this time. A broken cry slipped from your mouth. “Harry.” Your voice cracked with fear. “It’s too early. It’s too early. I can’t—They can’t come now.” “Yes, you can.” He pressed his mouth briefly to your hair as he moved faster, his heart beating violently against you. “Listen to me. You can. I’m taking you to the hospital. You and the girls are going to be okay.” “I’m scared.” “I know.” His voice roughened.

“I know, baby. I’ve got you.” The driver was already out of the car when Harry reached the entrance. “Mr. Castillo?” “Call the doctor,” Harry ordered as the doors opened ahead of him. “Now.” The driver grabbed his phone with shaking hands. Harry lowered you into the back seat, one arm still braced behind you, the other pressed protectively over your stomach. Another wave hit. You clutched his shirt, tears breaking free. “Harry…” He looked down at your face, all the color gone from his own. “Stay with me,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Please. Stay with me."

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[paulyenvol6]

After Hours

Alex Serian x f!reader

Okay I immediately went to work after watching the Behemoth teaser and I came up with this one shot at 1 am, I sacrificed my sleep and I have no idea if this is good and if I found the right personality and tone but anyway, I hope you enjoy :)

Contains: smut, fingering, multiple orgasms, p in v, protected sex, condom use, dirty talk, light choking, praise kink, breast play, power imbalance, kissing, making out in a hallway, dom/sub undertones, unspecified age gap, semi public sex, hand/finger kink, seize difference, cellist!Alex x violinist!reader, Alex is an asshole and a playboy, arrogant!Alex, whiny!reader, he's emotionally unavailable, anxiety, angst, emotional hurt, nervousness, stage fright

Wordcount: 7,058

Masterlist Wanna be on my taglist?

Your hands are trembling slightly, just a faint tremor.

You've always been interested in that thin line between what's good for you right before a concert and what's going to harm your performance. The adrenaline is good for you, your first teacher used to tell you, encouraging you to keep on playing, which has brought you to this very moment.

Perhaps it is good for you, but that doesn't make it any more pleasant.

You absolutely hate the rough three hours before the start of a concert. The worst time period varies depending on how confident you are feeling on that specific day, but today, there is no doubt about the panic that has settled into your belly since dawn.

It's not just an important day, it also happens to be your first concert with your new orchestra. The stakes are high, and for someone like you who's always had such immense struggles to control your nervousness, the day couldn't have been more nerve-wracking and intense.

Fold your hands and pretend you're someplace else, your second teacher always said when the anxiety threatened to spill over.

Mrs. Jordans was an old, grey-haired woman with a lot of patience, the first person in your life to actually help you with your issues right before your performance.

Well, maybe her options were pretty scarce when she caught you throwing up in the bathroom five minutes prior to a concert, but at least she hugged you and didn't just drag you out there like other teachers throughout your life might have done.

Swallowing hard, you reach for your bag.

There's always the chance that the shaking of your hands is rooted in low blood sugar rather than your churning stomach, which is why you stored a couple of chocolate bars in there.

The moment you straighten up again, your heart jumps, sensing movement to your right. You purposefully withdrew to the corner of the practice room where people would understand your message clearly. There might be people whose most effective medicine against stage fright is distracting themselves, but it never worked for you. Therefore, you sank down on the floor half an hour ago, and you haven't lifted your gaze since.

Until now.

"You look lost."

Alex Serian, the star of the ensemble. If he weren't the most popular and best player of the orchestra, you would have assumed that he isn't playing tonight, given the way his eyes sparkle, his face missing the paleness of your face and that of the other members of the ensemble.

"Lost?" you ask weakly, slinging your arms around your knees while the chocolate bar starts melting in your hand.

"Yeah. Lost. What's your name?"

He does know that you're part of the orchestra too, doesn't he? Sure, the two of you haven't interacted before and you might be new, but your violin is right next to you and you're dressed in black like everyone else.

"Y/n," you speak shortly, taking a bite from the bar before it's a complete puddle in your palm. Alex repeats your name slowly as if to assess whether he likes it or not. Then, he pulls up a chair, plopping into it, which takes you by surprise.

"I – " you begin, but all it takes from the other man to cut you off is a raise of his brows.

"You're new. And you're nervous… I've come to believe that there is a correlation between the two things a lot of the time."

You're speechless, which is why you just stare up at him, feeling very uncertain and small all of a sudden.

"And you're young, of course. It makes an inconvenient combination."

You swallow the last bite quickly, forehead wrinkled as you try to come up with a response.

Alex seems… amused. Neither unsettled by the fact that he's about to get on stage and play principal cello, nor concerned about the state of your dilated pupils and trembling hands. Obviously, the chocolate bar has done nothing for you.

"Do you want any advice, sweetheart?"

With a sigh, he leans back in the chair, his hand casually resting on his thigh. Fuck, he looks much better than any person you have ever seen minutes before they hit the stage. You're more than familiar with tousled hair, running mascara, blotchy skin and glistening brows, but his hair looks angelic, his face is glowing and there is just the right shimmer sparkling on his pronounced cheekbones.

He must have some secret, because you refuse to believe that someone could be so confident in themselves that they don't carry an ounce of doubt in their heart. Which is why you nod slowly.

"Don't look at the crowd. When we walk in."

"What?" you chuckle humorlessly, tangling your fingers over your stomach.

"I'm being serious. I struggled with stage fright when I was younger. One of my mentors gave me the advice, and at first I laughed too. But it helps. You just ignore them. If you don't know who you have in front of you, there is no one you can disappoint. Except for the ensemble, of course. But… you're gonna have to live with that."

Alex's lips are still drawn as he looks you up and down, probably feeling pity for your pathetic sight. You probably precisely fit the prototype of a stressed out, overwhelmed maniac, your hair messy and your lips brittle from all the chewing.

"And where am I supposed to look? To the floor? And then fall on my nose?"

Taking a deep breath, the man across from you rises to his feet suddenly, leaning down to your level like he's talking to a child. His eyes are a dark brown, the transition of his irises to his pupils barely noticeable.

He's beautiful. You've already found that watching his marvelous performance on TV, but sitting in front of him, his face hovering above yours, you sense a whole different kind of grace and elegance he's capable of emitting.

"You could… look at me?"

With that, he's gone.

You only have to blink once, your heart skipping a beat at his raspy voice, and when your eyes scurry around the room, you notice that he has made his way to the other side of the room. All of that just in a matter of one flutter of your lashes.

Your hands are quivering even more now, your palms sweaty, but once the tightness in your throat dissolves, your mind is able to think of something else for the first time in many hours. Which you would consider a victory.

Fifteen minutes later, when it's time to go out on stage, the nervousness has returned and swallowed you like an inexorable wave. The kind that soaked you to your bones.

You're way beyond caring about what any of your new colleagues might think of your tense appearance and consider it your only goal to get through this night.

You're going to take care of the rest tomorrow or tonight after you've successfully walked off the stage without completely humiliating yourself.

When you're in line behind the others, you begin questioning your career choices, just like you always do right before a performance. You've always been good at math, and you didn't hate explaining easy calculations to your classmates growing up, so perhaps you should have just followed your dad's path and –

There is a hand on your naked shoulder.

You whirl around abruptly, nearly bumping into the person in front of you. That would be the final straw, not just ruining your own playing but one of your colleague's as well.

"Remember what I told you," Alex says calmly, rubbing a soothing circle over your arm, his head tilted to bring himself closer to your level. There are not many changes in his appearance except for the softness around his eyes that replaced the cockiness from earlier. For the first time, you're not certain that he's just mocking your anxiousness, which is why you allow him to hear your uneven panting.

"I'm – I don't know if I can do it. I really don't – "

You look down and shake your head rapidly, pinching the fabric of your dress between two fingers to make them stop shivering. You definitely can't play your violin like that. Normally, the trembling stops the second you sit down on stage, but tonight, you're not so sure about it.

"You can. And you will," Alex speaks, putting a finger under your chin to force you to meet his gaze.

"You will go out there and do a flawless job."

"But I don't know – "

"It doesn't matter if you know or not. You will, and that's all that matters."

"That's not – " you start again, but Alex just swipes over your shoulder one last time, lets go of your chin and then suddenly walks past you to take his place right in front of you.

"Look at me while we walk out. Not the audience. Just keep your eyes on me, remember to breathe, and no matter what happens, don't look at anyone else. Your hands are gonna know the rest."

He spoke those words quietly, not even bothering to turn toward you, but you understood him regardless.

"I really don't – " you whimper, but this time Alex doesn't have to cut you off for your voice to trail off.

What choice do you have? He's a seasoned, well-experienced concert cellist who has gone through stressful moments like this one far more often than you have, even though you can't picture him anxious, no matter how hard you try.

You're going to have to trust him.

Once the applause from the concert hall increases in volume and the door opens, Alex blindly reaches behind him to seize your wrist. His skin is warm and soft, but not so overheated that it would be uncomfortable.

You glare at the back of his head stubbornly, refusing to take in the impressively large crowd, hoping that Alex was right and it's going to save your performance.

He, on the other hand, keeps a tight grasp until he has to leave you to walk over to the cello section, but you're grateful for it. You don't wish to know what would have happened, how you would have collapsed or bumped into the person behind you on your way when your body refused to keep moving.

But that doesn't matter now. All that matters is right in front of you, or rather in your fingers that only shiver a little as they lower onto the strings of your violin.

You can feel the applause buzz in every vein, every fiber of your being, but in your prickling fingertips first and foremost.

For the very first time since you took your seat in the chair, you crane your neck to run your gaze over the audience, your stomach bubbling with excitement. The ranks are filled with what looks like countless heads and hands high up in the air. Clapping for you.

Obviously, not only for you but probably rather for Alex Serian, the star of the night, but it does kind of feel like it.

That is precisely the moment when you remember what you're doing all of this for, the purpose that you always tend to forget about in the hours leading up to a concert. The thrill, the heavy weight dropping off your heart the second you lower the bow and come to the realization that you played well without a single mistake.

You never consider your playing flawless and always find something to work on in the coming weeks, but the first relief still hits you like a tsunami, which you consider far more magnificent than any nervousness. Of course, it's easy to say right after the performance when your adrenaline and joy are running infinitely high, but you don't care. You're going to savor the happiness as long as it lasts because that's the kind of reward that only belongs to you.

As you stand up to bow for the cheering audience, your eyes catch Alex, who's seated to your left, in the center of the stage so he's visible to everyone in the crowd.

He gives you a smile that you surely surpass in intensity and brightness.

You did it. You mastered your first performance with your new orchestra, and it's all thanks to him and his advice. From this day forward, it's surely only going to get easier once you feel at home in this group of people.

You must have looked pretty silly wearing such a wide smile, your cheeks so naturally wrinkling at the corners of your mouth, but Alex just nods once and winks briefly.

It's not a clear, striking gesture, but pretending that it didn't happen would be naïve.

"Fucking hell…" he grunts against your cheekbone, backing you toward the wall until your head hits the hardness with a low thud.

He immediately reaches for you, cradling your face as if to silently apologize for being so rough with you. Not that you mind it. Everything is loud and itching, your toes, your fingers, your weak knees, your trembling hands, but first and foremost your brain.

It's a result of every event in the past few hours, but slowly but surely, you come to believe that it's mostly Alex's hands and hungry mouth taking control over your body.

He's taller than you realized earlier, his frame towering over you by many inches, and fuck, he smells good.

It was the first thing you noticed about half an hour ago when you hugged him, utterly swamped by relief and gratitude. Alex's massive hands rested on the small of your back, pressing you against his chest briefly before he made his tour to talk to the rest of the ensemble.

But then, a few minutes later, his palm returned to that very place again when you ran into him again backstage where everyone was chatting about the sensational night. He looked not nearly as exhausted and blissful as he did right after the curtains fell.

His eyes carried that sparkle again, lips cocked upward while he waited for you to answer him. He asked you if you were satisfied with yourself, and after you explained how you felt about your performance, where you lacked practice, there wasn't much else that was exchanged between the two of you before Alex guided you out of the room, through the corridor and to the staircase.

Everything was dark when he pulled you toward him by your wrist, catching your fall and putting his hands on your waist.

Submerged by adrenaline and jitteriness, you giggled against his lips at first, barely able to grasp what was happening, but when he first pushed you backward, your core clenched and your knees buckled. Alex shoved a leg between your thighs, pressed his hand to the side of your face, and that's how you ended up where you are right now.

Breathing heavily against his mouth, your fingers trail along the stitching of his jacket.

"You did well, sweetheart. Very well," he growls. His lips are parted, devouring your lips, your chin, your dimples and everything else that he can reach, but you're not any less eager. Everything about him is intoxicating. Starting with his addictive scent and ending with his whole magnetic charisma that pulls you into his orbit.

"I did?" you pant without being aware of what he actually just said.

"Yeah… You listened to my advice… And it helped, didn't it?" His hand clasps your chin tightly, holding you in place while his lips travel down your neck, sucking at your pulse point. After a brief hum, your fingers helplessly clawing at his broad shoulders, you nod a few times, bending your neck to watch him savor your flushed skin.

"I know it did… You almost seemed relaxed. But you rushed the entrance in the third movement. I didn't mind it. But Jenna unfortunately does…"

Your lips fall open, which gives Alex the opportunity to draw along the curve of your lip with his thumb.

"You noticed that?" you whisper reverently, eyes flitting up to his as he straightens up in front of you again.

"Of course I did, sweetheart. Let's say I felt… obliged to keep an eye on you. You were a mess."

Against your will, you blush at his words, which evokes deep laughter in Alex.

"Now, now… No reason to feel ashamed. It's a lot for someone new in the ensemble. You did well. Just keep in mind what I told you and slow down next time. Jenna's surely gonna mention it during the next practice." His lips are at the bone in your jaw, softly picking at your skin. "My advice? Mention it before she does. She's gonna like that."

"Huh," you moan, feeling his hand at your thigh, pushing up the fabric of your dress.

"Shhh… you're gonna have to stay quiet. You think you can do that? Keeping those pretty lips sealed?"

You don't even know what to focus on, his hand riding up your leg until it ghosts over the seam of your underwear, the tip of his thumb gently making its way past your lips, or his mouth on your neck. That's why your response is muffled.

"Please… Please, Alex," you whine and cringe as his thumb makes contact with your clit through your underwear.

"Oh Jesus… I didn't take you for the loud kind. Baby, you have to stay quiet or we're gonna have a second crowd for the evening in front of us. And you know… they don't really like this kind of partying. Especially if it includes one of the new lambs." He laughs deeply, the sound so appealing that you need a while to shift your attention to his words.

"So – So we shouldn't?" you murmur a lot more restrained now, spreading your legs wider to give his hand more room to explore your pussy.

"Of course we shouldn't, sweetheart. I thought that was clear. But that doesn't mean that we can't… mhm?"

He abruptly moves his mouth to the other side of your neck, pinning you into place. His thumb circles your bundle of nerves painfully slowly, which doesn't align at all with the content of his words. If the situation is as risky as he paints it to be, then he is supposed to hurry up, isn't he? There is not much time for extensive, exploratory touching, no matter how good it might feel.

"But – What if they're gonna find out? What's gonna happen?"

"Well, they're not gonna find out," Alex speaks like there's not a single thing in the world worrying him, pecking your collarbone with gentle kisses. "Don't worry about it. Everything's gonna work out…"

It's hard to say what you would have felt with the knowledge you gather in the following weeks after that moment. Sure, you would have been relieved knowing that Alex is beyond experienced when it comes to covering the things he does at the end of the night after having played a successful concert, but you might have felt sad and insignificant if you knew how many new musicians he fucked on their very first night. Perhaps you wouldn't have been that surprised considering he seemed so calm throughout it all, but you're positive that there would have been some disappointment.

Either way, in the moment, you moan against his thumb, rolling your hips to encourage him to touch your pulsing clit, but Alex has a mind of his own. He just trails his digit through your soaked slit, humming at the wetness he can feel through the thin layer, and brings his left hand to your throat.

"It's okay, darling. You're allowed to want this. You deserve it…" He skillfully tugs down your underwear until it dangles around your knees. The soft breeze wafting against your wet pussy lips makes your spine shiver, and you feel even more grateful for how close he's pressed against your body. Otherwise, you might have collapsed already, broken your wrist and been unable to play the violin again for a long time. And not seen Alex.

When you whimper, searching for his thumb that is still lightly resting against your mouth with your lips, it causes him to laugh out, clicking his tongue.

"Look at that… Not so nervous now. Go on, baby. Show me how you do it."

Fuck, his stance alone is enough to turn all of you into jelly.

"Good girl. Open wide."

You're melting under his dark eyes that look like coal in here. Your parted lips offer him more space to move his hand up and make his whole thumb disappear into your mouth. Meanwhile, he finally helps you relieve some of the pressure in your lower belly and rubs your clit in soothing patterns that don't feel so soothing considering that they make your hole clench.

"Nuh uh," Alex disapprovingly hums, throwing a glance down your body where you shift against the wall, searching for friction that's too far away to reach. "You're gonna have to relax, baby. Can you do that?"

"Mhm." You nod but refuse to let his thumb slip out of your mouth.

It's so thick and soft. Only the pad is rough and hard where calluses have formed over time from playing the cello.

He laughs condescendingly and pushes his finger a little deeper, carefully landing a slap on your pussy.

"I didn't think you would be so touch-starved, sweetheart… Go on, you're doing well. Exactly what my fingers need after such a long concert…"

Your lower body tensed at the sudden impact, but his thumb quickly makes up for it and presses into the underside of your clit with such precision that you writhe and wriggle against him, seeking something that you know you can only get with his blessing. He's the one capable of loosening the strain in your system. He's the one able to gift you the pleasure you need with a single snap of his fingers. The only question is whether he's willing to.

"Fuck… I'm enjoying this way too much, angel," Alex groans throatily, switching back to the other side of your neck that's probably sore and bruised by now. A problem for another day, you find.

"Suck my thumb, sweetheart. The harder you do it, the nicer I'll be to your pretty pussy."

You moan disapprovingly around his finger, arching off the wall with the little amount of freedom he grants you.

"I know, baby… I know it's not even her fault. But I never said I would be kind."

The next thing you know, two of his fingers, his middle and ring finger, are buried within you, filling you up so suddenly that you bite down on his thumb. For a moment, you're horrified, thinking you might have hurt him. The worst scenarios race through your head, him not being able to play the cello for weeks, losing his career, all because you couldn't control yourself. But no, Alex just chuckles condescendingly and glides his thumb over your front teeth.

"I didn't think you'd be such a nasty girl. Especially not after I found you in the corner like a terrified lamb. I was afraid I was gonna make you cry just stepping closer to you. Look at you now… Moaning around my thumb. What do you think happens when I pull it away?"

His thumb moves back a bit, and at the same time, he curls his fingers. You don't know if he's toying with you or not, but you do know that the noises you're going to let out if he removes his thumb are not meant to be bouncing off these high walls, carried toward the rest of the ensemble in the next room.

Therefore, you shake your head over and over while Alex's eyebrows are high up his face, lips pursed mischievously.

"No?"

"Mhmm," you mumble, hooking your little finger into the collar of his white button-up, trying to tug him closer, but you can't exert a lot of force with a single digit. Especially not while you're trying to move someone as massive as him.

"I want you to cum for me, baby. You can. I got my finger in your mouth, so you can just bite down on it. Look at me. It's okay, I'm gonna help you stay quiet."

A few drops of spit trickle down the corner of your mouth, dripping onto your cleavage, but that's a problem you're going to take care of later. For now, you just stare at him like he commanded you to, and to your great surprise, there's nothing awkward about it.

Before he puts in all his effort to make you reach your orgasm, Alex pulls back briefly to bring his hand to his mouth, sighing softly as he licks your juices off his finger. The view prompts you to whimper again, which makes heat rise in your cheeks.

"Good girl. You taste sweet. And now you're gonna let me take care of you. No holding back."

He straightens your posture, gently lifting your chin like your violin teacher used to do when you were slouching.

"Look at me and say it."

Alex withdraws his hand from your lips, a thread of drool connecting your mouth to his thumb, which he then smears all over your chin. It must be red with your lipstick by now, but you assume that if he wanted flawless, he wouldn't have led you in here in the first place.

"I won't hold back," you whisper, watching the smug satisfaction unfold in his features.

This time as Alex resumes his touch on your pussy, his other hand stays over your mouth, swallowing your small whines and wails. You can feel his hardness press against your thigh, and lord, he must be large, but for the moment, the only thing you can really perceive is the sensation against your sweet spot and the swift swipes over your nub.

You're a pliant mess in his arms. If he told you to sink to the floor right now, you would do it without hesitation. On the other hand, if he let go right now, you would beg him on your knees to continue.

"You're so warm, so wet, sweetheart... Making a goddamn mess on my hand."

Your lips are agape, spit gathering on his fingers.

"Don't let it get to your head... This doesn't mean you're not gonna have to earn your place here. But if you ask nicely, I might help you..."

His lips briefly connect with your hairline as he breathes in the scent of your hair, while his fingers grow more relentless and determined in what they're doing. Whereas he tried to tease you earlier, Alex has a goal now, and that is to get you over the edge.

It takes no more than a few more pumps in and out of your drenched cunt, the noises echoing off the walls like something straight out of a porno. It should have made your blood freeze with the fear of getting caught, but it doesn't, which is a fact you're scared of.

You've been working for this for months. You've put your whole heart into following your dream, and now you're pressed up against a wall by one of the most talented cellists - who's almost twice your age - which could end your career within seconds. You don't have to be a genius to figure out which one of you is more likely to be fired if it comes down to it.

You finally cum with a rather inelegant grunt, your blown, teary eyes fixed on him while your face grows hot. Knees trembling, you hold onto Alex's shirt, gripping the fabric until you're afraid it's going to tear.

"That's right... Cum for me, baby, let me see you. Yeah, there you go."

He tightens his hold around you, just in case you're actually going to collapse. Then he gently thrusts his fingers into you a few more times, his thumb still pressed against your clit.

When it starts aching, you squirm, toes wriggling in your heels. The heels that don't even make you reach his chin, which might be worth mentioning.

"Shh, darling, don't rush me. I'm just enjoying myself... And that happens rarely around here."

The way he's laughing confuses you, but Alex doesn't explain himself further. Instead, he keeps playing with your wetness, smearing it all over your cunt and inner thighs until you're scared you're ruining the floor beneath you.

"Alex..."

"There's that pout..." His hand clasps your jaw, tilting your head to the side as if to examine you from every angle. "That's not how you ask for something, is it?"

"Please."

"Please what? What do you want?"

"Aww, fuck..." you curse, your clit so overly sensitive that every small contact with his thumb feels like someone is setting your nerve endings on fire.

"I thought I told you to trust me earlier. I know how to handle a sweet little lamb like you... All eager to prove herself. So curious and ambitious. It's refreshing to see."

All of a sudden, his hand is gone, and the coldness engulfing your cunt is so abrupt that you can't help but regret flinching away from his touch.

But then Alex picks you up, one arm slung around your waist, the other under your butt. Instinctively, you wrap your legs around his waist and comb through the baby hair at the back of his nape while he carries you toward the stairs.

He sits down with you on top of him, his back against the wall. It's so dark here in the back that you doubt anyone would see you even if they walked straight past you. Then again, it's your noises you're mostly worried about.

"So pretty... You're dressed nicely, but I get it. It's your first concert with this ensemble. You wanted to look beautiful, didn't you?"

His left hand shamelessly roams up your front, cupping your breast through your black dress and bra, while his right is busy somewhere below.

"Pull it down, sweetheart. That's a good girl, yeah... I want you to play with your pretty chest, alright? Do you know how?"

You nod, shifting a little closer to him to ensure that he can see you in the dark.

"Good..." Alex snarls.

There is more movement below him, and you hope it means that he's about to fuck you, but you wouldn't mind stroking his manhood too, if he wanted you to. When you hear plastic being ripped open, you glance down, your hair falling over your shoulders.

"My eyes are up here. I told you to play with your chest, baby... I don't see you doing that. Come on, don't make me ask you twice."

Reluctantly, you pinch your nipple, moaning softly while you knead your breasts. You feel a tad ridiculous since Alex doesn't even have his eyes on you most of the time and instead seems completely occupied with pulling a condom over his cock.

"There you go. Treat them nicely, baby. They open a lot of doors for you if you use them well."

Before you can reply, his mouth is on yours again, shoving you backward only to hold onto the small of your back so you don't fall off his lap. The next thing you feel is his cock tapping against your entrance as if to ask for permission to enter you.

"Deep breath for me, honey. You know how to do that. You did it so well for me earlier."

He rewards you with another "that's right" as you relax your walls and then feel a pressure spreading from your heat all the way up to your ribs.

You had no way to gauge how large he might be or how much sweat and strain it was going to take for you to open up to him, but from the feel of it, he can't be small. Your pussy stretches for him, but it takes a second to adjust to him, which is why you tense your thighs and restrain yourself from sinking onto him in one go.

"What a good little pussy... Fuck, baby. You're tight. Tight and sweet and pretty... Don't know what more I could ask for."

Alex reaches around to give your butt a soft smack, causing your insides to clench.

"Fuck. Fuck, it's - oh gosh..."

You throw your head back, but before you can remember what he told you, he already grabs a few strands of your hair and guides you back into place.

"Jesus Christ, you turn into a brainless brat faster than I can snap my fingers. You focus right here."

You start rolling your hips slowly, hissing through gritted teeth every time he hits deep inside you. It's not like he's impossibly long - rather, he's thick - but somehow, he has the talent of being everywhere all at once, which has to do with his thumb circling your clit like he has some unfinished business there and his other hand sliding along your upper body, mostly your breasts.

"Spit in my palm, angel," he rumbles after a while, his voice gravelly and deeper than before. He uses your drool to lubricate your chest and make his touch smoother. But as your eyes grow wide, your breath staggering at the obscenity of his actions, laughter boils in his lungs.

"Mhmm, filthy, isn't it? You're thinking just because you and I are wearing pretty clothes, this would be refined and neat. But look at your poor nipple. Already sore. We don't want you to hurt, though, mhm?"

Alex breaks your rhythm with a sharp thrust, and as the twirls of his thumb around your clit become faster as well, you lose all sense of time and place, and definitely can't keep up the steady grinds of your hips against his.

"I know, baby... Deep breaths for me. I know it's a lot, but you can take it. You're a tough girl, you can take deep breaths for me. Yeah... In and out. Fuck, you're pretty like that. Your sweet tits bouncing for me."

He cups one and kisses the other, circling the stiff bud with his rough tongue. It's soft and uneven at the same time, bordering on the exhilarating line between pain and pleasure.

"I'm gonna fuck you well, honey, don't worry. It's okay, I'm gonna take care of it, and you relax. You've been through too much already, isn't that right?"

From the content of his words, you would have presumed that he genuinely cares, but there is too much light playfulness in his tone to buy it.

"Yeah..." Alex continues nonetheless, fucking into you from below, his balls squeezed against your butt every time he pulls you all the way down his dick.

"You poor thing just wants to relax for a bit. And here I am dragging you out here..."

"No," you quickly protest, hands wandering down his chest and stomach. Fuck, you should have demanded that he undress as well, but you didn't find the time or the capacity to both hold yourself together and voice requests.

"I need it. I need it so much, Alex, please..."

"Yeah, I know you do. You can still relax with my cock inside you."

He reaches that special spot within you again, and fuck, you feel like you could go up in flames just from the stimulation alone.

"A-Alex - I - Fuck, I -"

"Yeah, you're gonna cum again, I know. I knew that's just what you need, cumming around my cock like a good girl."

His lips are twisted, and there is nothing hinting at the fact that he's anywhere close to emptying his balls. Then again, his cock is uncontrollably throbbing inside you, so that's either a normal reaction or he's just very good at concealing the pleasure he experiences.

For the next few minutes, Alex holds you down by your waist and is the only one choosing how fast his thick length fills you and how long he remains buried within you.

Even though it feels a bit strange to be on top while still being utterly motionless in the beginning, you appreciate being able to catch your breath and not being scared of messing up. It's a mystery to you how he manages to both keep a steady rhythm and circle your clit at the same time, but there is a reason why he's one of the most talented and acclaimed cellists in all of America. He's good with his hands, and apparently he's just as good with his cock.

"Cum for me, baby."

The hand on your waist lifts to rest on the side of your neck, pulling you in for a kiss. Whatever you might have choked out gets stuck in your throat, your body slouching, and when you reach your peak, even Alex can't stop you from breaking eye contact to rest your forehead against his shoulder.

He tenderly fucks you through your high, shushing you whenever you squeal or whimper, but for the most part, he just hums to himself and moves you up and down his member like a ragdoll.

His hand rests at the back of your neck now, cradling you against his shoulder, but that only lasts until Alex starts chasing his high as well. In the beginning, your overstimulated pussy protests and quivers, but that only seems to spur him on even more, resulting in a loud grunt followed by many small groans.

Alex cums inside the condom, and although you should know better after two satisfying orgasms, you can't help but wish there was no rubber between your bodies. You can only guess how warm and sticky his seed might be, but you know for a fact that you would have loved to feel it against your walls. Well, maybe next time.

He holds onto the side of your head throughout his high, snarling inaudible things that might be curses or praises of your beauty, but when he lifts his head again, his thumb twitching against your cheekbone, the wrinkles around his eyes are softer.

"Holy shit... Who would've thought, mhm?"

"Who would've thought what?" You smile and place your hands at the base of his neck, wishing you had been wiser and taken off his shirt earlier. You hardly even saw anything, not even his cock.

"That you were hiding all of this underneath that dress. I can tell that I made a good decision taking you back here, mhm?" Alex smacks your butt again, then strokes up the back of your thigh. "Go on, sweetheart. Time to get back to the others, or else they're gonna find us here. And that wouldn't look too good on me... I made a promise after the last one."

The last one?

Your eyebrows draw together, your dry mouth gathering enough spit to ask him the meaning of his words, but Alex is faster and helps you rise from his lap. Your knees and thighs are so feeble that your legs almost instantly give out, which causes him to click his tongue.

"You better behave yourself, sweetheart. People are not gonna believe that your legs turned to jelly from playing the violin for two hours."

You silently pull at the straps of your black dress. The spit he smeared all over your chest has dried by now, but you can't say the same about your pussy. At least no one's going to see it now that your underwear safely covers your cunt again.

"And - And what now?" you whisper once you're dressed.

Alex's shoulders drop, his hand reaching out to bring some order to the mess on top of your head.

"Now we're going back to the others. And we're gonna act like nothing happened because we both don't have any interest in the others finding out about this. I can promise you that much."

It's not at all what you meant by your question, but you have no idea how to rephrase it so he understands.

"You think you can do that? Or do I have to get you to the bathroom so we can splash some cold water on your face?"

"No. It's fine."

He nods once, then turns toward the end of the staircase. Right before he leaves you alone in the dark, you collect all the courage inside your body and clear your throat.

"Alex?"

Alex Serian, the star cellist, one of the most talented people you've ever had the privilege of meeting, halts, his hand on the railing of the staircase.

"What?"

"Are you - I mean, we - What does it mean for... for us?"

"For us?" A smile creeps onto his lips, his forehead creased. "Honey, it means that I just found out that you have a very nice and very tight pussy and that we shouldn't get tricked by the clothes you usually wear to rehearsal."

He waits for you to answer, but since you don't, he sighs, walks back to you and cups your chin.

"You're not satisfied with that? You think because I fucked you on that staircase, it means I'm gonna take you out to dinner tomorrow? Oh sweetheart..."

He leans in to kiss your brow, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

"You're adorable. But unfortunately, I don't do dating. No matter how soft a pussy they have. You're gonna understand. I wouldn't recommend going on dates with people you work with anyway."

Alex's pupils scurry over your features a few more times, taking in the pucker of your lips and the sparkle in your eyes, indicating that you're not far from bursting into tears.

You just can't help it. The day has been exhausting and nerve-racking, you made a wonderful acquaintance with one of your greatest role models, and now that very man fucked you in the hallway only to tell you that he doesn't do dating. What are you supposed to make of this?

It felt so fucking good.

He must have felt that way too, or why else would you feel like the two of you fit together like puzzle pieces?

You would have liked to ask him all of that, but before you can, he's already gone, leaving you behind, shivering and quite clueless.

[missadangel]

fic writer showcase game 📝

how it works: pick a favourite passage from your work for each category below. it can be a line or a few paragraphs.

thank you so much friends @bergamote-catsandbooks @milla-frenchy @sawymredfox @mcthsman @time-for-my-weekly-spanking for tagging me in this!! I love this idea!!

First of all… this was WAY harder than I expected. I went back through all my fics and wanted to include something from almost every one of them. I definitely have funnier or sexier excerpts elsewhere, but I didn't want to only showcase one story. I wanted to give each fic a little love, so… here's my showcase. 🤍

Most Romantic (or sweetest): Amor Meus Aeternus ➛ (Marcus Acacius x Ofc).

This will always be one of my favorite romantic moments. 🥹 After traveling through time, Marcus earns his own money and the first thing he does is buy Rosa flowers. It's such a small gesture, but it means everything to me. 🤍

As soon as you opened the door, you froze at the sight before you. Daisies. A bouquet of them was offered to you from a hand reaching out, and that’s when you spot Marcus. Seeing his smile made you place your hand on your chest and take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. “I was thinking the flowers for Rosa should be roses again, but then I remembered you said you liked daisies,” he said, looking straight at you. He frowned at your expression. “Are you well?” Instead of taking the flowers, you reached out and hugged him tightly. “Marcus, you scared me! I thought you got lost or that something had happened to you.” He gently patted your back. “Don’t worry, I know my way home now. This is my city too, remember? I’ve made a mental map of the new city by recreating the buildings I remember from my time. I don’t think I’ll get lost easily.” Taking a step back, you observed him closely. “Really? That's quite clever. But you still need to have your phone with you, so make sure you answer when I call.”  “You're right, I will,” he replied.  You took the bouquet of daisies from his hand. “But how did you manage to buy these? You don’t have any euros.” "Enzo," he replied with a grin. "He mentioned that he owed me a payment from last time but couldn't give it to me directly, so he handed me some... um, how do you say it?"  "Cash?"  "Yes, that's it... cash," he said with a smile. Ah, that's right. Last time, Marcus had spent the night outside Enzo’s restaurant, stalking you. Enzo had mentioned that Marcus-dressed as a Roman general-drew in a lot of customers, like a living mascot for his shop. What a great guy. Even though Marcus hadn’t asked for anything, Enzo had gifted him some of the money he earned thanks to his charm. “Wow, you’ve got about 400 euros here,” you said while counting. “So you’ve made your first earnings and your first purchase. Congratulations.” You smiled and looked at the daisies. “And thank you.”

Your Angst-iest writing: The Ex Education ➛ (Ex Husband!Harry Castillo x Ex Wife!Reader)

I think this is the scene that made me cry the most while writing it. 😭 This fic will always have such a special place in my heart, and even now, rereading this scene makes my eyes well up. Harry and Queenwill forever be one of my favorite couples. I love them so, so much. 🤍

“My love… corazón mío,” he whispered, the Spanish falling from his lips like a prayer. “You’re so brave… so strong. I don’t understand how you survived all of that. I’m falling apart just hearing it… and you…” His voice cracked. “How did you endure? Even telling me… it must have been impossible.” You shrugged faintly. “I did what I do best.” He frowned, as if the weight of your words alone wasn’t enough. “Stubbornness,” you said, a faint twitch of a smile on your lips—not a full smile, not yet. “You know my stubborn streak, Castillo. That’s what kept me going. I couldn’t let a worthless man take my life from me. I couldn’t destroy myself. No one gets to do that to me. Because I’m… perfect.” For the first time, you truly smiled—fragile, real, tears still slipping down your cheeks. Harry’s eyes were wide, awe written all over his face. He leaned in, pressing his lips to your forehead, lingering, breathing you in. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, holding you as if he could never let go. “My baby,” he whispered. “My reason for existing. I hope one day you can forgive me… because I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive myself. I’m in so much pain.” You sniffed, pulling back just enough to look at him.  “Pull yourself together, Harry. I forgave you a long time ago. And you don’t get to suffer without my permission—I won’t allow it.” A weak smile flickered across his face, the pain still etched deep in his features. “Just tonight,” he said quietly, “just tonight, I need to grieve… for… for our baby. You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.” Your tears returned—but this time, lighter. Shared.

Your most humorous: Two Wrongs, One Right ➛ (Joel Miller x Immune F!Reader)

My first Joel fic, so this one will always be incredibly special to me. 🥹 I loved writing a reader who experiences love for the very first time and is completely clueless about it… while Joel is already hopelessly gone for her. 😭Their banter never fails to make me smile, and I genuinely think I could write them teasing each other forever. 🤍

Ellie smirks, leaning back in her chair. “Oh yeah. Don’t let him fool you. His big dream used to be being a singer.” You’re mid-sip when those words hit. The shock is so sudden you choke—and then spray juice forward. Joel jerks back in his chair, eyes wide as droplets hit his cheek and the front of his shirt. The three of you freeze. “Oh, shit—sorry!” You grab the nearest napkin and lean across the table, dabbing clumsily at his face and shirt. Joel scowls, “This,” he mutters, deadpan, “sure as hell ain’t the reaction I was expectin’." Ellie doubles over, nearly choking on her eggs. “Nah, it’s perfect. Best one yet.” Joel narrows his eyes at her then looks back at you. “You sure you don’t got some kinda connection to llamas darlin'? Spittin’ like one and all.” You roll your eyes, blotting the juice from his jawline. “Oh, ha ha ha, very funny... Hilarious. You know what?" You shove the napkin into his hand instead. "Do it yourself.” He smirks as he takes the napkin and wipes his face. Then Ellie’s eyes widen. “Shit—I’m late!” She shoves her chair back, and dashes out the door in a hurry. The house falls quiet, the air softer now. Joel sighs, looking down at his damp shirt, and pushes up from the table. “Gonna wash this off.” When he’s halfway down the hall, you call after him, teasing, “So… are you actually gonna sing for her tomorrow?” He stills for half a beat, then snorts. “Hell no. Last thing I need’s you spittin’ all over me again.” You gasp, mock-offended. “Don’t be an asshole!” Joel’s mouth twitches into a rare grin as he disappears into the bathroom.

Your sexiest: Peccatum Dulce ➛ (Marcus Acacius x F!Reader) ⚠️ Warning: Explicit Sexual Content (18+)

I think my hands were actually shaking while writing this scene. 😭 Dark Marcus completely took over my brain. The General has a grip on me that's only matched by Joel, and… hot damn. This man is sexy as HELL. 🫠❤️‍🔥

Your mind swirled, trying to grasp the meaning behind his words. Before you could decide, his hands grabbed at your waist, you glanced up at him and was met with him giving you a playful smile— right before slamming the rest of his length in with one vicious thrust.  “Oh GODS!” You cried as your whole world went white. Your mind exploded from intense pain, pleasure and fullness, crashing against your entire body. Your mouth agape in a choked cry, nothing coming out at that very moment.  A sharp, surprised grunt left him, taken aback by just how tight you were. Your grip on him was like a python’s, quivering and quaking all around. Were he a lesser man, he would have likely reached his climax almost immediately, all because of you beneath him. Not even the virgin courtesan from the lupanaria could match the level of tightness you were exuding. It was both impressive and intoxicating—you felt divine. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating, every fiber of him alive with sensation. He had never felt this way with any woman before—not even close.  For a heartbeat, the predator faltered, undone by the inevitability of your hold. Yet almost instantly, he recovered—lips curling into a dangerous, possessive smile, muscles taut with restrained hunger. Even as he regained his composure, the knowledge lingered: you had claimed him, and it thrilled him in ways no other had. His first thrust was sudden and merciless, sharp as a tearing bandage. You cried out at the shocking fullness, your body jolting into a haze of overwhelming, mind-numbing pleasure. “Ahhhh...oohhh...Gods!" His big hand wrapped around your throat, slapping your arse with the other, “Not your gods… you’ll scream my name,” He grunted as he began to move inside you, his grip on your throat not lessening for a second. The slaps on your arse and cunt kept coming, over and over, raw and relentless, as he fucked you too hard, too deep, with no intention of slowing down. Your screams weren’t enough to stop him—if anything, they only seemed to please him, driving him to thrust deeper and deeper until you felt his balls slamming against your arse cheeks.

npt: @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @arcane-fox @aurorawritestoescape @baronessvonglitter @madpanda75 @kokoluwie @isabellaboo2025 @tateypots @queenofslowburn @cozymochaa @pedroscurls @gothcsz @orcasoul @peepawmiller @hanahleah @ess-evo @mrsnanamiller @littledes1re @reedispunk @shadowqueen2024 @petalsinblood @604to647 if you've been tagged already, sorry.

[cupofzo]

Husband.

[coldfadingdeath]

"father. I have a bomb."

[pinkfanged]

QUEEN CLARISEE RENALDI PRINCESS MIA THERMOPOLIS The Princess Diaries (2001) — dir. Garry Marshall

[missadangel]

Two Wrongs, One Right

Joel Miller x Immune F!Reader

10 - The Woman He Followed Into the Dark (season 2)

series masterlist ⎢ prev chapter ⎢ next chapter

Summary: Seattle tearing itself apart. Every corner of the city feels moments away from bloodshed, but you have no intention of stopping before finishing what you came for — no matter how much you miss him. And somewhere inside Seattle’s darkness, Joel is trying to reach you before the city does. Chapter W.C and Warnings: 16.8k ⚠️ Read warnings at your own risk if you want to avoid spoilers... SMUT +18, explicit sexual content, kissing, obsessive&possessive sex, obsessive/protective Joel, arguing, abandonment issues, emotional reunion, kissing, rough sex, fingering, unprotected p in v (optional fjdjd), praise, desperate sex, feelings realization, hurt/comfort, Joel being terrified of losing reader, killing, shooting, graphic violence, infected attacks, blood and gore, gun violence, stalkers & clickers & spores, near death experiences, Reader is a badass, WLF soldiers having a really bad week because of reader, panic, injury, bite wounds, morally gray everyone, PTSD, emotional trauma, heavy angst, Seattle chaos, WLF, Seraphites, rain, Taxi being the goodest boy alive A/N: wellll… after a very VERY long time, season 2 is finally here. I know this update took forever and I’m really sorry about that, but I truly hope this story still has a place in your hearts after all this time, thank you so much to everyone who never lost interest in this fic while I was taking a small break from it 🥺🤍 the good news is: chapters shouldn’t take this long from now on 💋 also… god, I missed writing Joel so much! Chapter's Song: Work Song - Hozier- "No grave can hold my body down, I’ll crawl home to her."

Seattle. Day One.

Rainwater drips steadily from the rusted skeletons of dead traffic lights overhead. Boots hammer against soaked pavement.

One pair. Then another. Fast. Panicked.

“Move, fucking move— this way!”

The voice rips through the gray Seattle afternoon between ragged breaths as two men shove past abandoned cars, shoulders slamming hard enough into dented metal to shake loose fragments of broken glass.

Another gunshot cracks across the street.

Not close. Far. Sharp enough to split the city open.

The bullet tears past the first man’s head so close he feels the heat of it scrape his ear before it punches into the rusted hood beside him—

CLANG.

Sparks burst violently off metal. “Fuck!” he gasps, stumbling sideways.

Another shot. The second man’s head snaps backward in an explosion of blood and bone.

Red sprays across the survivor’s face.

For half a second the body keeps running. Then collapses violently against the pavement with a sick crack. The remaining man chokes on a scream.

“Aah— Jesus fucking Christ!”

He runs harder.

Adrenaline floods his legs so violently they barely feel attached to him anymore. His boots slam through puddles as he forces himself forward between abandoned FEDRA trucks swallowed by vines and collapsed barricades overtaken by moss.

Another shot cuts through the rain-heavy air. This one hits. The bullet punches straight through his thigh.

“AHH— FUCK!”

He drops instantly, shoulder smashing against wet asphalt hard enough to tear skin through his jacket. Pain detonates through his leg while blood spills hot between trembling fingers clawing desperately at the wound.

He tries dragging himself toward the nearest overturned truck.

Breathing too hard. Too loud. Too terrified.

He glances back.

His friend’s body lies twisted in the middle of the flooded street twenty feet away, rainwater slowly carrying diluted ribbons of blood toward a clogged drain.

Then—

Nothing. Silence. No third shot. The man’s chest heaves violently.

Why didn’t she kill me?

Shaking hands fumble at his torn pant leg, yanking the soaked fabric high enough to reveal the bullet wound shredding through the side of his thigh.

Clean shot. Missed the artery. Deliberate.

Then—

Footsteps. Soft against wet grass nearby.

Slow. Controlled. A revolver cocks. The metallic click echoes louder than the gunfire. The man jerks for the pistol holstered at his hip instinctively—

BANG.

The bullet tears straight through his hand. He screams.

The gun flies uselessly across the pavement as he throws himself backward in panic, scrambling away on elbows slick with blood and rainwater.

“You fuckin’ psycho bitch!” he screams hysterically, clutching his ruined hand against his chest. “I told you everythin’! What the fuck else do you want?!”

The footsteps stop. A figure emerges slowly through the drifting rain. Black jacket darkened by water. Sniper rifle hanging loose against your back. Expression cold enough to freeze blood. You crouch slowly in front of him and press the revolver against the center of his forehead.

The man’s breathing turns ragged instantly.

“Listen— listen to me, okay?” Blood bubbles faintly at the corner of his mouth as panic makes him speak too fast. “I swear to God we ain’t WLF anymore! We left! We’re headin’ south, alright? Santa Barbara! We told you where the hospital is! I wasn’t lyin’!”

Your eyes narrow slightly. No sympathy. No hesitation.

“You shot my fuckin’ dog.”

BANG.

The back of his skull bursts against the pavement. Silence crashes back over the street. Rain taps softly against abandoned cars. Thunder rolls somewhere far beyond the skyline. The faint ringing left behind by gunfire hums inside your ears. Without another glance toward the corpse, you holster the revolver. At your boots lies an unfolded map stained dark with rainwater and blood.

Earlier, while you questioned them, one of the Wolves managed slipping free from the zip ties around his wrists and bolted.

Taxi lunged before you could stop him. The gunshot came immediately after. Too fast. Too close. The bullet only grazed his front leg.

Lucky.

You crouch beside the map beneath the weak glow of your flashlight and study the markings carefully.

Hospital.

A rough circle near a cluster of taller buildings farther north. Your jaw tightens slightly. “Thirty miles,” you mutter quietly.

The map folds neatly before disappearing into your back pocket. Behind you, Taxi lets out a low whine. Your head turns instantly.

“There you are.”

The shepherd limps toward you through wet grass, ears tilted back slightly in annoyance more than pain.

You kneel beside him immediately, gently lifting the injured leg into your lap. “Hey.”

Your voice softens despite yourself. “What did we talk about, huh?”

Taxi huffs.

“You don’t throw yourself in front of bullets.”

He barks once.

You snort quietly while wrapping fresh bandages around the graze wound.

“I had it handled.” Another bark. Then a softer whine. “Yeah, yeah.” You lean down and press a kiss against the top of his head. “Good boy.” Taxi leans briefly into your shoulder before you stand again, slinging the rifle back across your shoulder.

“C’mon,” you murmur. “Let’s find somewhere to sleep.”

Your eyes drift toward Seattle looming against the storm-dark horizon. Huge. Silent. Waiting. “We move again tomorrow.”

Taxi barks once. Together, you walk past the cooling corpse left behind in the rain. Your boots splash through shallow puddles. Taxi’s paws thud softly beside you. Neither of you looks back.

The café sits dark between two collapsed storefronts, half-hidden behind overgrown ivy and years of rain damage. The faded sign overhead swings lazily in the wind. You stop across the street first.

Always across the street.

Your eyes move slowly over shattered windows, rooftop lines, alley entrances. Listening before moving. Watching before breathing.

Seattle feels wrong at night. Too quiet one second. Too alive the next.

Taxi stands beside your leg, ears twitching toward the dark building. “You smell somethin’?” you murmur.

The shepherd huffs softly but doesn’t growl.

Good enough.

You cross the street carefully, boots splashing through shallow rainwater before stopping beneath the old café awning. Rain drums softly against rotten canvas overhead.

The front door doesn’t budge at first.

Swollen wood. You shove your shoulder into it harder. The hinges groan.

Then the door finally jerks inward with a burst of stale air carrying old coffee, mildew, and wet dust.

Your flashlight cuts through darkness slowly.

Tables overturned. Broken mugs. A mold-covered pastry display near the counter. Dead vines crawl across one wall where rainwater leaks through cracked ceiling tiles.

Taxi slips inside first, paws silent against warped hardwood.

You wait. Listen. Nothing.

No clicking. No breathing. No shifting somewhere deep in the dark.

Still, your hand stays close to Joel’s revolver at your hip.

You slip inside the café quietly and pull the door shut behind you before dragging a rusted metal chair beneath the handle.

Not enough to stop somebody determined. Enough to buy you a few seconds.

Habit.

Your backpack drops beside the counter with a tired thud while you crouch near the entrance, pulling thin wire and two empty cans from one of the side pouches.

Taxi watches silently from the doorway.

You glance toward him briefly while tying the wire low across the handle. “Better find more of these tomorrow,” you mutter. “We’re officially running outta food.”

Taxi blinks once. “Yeah, don’t look at me like that. You eat more than I do.”

One of his ears twitches.

The cans clink softly together while you secure them beside the wall. Crude. Fast.

Enough to wake you if infected—or worse—wander inside during the night.

Only after that do you finally move deeper into the café. The beam of your flashlight catches an old employee sign hanging crooked near the kitchen entrance.

MANAGER

The office door sits half-open beyond it. Small room. No windows except one narrow pane overlooking the rain-soaked street outside. Rain taps steadily against the cracked window overlooking the street outside, the sound muffled beneath distant thunder rolling somewhere deep over Seattle.

Taxi limps in after you, nails clicking softly against warped hardwood.

Your flashlight beam moves across the room slowly.

Peeling wallpaper curls away from damp walls. Water stains spread dark across the ceiling above. An old chandelier hangs crooked overhead, half its glass bulbs shattered, long dead electrical wires spilling downward like black vines tangled through hanging ivy creeping in from the broken corner of the ceiling.

The whole place feels abandoned in a tired sort of way. Not violent. Just forgotten.

Your eyes land on the couch against the far wall. Dark leather. Old. Still intact somehow. “Well,” you mutter under your breath. You walk over and drag your palm across the top cushion first. Dust coats your skin immediately. You grimace faintly before smacking your hands together a few times, watching gray powder drift through the flashlight beam. “Jesus.”

Taxi huffs softly behind you.

“At least somebody around here’s clean.”

The shepherd blinks at you without remorse. You drop your backpack beside the couch before finally sitting down. The leather creaks beneath your weight. Then your eyebrows lift slightly. “Hm.” You lean back deeper into the cushions. “Actually kinda comfortable.”

The room answers only with the soft groaning of old pipes somewhere inside the walls.

Your gaze drifts toward the desk near the window. A little metal plaque still sits crooked near the edge beneath layers of dust.

LEONARD MITCHELL - GENERAL MANAGER

You stare at it for a second. “Nice office, Leonard.”

Taxi circles twice before climbing carefully onto one of the smaller armchairs nearby, turning until he finds a comfortable position despite the bandaged leg. He lets out a tired grunt before finally curling into himself.

Your mouth twitches faintly at the sight.

Then silence settles over the room. Heavy.

A leather couch rests against the far wall beneath dusty shelves stacked with old paperwork and mold-swollen binders. The room smells old.

Thunder rolls softly somewhere far outside while rain streaks down the office window in silver lines. For a moment, neither of you moves. The city groans around you. Old pipes. Distant wind. Something metallic banging somewhere far down the street. Seattle never really sleeps. Neither do you.

You finish wrapping Taxi’s leg before leaning back against the couch with a tired exhale. Your rifle rests within arm’s reach. Revolver beside your thigh. Knife still strapped near your boot. Taxi stares toward the office door, ears twitching sharply. You both listen. Nothing. Just distant movement somewhere outside. Far enough away. The sound fades slowly back into the storm. Taxi lowers his head first. You follow a second later. Neither of you fully relaxes. You doubt either of you remembers how anymore.

You lean your head back against the couch and stare upward. The ceiling above is cracked open in places, tangled electrical wires hanging loose between patches of water damage and creeping ivy. Rain leaks steadily somewhere deeper inside the café.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

You close your eyes for a second. And immediately think of him.

Of course you do.

Your chest tightens before you can stop it. This office—cold, damp, rotting around the edges—is so far away from the warmth of Jackson it almost feels unreal. So far from his bed. From the heavy warmth of his body pressed against yours beneath thick blankets. From the way his arms wrapped around your waist in his sleep like some stubborn instinct he couldn’t turn off even unconscious. From the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back. From the rough scrape of his beard against your shoulder. Even the occasional snoring that always dragged a laugh out of you eventually.

The corner of your mouth lifts before you can stop it. Then the smile fades just as quickly. A deep breath leaves your lungs.

You reach for your backpack beside the couch, unzipping it slowly. Metal clicks softly together inside. Ammo. Knives. Canned food. Taxi lifts his head again immediately, watching you with quiet attention like he already knows exactly what you’re looking for. Your fingers eventually find the sketchbook buried beneath everything else.

You hesitate for a second before opening it.

Joel stares back at you almost immediately.

A rough pencil sketch from Jackson. Then another. And another. The lines change slightly between pages—different expressions, different angles—but it’s always him.

Two weeks. That’s all it’s been. And somehow you already miss him enough it physically aches.

Your throat tightens. You stare at the drawings longer than you mean to. Unable to stop yourself from wondering what happened after you left. You tried not to think about it on the road. Tried not to imagine the morning after. Joel waking up. The empty side of the bed. The drugs wearing off. That look on his face when he realized.

You swallow hard.

The thought hits like a punch straight to the ribs.

You’ve never worried about people before. Except William. You’ve feared losing him before. Feared ending up alone again. But Joel... is different. Joel makes your chest hurt in ways bullets never could. Makes you understand why people in old movies ruined themselves for love.

The idea of breaking his heart somehow feels worse than breaking your own.

Your eyes burn, your heart clenching.

God.

So this is what loving someone feels like. Not the happiness part. You already knew that part. It’s him laughing quietly against your neck in bed. It’s his hand finding yours without thinking. It’s the way your body relaxes the second he walks into a room.

No—

This part. The ache. The fear. The terrifying realization that someone else now has the power to break your heart just by existing somewhere you can’t reach. Your gaze drops back toward the sketchbook. Joel’s face follows you everywhere now. You barely recognize yourself anymore because of it. You have something to lose now. Someone.

If this goes wrong… If you fail…

You may never hear his voice again. Never feel his arms around you again. Never see that tired little smile he gets when he looks at you like you’re something dangerous he decided to keep anyway.

A bark suddenly cuts through the silence.

You blink hard. Only then noticing the tear that slipped free and landed against the page. “Shit,” you mutter softly, wiping it away quickly.

Taxi climbs down from the chair immediately, limping over toward the couch.

“I know,” you whisper quietly. “I miss him too.”

Taxi rests his head against your knee. Your fingers slide automatically through the fur behind his ears.

“But I have to do this.”

The shepherd lifts one paw slowly onto your leg. You stare at him for a second. His eyes look strangely human sometimes in the dark. “You think I broke his heart?”

Taxi whines softly. Your chest tightens harder. “I couldn’t let him come with me.” Your voice turns quieter now. “Ellie needs him. Jackson needs him.” You swallow thickly. “And… maybe I just showed up and fucked that old man’s life all up.”

Taxi barks once immediately.

You let out a small breath through your nose. “Yeah. I know.” Your fingers continue stroking slowly through his fur. “He meant what he said.” Your voice nearly cracks. “But that’s not the problem.”

You stare down at Joel’s sketch again.

“Being the daughter of someone like Clouser feels like carrying rot around inside your chest.” Your jaw tightens faintly. “As long as he’s alive, I’m never gonna stop feeling it.”

Rain rattles softly against the broken windows outside.

“I can’t build a future with Joel while all this still exists.” Your eyes lower slowly. “Not while I keep lookin’ at Tommy, Maria… Dina, Jesse, Benji, Ellie…” Your throat tightens. “They deserve to feel safe around me.”

Silence stretches for a moment.

Then quieter: “I think…” You blink slowly. “I think I finally know what having a family feels like.” The words hurt to admit out loud. “And I can’t let him take that away from me.”

Taxi lifts his head and licks the side of your jaw suddenly. A weak laugh escapes you before you grab his muzzle gently. “Hey.” You rub your thumb along the bridge of his nose. “When I go back…” Your voice softens almost into a whisper. “I want my head clear.” Your fingers move slowly through his fur again. “Maybe then I’ll know how to be someone better. A better girlfriend.”

The word feels strange but warm.

“Assumin’ he forgives me.”

Taxi presses closer immediately.

You finally set the sketchbook aside before sliding down fully against the couch cushions, pulling him close against your side.

His fur still smells faintly like rainwater, old forest, dirt, and gunpowder. For years, that smell alone meant safety more than any human being ever could.

But now—

Now there’s another scent your body misses more.

Worn leather. Gun oil. Damp flannel dried near a fire. Sawdust caught in rough hands after long afternoons working wood in Jackson.

Him.

Your eyes drift slowly toward the cracked office window overhead. Beyond fractured glass and tangled ivy, the night sky barely peeks through Seattle’s storm clouds. A few weak stars flicker faintly between them.

You stare at them quietly.

And for the first time in years—

You make a wish.

Just one.

To see him again. To hear his voice again. To come back alive long enough to fall asleep in his arms one more time.

Your fingers tighten gently in Taxi’s fur.

Then slowly—

Exhaustion finally pulls you under.

Horse hooves echo hollow against cracked highway.

Slow now. Careful.

Joel keeps one hand near the reins while his eyes scan the massive quarantine wall rising through the rain ahead.

Seattle.

Even from a distance, the city feels wrong.

Too big. Too quiet.

Fog crawls low between abandoned checkpoints and collapsed military barricades swallowed whole by ivy and moss. Old FEDRA fencing stretches along the road in rusted lines, parts of it torn open long ago by something stronger than time.

Rain taps steadily against Joel’s jacket. The horse shifts uneasily beneath him the closer they get. “Easy,” Joel mutters quietly, patting its neck once.

Ahead, the massive outer gate hangs crooked on broken hinges, chains swaying softly in the wind. Faded quarantine warnings still cling to metal signs eaten away by rust. Across the center of the gate, someone has painted a message in massive white letters now streaked by rain and time:

WLF TRESPASSERS KILLED ON SIGHT

The dripping paint almost looks like bone beneath the gray Seattle sky.

Joel squints upward toward the walls towering over him.

Dead guard towers stare down empty streets. Or at least they look empty. Seattle reminds him too much of places where people disappear. His jaw tightens.

The horse carries him slowly through the open gate. Immediately the city swallows sound whole.

No birds. No distant voices.

Just rainwater dripping from collapsed buildings and the faint creaking of old structures somewhere deeper inside the streets ahead. Joel’s eyes move constantly.

Cars. Windows. Rooflines. Habit.

Then—

Something catches his attention near the mud alongside the road. Fresh tire tracks.

Joel pulls the horse to a stop instantly.

The tracks cut sharply through rainwater and dirt before disappearing farther into the city.

Fresh. Very fresh.

Joel slides down from the saddle with a grunt, crouching low beside them. WLF vehicle. His fingers brush against wet mud before his gaze shifts farther ahead.

Then he sees it.

An abandoned pickup truck half-crashed against a storefront farther down the street. “Shit.”

Joel stands quickly and moves toward it, boots splashing through puddles. The closer he gets, the more obvious it becomes. Bullet holes shred the side panels. One tire blown out. The gas tank leaking slowly beneath the truck into rainwater mixed with oil and blood.

Joel’s eyes narrow immediately.

Not random.

Forced stop.

His hand brushes against the hood. Still faintly warm beneath cold rain. “Goddamn…”

Then he notices the steering column hanging open beneath the wheel. Wires ripped loose. Hotwired. A humorless breath escapes him through his nose. “Course she did.”

His eyes drift across the street automatically. Searching. Reading. Tracking. Then he sees blood. Not much. Drops leading toward a nearby alley.

Joel follows carefully.

One hand already resting near the revolver—your revolver—on his hip. The alley opens into another ruined street farther ahead—

And that’s where he finds the bodies.

Three WLF soldiers sprawled across wet pavement. One near an overturned patrol truck. Another collapsed against a wall. The third barely recognizable anymore.

Joel slows immediately.

His stomach tightens. Rain runs steadily down the corpses, washing blood into the gutters. Then he notices the bites. Deep tears through exposed throat. Another through the forearm. Jagged canine marks.

Taxi.

Joel exhales slowly through his nose. “Attaboy.”

He crouches beside the nearest body carefully. Then spots the spent casing laying near the corpse. Joel picks it up between rough fingers, rolling it once against his palm.

Sniper round. Your sniper round.

One clean shot. Two heads. Straight through the glass.

Precise. Efficient. Smooth. Exactly your kind of work.

“Goddamn it, Kat,” Joel mutters quietly. “You can’t take ’em all down at once.”

He rises slowly, eyes scanning the street again. Unease settles heavier in his chest with every passing second. He plants both hands briefly against his hips, jaw tightening hard.

Ten straight days riding from Jackson. Ten days barely sleeping. Ten days chasing your ghost across half the damn country—

And still he’s late.

The bodies tell him immediately. Spacing. Angles. Timing. Experience never lies.

You’re ahead of him. One day at least. Maybe more.

Joel’s back screams when he straightens fully, exhaustion dragging through every muscle in his body, but he ignores it automatically. Pain barely registers anymore. Rain continues falling steadily around him while Seattle groans somewhere deeper ahead.

Waiting. Watching.

Joel stares toward the dark streets disappearing farther into the city. “Can’t be late,” he mutters quietly. More to himself than anyone else. “Gotta find her before it’s too damn late.”

Then he turns back toward the horse. And rides deeper into Seattle.

Morning comes gray and wet.

Not bright. Not warm. Just a thin, colorless light spreading over Seattle like the city is too tired to wake up properly.

Rain still clings to everything. Broken windows. Rusted signs. The hoods of abandoned cars. The sagging awnings over dead storefronts. Every surface shines dull and cold beneath the low sky.

You move north with Taxi at your side.

The hospital doesn’t appear right away. Nothing in this city gives itself up that easy.

The map says it should be somewhere ahead, past a mess of flooded streets and half-collapsed buildings, but Seattle keeps folding in on itself. Roads blocked by wreckage. Alleys choked with vines. Military barriers left behind like broken teeth.

And people.

Too many people.

By noon, you’ve already run into more WLF deserters than you expected. Small groups. Two here. Three there. Scared. Armed. Dirty. Running from something behind them and terrified of whatever might be ahead.

The first few don’t tell you much before they die.

The next group gives you the name you're looking for.

After that, you stop killing first.

You start listening.

That is how you end up crouched on the second floor of a half-collapsed building, one hand resting against Taxi’s neck while voices drift up from below.

The ground floor beneath you is split open in places, the concrete caved inward toward a lower level thick with spores. Pale fungal growth climbs the walls down there in swollen veins, pulsing through the damp like something still alive. The air below looks yellow in the weak light, heavy and ruined.

You keep Taxi close. No way in hell you’re taking him through that.

Below, four WLF soldiers move through the street, unaware of you above them. “What the hell is goin’ on?” one of them mutters. “This is what, the sixth group?”

“Sixth if you count the ones from yesterday.”

“Jesus.”

“Isaac made an example outta the last ones. Had ’em executed in front of everybody. Thought that’d be enough.”

“Guess it wasn’t.”

“It’s that fuckin’ doctor.”

Your whole body stills.

The man beside him lowers his voice. “Clouser?”

“Yeah. People don’t wanna stay and die for Scars or for some bullshit vaccine that ain’t ever gonna work.”

“Wasn’t the whole point of taking FEDRA down to build a liberation front?”

A bitter laugh. “Does this sound like liberation to you?”

“You sound like you’re about to run too.”

“Hey. You hear what he’s been doing to pregnant women? Kids?”

The silence that follows feels heavier than the rain.

“Rumors.”

“You sure about that?”

“Fuck.” Another voice exhales shakily. “Isaac should’ve killed that old bastard when he had the chance.”

“He still sending his A-team to the hospital?”

“Yeah. The ones he trusts.”

Rain taps softly against broken concrete overhead. Then another voice lowers slightly. “Hey… you know Jordan?”

“The Firefly guy?”

“Yeah. Him.” A pause. “Heard that immune girl everyone’s looking for? Supposedly she’s Clouser’s daughter.”

Silence. “…Bullshit.”

“And apparently she was with the other immune girl for a while. Somewhere in Wyoming.”

Your stomach tightens instantly.

“Word is Isaac’s planning to send a group out there soon.” The man snorts quietly. “Abby might lead it.”

“No fuckin’ way Isaac lets Abby leave Seattle right now.”

“Why the hell would she even care?”

A longer silence follows.

Then quietly: “That smuggler from Salt Lake? The one who killed all those Fireflies in the hospital?”

Your pulse stutters.

“He’s supposedly in that town too.”

Silence crashes over the group immediately afterward. Even from above, you can feel the tension shift.

“…That’s too much coincidence for my taste.”

“Think that crazy doctor’s making half this shit up.”

“Or that Jordan guy.”

“Alright, enough gossip.” Boots scrape concrete. “Get back to your posts and keep your eyes open.”

That is enough. More than enough.

Your grip tightens around the rifle. Taxi’s ears twitch. You glance down at him and press two fingers to your lips.

Stay.

He understands. You’ve taught him this too many times to count.

Stay unless you whistle.

Stay unless you scream.

Stay unless he sees you bleeding too much.

That last part is always the problem.

Because Taxi listens until fear takes over. And fear makes him stupidly brave. You point toward a patch of tall weeds and vines growing through a broken section of wall. He lowers himself reluctantly, still watching you. “Good boy,” you mouth.

Then you move.

Silent across the cracked upper floor, stepping over broken tiles and rotted office chairs, rifle raised. The building groans softly beneath your weight.

You line up the first shot from above. The suppressor does its job, but barely. A soft, ugly pop.

One soldier drops. The others turn too late.

Second shot.

Third.

Fourth.

Each one clean.

Each one fast.

By the time the last body hits the pavement, the street is quiet again except for rainfall and Taxi’s low breathing behind you.

You stay crouched for a moment, listening.

No infected. No returning fire. No shouting.

Good.

You climb down carefully. The air grows colder near the broken ground floor. Spores drift lazily below through the collapsed opening, glowing faintly where thin daylight touches them. The fungal growth along the walls looks old and thick, spread in rootlike patterns beneath peeling paint.

You avoid the edge. You’ve seen enough basements like that. You search the bodies quickly.

Ammo. A dull knife. Nothing useful.

Your last suppressor is already ruined, and the one currently screwed onto your pistol is close to useless. The metal is hot from overuse, the sound less clean than it should be.

One left after this.

One.

You’ll need to save it for something that matters.

You’re about to move on when you find a photograph in one of their jacket pockets. Not an old one. A fresh one. Instant film.

You hold it between two fingers and wipe rain off the glossy surface with your thumb.

A group of people smile back at you. Young. Tired. Alive.

Behind them rises a massive structure, round and crowded, with stands and lights and lines of people moving in the background.

A stadium.

Not a checkpoint. Not a small base. A real settlement.

Crowded. Organized.

You don’t know any of their faces. You don’t care to.

But the place itself matters.

You unfold your map and compare it quickly, marking distance with your thumb and eye. The stadium sits too far west to be your target.

The hospital is north. Far enough away from the stadium to make sense. Far enough to hide things.

You crouch beside a cracked wall, using a rusted pipe as a flat edge while you sketch a rough route across the paper. Streets. Blocks. Waterlogged underpasses you’ll avoid. Higher ground where possible.

Ten miles, maybe. Two hours if the roads don’t fight you. They will.

A burst of static crackles from one of the dead men’s radios. Taxi lifts his head instantly. You freeze.

“Cooper, you copy?” The voice is rough, irritated. Static. “Cooper? Linda? Come in.”

You stare at the radio. Taxi gives one sharp bark. You raise your hand. “Shh.”

The radio crackles again.

“Cooper, listen up. We found a deserter group wiped out near your last checkpoint. Clean shots. Somebody hunted ’em. Doesn’t look like Scars.”

Your jaw tightens. Yesterday’s bodies.

“Answer me, Cooper. Goddamn it. We’re coming to your position.”

Taxi growls. Not the low warning he gives for people.

Different. Deeper.

Your eyes flick to him immediately. That growl means infected. But then you hear it too. Not infected. Footsteps. Multiple. Close.

You move to the broken window and look down through hanging ivy.

Five people. Armed.

WLF.

And a dog.

“Shit,” you whisper. The dog has its nose low, pulling against the leash. Taxi’s lip curls. “So that’s what you smelled.”

Your mind works fast. Two exits. One dangerous. One worse.

The patrol is already too close. The dog will catch your scent any second. You crouch in front of Taxi and grip the fur at the sides of his neck gently, forcing his eyes to yours. “You stay in the grass,” you whisper. “I’ll pull them away.”

Taxi whines.

“No.” Your voice hardens. “You can’t come with me. I don’t have a damn gas mask for you, understand?”

Below, the WLF dog barks.

“Hey, what is it, boy?” one of the soldiers calls. Too close.

You point sharply toward the weeds leading along the collapsed wall. Taxi hesitates. “Go.”

He goes, but he hates it. You can see that in every line of him.

You drop low and begin crawling along the upper ledge, aiming for the vines that spill down toward the lower level. If you can get to the other side, maybe you can circle out before—

A snarl erupts behind you.

You twist just as the WLF dog lunges out of nowhere.

Too fast.

You barely throw yourself sideways before its teeth snap where your arm was. Then Taxi hits it like a damn wolf.

The two dogs crash into the floor in a violent tangle of teeth and muscle. “Taxi!” you hiss.

Too late. The WLF dog yelps as Taxi’s jaws lock around its throat. Voices explode below.

“Trespasser here!”

“No—Jesus, that’s Lenny! He's dead!”

“There’s another dog!”

“Shoot it! Shoot it!”

Taxi shakes once. The WLF dog goes limp. “Stay there!” you snap at him. “Goddamn it, stay!”

Gunfire tears into the wall beside you.

You dive behind a broken concrete partition as bullets chew through plaster overhead. Your heart slams against your ribs. One soldier breaks off toward Taxi. Another moves to flank you from the rear. The man behind you rounds the broken wall too fast.

You move faster.

You catch his wrist, twist, slam him chest-first into the concrete, and drag him back against you with your revolver shoved beneath his jaw. The others freeze the second they see you.

“Drop it!” one of them shouts.

Your hostage spits blood. “Shoot her!”

“Shut the fuck up,” you growl against his ear. You shift backward, dragging him with you toward the collapsed edge. Behind you, the lower floor waits.

Dark. Yellow. Thick with spores.

The woman in front stiffens. “Ari—no!”

Good.

That matters. That means they won’t shoot through him. You press the barrel harder under his jaw. “Back up,” you shout. “Or I paint the floor with his head.”

“You got nowhere to go,” another soldier says, weapon trained on you.

You understand what he means.

The spores. The drop. The infected below. No mask. No escape.

For them.

Not for you.

You tighten your grip on Ari and take one more step back.

He realizes a second too late. “No—no, we’ll both die!”

“Maybe,” you say.

Then you throw your weight backward.

The fall is short but brutal.

Air rips out of your lungs as you hit broken concrete and roll hard, dragging the man down with you. Dust and spores explode upward around you in a sick yellow cloud.

Above, voices scream.

“Ari!”

“Fuck!”

“No, no, no—”

You roll behind a collapsed support beam just as bullets cut into the ground where you landed. “Leah, stop!” someone yells. “You’ll die too! We don’t have masks!”

“I’m gonna kill that bitch!”

“She’s already dead! Come on!”

“Isaac’s orders—nobody goes into spore zones. You saw what happened to Ramirez!”

“Fuck!”

Bootsteps retreat above. You stay still until the last one fades. The spores hang thick around you. You inhale once through your nose.

Damp. Earthy. Rotten.

It tickles faintly. Nothing more. Like mildew in an old basement.

Ari is somewhere in the dark, coughing violently. “God…” he chokes between ragged breaths. “Goddamn…”

You glance toward the sound instinctively.

Then freeze. The wall behind him moves.

No. Not the wall.

Cordyceps.

Pale fungal shelves bloom across concrete and brick in thick layered growths, veins spreading outward like diseased roots through the entire lower floor. Some of it is old and dry, cracked apart like dead bark.

Some of it still glistens wet beneath your flashlight. Fresh. Breathing.

Bodies cling half-swallowed inside the growth. Arms. Ribcages. Open mouths permanently fused into the fungus climbing over them.

The entire building smells damp and rotten enough to taste.

Then—

Click.

Click-click-click-click.

Your blood runs cold instantly. The sound echoes from deeper inside the dark.

Clickers.

The explosion upstairs must’ve drawn them down here.

And now Ari’s coughing is doing the rest.

Another clicking cry bursts through the building.

Closer.

Wet fungal chatter bouncing sharply through concrete halls while something shifts rapidly in the dark ahead.

Ari hears it too. “No…” His breathing turns panicked immediately. “No no no—”

CLICKCLICKCLICKCLICK.

Another answers somewhere nearby. Then another. The entire lower level suddenly feels alive. Movement everywhere.

You crouch lower immediately, barely breathing while Ari drags himself backward across the floor, one ruined leg useless behind him.

“Please—” he gasps. “Please help m—”

The first clicker lunges. Fast as hell. Ari’s scream cuts violently short beneath tearing flesh and wet crunching bone.

You look away instantly. Not because you feel bad. Because he’s already dead.

More clicking erupts nearby. The feeding sounds alone are enough to turn your stomach. You lower yourself silently and begin backing away through the darkness instead, keeping low beneath hanging cords of fungus spreading across the ceiling. Slow. Controlled. One careful step after another.

Then—

CLICKCLICKCLICK.

A clicker jerks its head upward somewhere behind you. You freeze instantly while it listens, twitching sharply toward the noise. Then Ari’s dying screams echo deeper in the room and the infected bolts away from you immediately.

You exhale slowly through your nose.

Lucky. Very fucking lucky.

Keeping your flashlight lowered, you slip silently between collapsed cubicles while wet ripping sounds echo behind you. Bones snapping. Flesh tearing. You don’t look back once.

The faint glow of daylight finally appears ahead through thick hanging vines near a collapsed loading exit. Fresh air. Rain. Freedom.

You push through the overgrowth and stumble outside into the cold Seattle evening just as another horrible shriek erupts somewhere deep inside the building behind you.

The city air never smelled so good.

You suck in a breath.

The street is empty. Too empty.

“Taxi,” you call softly.

Nothing.

Your heart climbs straight into your throat. You whistle once. Sharp. Low. Still nothing. “Taxi.”

This time it comes out rougher. Panic starts crawling up the back of your neck while you scan every broken window and dark doorway around you.

No.

No, no, no—

“Taxi!”

Then a bark echoes from above.

You spin just as Taxi comes barreling down from the broken upper level through a sagging stairwell, ears back, tail low, alive.

Alive.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe.

You drop immediately, grabbing his face between both hands while he whines and pushes into you. You check him fast. Neck. Chest. Legs. No blood. No new wounds.

You exhale so hard it almost hurts. “Okay. Okay.” You press your forehead briefly to his. “You’re okay.”

Taxi licks your chin and a broken laugh slips out of you.

“Yeah, we definitely need to make you a gas mask.”

He barks once like he agrees.

You stand slowly, wiping rain and sweat from your face. Through the gap between buildings, beyond a broken bridge and the skeletons of old towers, you finally see it.

A distant building rising above the gray. Hospital lettering barely visible through the rain.

Your chest tightens.

There. Finally.

You take a long drink from your canteen before letting Taxi drink from your cupped hand too. “You ready?” you ask quietly.

He looks toward the hospital. Then back at you.

You sling the rifle over your shoulder and fold the map away. “We’re close. Let’s go.”

Seattle, Day Two.

Dusk settles over the city in bruised shades of blue and gray by the time you reach the hospital district. The rain weakens into a thin mist drifting between buildings, but Seattle still feels soaked through to the bone. Somewhere far off, gunfire rattles across distant streets before fading back into silence again.

The hospital rises above everything else. Massive. Cold. Its upper floors disappear into fog while floodlamps burn pale through rain-streaked windows below. Even from here it dominates the skyline like something watching the entire city.

Close enough to see. Still too damn far away.

Between you and the hospital stretch blocks of ruined streets, flooded intersections, and whatever the hell WLF has waiting in between. Too many lights. Too many guards.

You crouch behind an overturned bus with Taxi pressed close beside you, eyes moving carefully across the perimeter. Watchtowers. Patrol routes. Barricades. Armed Wolves everywhere.

“Jesus,” you mutter under your breath.

Taxi’s ears twitch.

Then—

A whistle echoes somewhere nearby. Sharp. Seraphites.

Your head snaps toward the sound instantly. Another whistle answers deeper in the street before shouting erupts.

“CONTACT!”

Gunfire explodes seconds later. WLF soldiers sprint across the street ahead while arrows whistle through the rain. One Wolf jerks backward with an arrow through his throat. Another drops seconds later. Chaos spreads fast.

Exactly what you need. Not to win. To disappear.

Your eyes lock onto a WLF transport truck sitting crooked near the curb thirty feet away. Driver dead. Engine still running. Headlights cutting pale beams through the mist.

Perfect.

You glance toward Taxi. He already looks ready. “We need that truck,” you mutter. Then you’re moving. You sprint low across rain-slick pavement while bullets crack somewhere behind you. The city erupts into noise around you— Wolves shouting, whistles answering back, glass shattering somewhere farther down the block.

You wrench the truck door open and climb inside fast. Taxi launches in beside you just as you slam the gear forward. The truck lurches violently. “C’mon, c’mon—”

Tires screech across flooded streets. Then somebody notices. “HEY!”

Gunfire slams into the truck immediately. The windshield spiderwebs near your shoulder. “Shit!”

You duck instinctively while jerking the wheel sideways around abandoned cars. Taxi barks wildly beside you every time the truck fishtails through standing water.

“Taxi, get the fuck down!” you shout over the engine. “Down, boy!”

He finally ducks lower as another engine roars somewhere behind you through the rain. They’re following.

You glance into the side mirror briefly—

And your stomach drops.

It’s them. Ari’s squad. The woman from earlier leans halfway out the passenger window with a rifle in her hands.

“That’s her!”

Gunfire erupts again. Bullets punch through the truck bed beside Taxi.

“Fuck—!”

You slam the wheel hard around a collapsed ambulance while the hospital looms closer between buildings. So close. Almost there—

Then headlights catch something too late.

A collapsed barricade stretches across the flooded street ahead.

“Shit.”

You wrench the wheel sideways but the truck clips the barricade hard enough to launch metal screaming across pavement before smashing broadside into a storefront.

The world snaps sideways. Glass explodes. Pain detonates through your shoulder. For a second all you hear is ringing.

Then Taxi barks. Loud. Panicked.

“I’m okay,” you choke out immediately, forcing yourself upright. Smoke curls from beneath the crushed hood outside while voices already close in.

“MOVE!” “THEY CRASHED!”

You kick the warped truck door open and force yourself out. Taxi jumps down beside you instantly. You grab your rifle and run toward the nearest half-open building entrance beneath a flickering neon sign drowned in vines.

You and Taxi disappear inside just as bullets rip through the doorway behind you.

Darkness swallows you whole.

The air changes immediately. Wet. Rotten. Wrong.

Your flashlight snaps on. Broken shelves and collapsed walls stretch endlessly ahead inside what used to be some kind of office building. Too quiet.

Your stomach tightens instantly.

“…shit.”

Taxi growls low beside you.

Then something moves. Fast. A shape darts between walls ahead before disappearing again.

Stalker.

Of fucking course.

One of the Wolves swings his flashlight toward the hallway just in time to catch two clickers sprinting straight at them through the dark. “FUCK THIS!”

Gunfire erupts instantly.

Muzzle flashes strobe violently across fungal walls while the infected slam into the group. One Wolf screams as a clicker tackles him sideways into broken office furniture.

Another fires wildly while backing toward the exit. “Pull back!”

A stalker explodes out of the darkness behind them. The scream that follows cuts brutally short. The remaining Wolves don’t hesitate after that. “GO GO GO!”

Boots thunder back toward the entrance while infected shrieks and wet tearing sounds swallow the lower floor behind them.

Your flashlight catches movement sprinting low across the ceiling beams overhead.

“Taxi!”

The shepherd lunges before you finish the word. A stalker crashes into him midair with a shriek. The two slam across the floor together in a snapping mess of teeth and claws.

You raise your rifle—

Another infected explodes out of the darkness straight at you. You barely get your knife up in time. The stalker slams you backward into the floor hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. Its fungal face twitches inches from yours, jaw snapping wildly while rotten saliva drips onto your sleeve.

“Get the fuck off me—!”

You jam the knife upward.

Miss.

The creature shrieks directly into your face. Somewhere deeper inside the building, gunfire mixes with screaming.

Taxi snarls viciously nearby.

The stalker pins your wrist harder against the floor—

Then suddenly—

BANG.

The infected jerks violently. Warm blood sprays across your throat. The body collapses instantly on top of you.

Dead.

For one second you can only hear your own breathing.

Then boots step into view beside your head. Worn leather darkened by rainwater steps into view beside you. Jeans soaked dark at the hems. Holster strapped low against his thigh.

One large hand gripping a revolver steady at his side—

Your revolver.

Your pulse stumbles instantly. Then you see the watch. Cracked glass. Worn leather strap.

His broken watch.

The one that never leaves his wrist.

Your breath catches so sharply it hurts. No. No fucking way. Your eyes lock onto his hand again. Calloused fingers. Faint scars across rough knuckles. You know that hand.

God, you know it.

That hand held your face like something precious. Fixed your weapons at the kitchen table late at night. Curled warm against your waist in bed. Your chest tightens so hard it almost hurts.

The man crouches immediately beside you, grabbing the dead stalker by the shoulder and hauling it off your body with a grunt.

Then flashlight beam finally cuts upward across his face.

Rough beard. Wet curls. Dark exhausted eyes already locked on yours like they’ve been searching for you for days. For a second your brain genuinely refuses to process it.

You just stare at him. Breathing hard.

Rainwater still dripping from his jacket onto the floor.

He looks tired. Older somehow. Terrified. Relieved. All at once.

Still unfairly handsome.

“…Joel?”

Your voice comes out barely above a whisper.

Another stalker scream echoes somewhere nearby.

Neither of you looks away.

Joel’s jaw tightens hard enough you see the muscle jump beneath wet stubble The stalker crashes into Joel so fast.

One second he’s crouched in front of you, rough hands hauling the dead infected off your body while rainwater drips from his curls onto your jacket—

The next—

Movement explodes out of the dark behind him. Fast. Too fast.

“Joel—!”

He twists instantly, revolver already snapping upward on instinct. Nothing. Just a hollow click.

Empty.

For the first time since you’ve known him, you actually see it—

Pure panic.

Not fear for himself.

For you.

Because the creature is already on him.

Its mouth opens wide enough you see strings of rotten saliva stretching between fungal-split teeth. Its face barely even looks human anymore beneath the blooming cordyceps splitting through skin and jawbone.

Joel shoves against it hard, but the stalker slams him backward into the wall before he can reload.

“Fuck—!”

Its teeth snap inches from his throat.

Joel’s forearm jams against its neck violently, muscles straining beneath soaked flannel while the infected screeches directly into his face.

The sound is horrible. Wet. Not human.

Taxi lunges across the room barking viciously, claws scraping across concrete as he tries to reach Joel. Your body moves before your brain does. You throw yourself into them. The impact knocks all three of you sideways.

The stalker turns instantly. Its jaws slam down around your forearm, just as you planned. Pain detonates through your entire body. “AHH— FUCK!” The scream tears itself out of your throat raw and sharp as teeth sink deep through muscle. You feel them puncture skin. Feel the pressure of its jaw locking harder the more you fight.

Warm blood floods instantly down your wrist.

Joel freezes. Actually freezes. His face drains of color so fast it terrifies you more than the bite itself.

“No—”

The word barely leaves him. The stalker thrashes violently against your arm, snarling through flesh still trapped between its teeth.

You could pull away. But you don't. Instead, you force your arm deeper.

Joel’s eyes widen in horror. “Kat, NO!”

Pain burns white-hot through your entire arm as the infected tears harder into flesh, fungal teeth sinking deeper with every violent jerk of its head. Taxi loses his mind somewhere beside you, barking viciously.

Joel lunges forward—

Too late.

You wrench the revolver upward with your free hand and jam the barrel directly against the side of the stalker’s head. Then pull the trigger.

BANG.

The gunshot explodes through the room. The bullet punches straight through fungal plates and skull with a sick wet crunch.

The creature spasms violently.

Its jaw clamps one final time around your arm before the body suddenly goes limp and collapses heavily against you.

Dead.

For half a second nobody moves. You can actually hear blood hitting the floor from your arm. Taxi keeps barking hysterically beside you. Then Joel grabs the infected and literally rips it off you hard enough the corpse slams against the wall nearby.

“Jesus Christ— Jesus fucking Christ—”

His voice sounds wrong. Shaking. Panicked.

You’ve heard Joel angry. You’ve heard him violent. You’ve heard him terrified.

But this?

This sounds like a man watching the world end all over again.

His hands grab your arm immediately. Too fast. Too rough. Then suddenly gentle the second he sees the damage. The bite already looks ugly. Deep punctures torn into flesh. Blood running between his fingers while fungal saliva mixes with rainwater across your skin.

Joel stares at it like he can somehow undo it if he looks hard enough. He’s not even looking at your face anymore.

Only the wound. Only the blood. Only the teeth marks.

He knows you’re immune.

But it doesn’t matter. Because watching something bite you still breaks something inside him instantly.

“Hey.” Your free hand catches his wrist hard enough to force his eyes back to yours. “Joel.”

His gaze snaps upward finally.

And God—

You’ve never seen him look this terrified before. Not even close.

“It’s okay,” you whisper quickly. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re fuckin’ not okay!”

The words crack out of him louder than intended. “You let it bite you,” he says, staring at you like he genuinely cannot understand what he just watched.

Your jaw tightens against another pulse of pain. “It was gonna get you.”

“So you let it tear into your goddamn arm?!”

“Yes!”

The word echoes harder than expected through the ruined building. Silence crashes down afterward except for both of your breathing.

Joel looks furious. Terrified. Completely shattered.

You swallow hard before quieter: “I knew it wouldn’t kill me.”

Joel’s expression twists instantly. “That ain’t the point. You think watchin’ that was supposed to be easier just because you can survive it?”

“I—”

More screeches erupt somewhere deeper inside the building.

Not one.

Several.

The sound bounces violently through dark hallways and collapsed floors, wet clicking mixed with the frantic shouts of WLF soldiers still trapped somewhere below. Joel’s head snaps toward the noise instantly. “Shit.”

Another scream echoes. Closer this time.

Taxi barks furiously beside you while the dead stalker’s blood continues dripping slowly from your bitten arm onto the floor. Joel grabs your wrist immediately. “We gotta move. Now.”

You stagger upright beside him, adrenaline barely drowning out the burning pulse ripping through your arm.

The building groans around all three of you.

Something crashes downstairs.

Then running. Fast running. Too many footsteps.

“Infected?” you ask breathlessly.

Joel reloads while already moving. “All of ‘em.”

That answers enough.

Taxi bolts ahead first as Joel shoves open a warped emergency door leading into another hallway thick with mold and water damage.

“Where are we going?!” you shout while running after him.

“My place ain’t far!”

You blink. “Your what?!”

“Keep runnin’!”

Another stalker bursts from a doorway ahead.

Joel fires before it fully reaches you.

BANG.

The infected folds violently against the wall. “Right!” Joel shouts. “Take the right!”

You skid around the corner hard enough your shoulder slams concrete.

The hallway opens toward a collapsed loading bay exposed to rain and fading evening light outside.

The sky has turned nearly black now.

Seattle after sunset feels less like a city and more like something alive waiting to swallow people whole. Taxi leaps through the broken opening first.

You follow immediately—

Then freeze.

A chain-link fence blocks most of the alley outside except for one narrow gap near the bottom where the metal has been bent upward. “Fuck.”

“Go!” Joel shouts behind you.

Gunfire erupts somewhere deeper inside the building. Then shrieking. Taxi squeezes through the gap first before spinning around barking wildly for you. You drop low and crawl after him just as Joel grabs the fence hard enough to yank the opening wider for you.

The metal tears loudly.

Your injured arm screams in protest while squeezing through. “Joel—!”

“I’m comin’, keep movin’!”

A runner crashes through the loading bay doorway behind him.

Then another.

Joel rips a molotov from his backpack, lights it without hesitation, and hurls it straight into the entrance.

Glass shatters. Fire erupts instantly.

The hallway behind him explodes into orange light and screaming infected. “GO!” he roars.

You don’t argue.

All three of you sprint through rain-dark alleyways while flames spread violently behind you, infected shrieks echoing through the burning building. Joel catches up fast despite the extra weight of his rifle and pack.

“Left!” he shouts over the rain. “Take the left!”

You follow him blindly through narrow streets flooded ankle-deep with rainwater. Taxi keeps pace beside you, breathing hard while distant gunfire and infected screams slowly fade farther behind.

Eventually—

Finally—

The noise dies. The city quiets again.

Joel slows near an old brick building squeezed between two collapsed storefronts. A faded neon saxophone still hangs crooked above the entrance.

JAZZ • LIVE MUSIC • COCKTAILS

Or at least that’s what’s left of the sign. Joel grabs the door handle first.

Locked.

He shoulders it once. Hard. The wood gives immediately. “Inside.”

You and Taxi slip in first while Joel slams the door shut behind all of you. Darkness swallows the room.

The beam of Joel’s flashlight cuts across overturned tables, dusty bottles behind the bar, ripped velvet booths, and a stage sitting abandoned beneath hanging lights coated in years of grime.

Then Joel immediately starts moving furniture.

Fast. Efficient. Like muscle memory.

He shoves a heavy cabinet against the door before dragging another beside it.

You bend forward, hands braced against your knees while trying to catch your breath. Rainwater drips steadily from your hair onto the floorboards below. Taxi pants nearby, ears still twitching toward distant sounds outside. You glance around the bar slowly.

“…I passed this place earlier,” you mutter between breaths. “Didn’t exactly scream safehouse.”

Joel grunts while forcing another chair beneath the door handle. “That’s ‘cause you think like a survivor.” He finally looks back at you briefly. “You gotta think like a smuggler.”

The corner of your mouth almost twitches despite everything.

Taxi finally relaxes enough to lie down beside one of the booths, though he still watches both of you carefully while licking rainwater from his fur.

Outside, thunder rolls softly over Seattle. Inside, everything suddenly feels too quiet.

You straighten slowly while pressing your palm against the bandage wrapped around your arm. The bite throbs beneath soaked fabric now. Hot. Sharp. “Joel,” you say quietly. “How did you find us?”

Taxi huffs softly at the sound of his name.

Joel completely ignores the question.

Instead, he walks straight toward you, grabs your uninjured arm gently but firmly, and guides you toward one of the old leather couches near the stage.

“Sit.”

“Joel—”

“Sit down.”

Something in his voice makes you listen.

You lower yourself onto the couch slowly while he drops his backpack onto the nearby table and kneels in front of you.

“Lemme see.”

The bite still bleeds slowly through the bandage. Joel pulls fresh gauze and alcohol from his pack with practiced hands.

Your eyes stay fixed on him while he works. The furrow between his brows deepens immediately the second he unwraps the blood-soaked cloth from your arm.

There it is. That line in his forehead. The one that only appears when he’s angry or worried enough it physically hurts him.

God.

You missed him. So fucking much. More than you allowed yourself to admit.

“This’ll hurt.” Joel pours alcohol over the wound.

“Wonderful.”

The second the liquid hits torn flesh, pain rips straight through your arm. “Ah— fuck—”

Your whole body tenses instantly while Joel grips your wrist tighter to steady you.

“Easy,” he mutters quietly.

You hiss through clenched teeth while he carefully cleans dried blood from around the bite marks. Your eyes drift across his face again. The concentration. The exhaustion beneath his eyes. The tension in his jaw. You wonder how many nights he hasn’t slept.

“You showed up at a pretty convenient time,” you breathe, still staring at him like he might disappear again. “How the hell did you even find us?”

Joel keeps wrapping the bandage.

Doesn’t answer.

There are a hundred other things you want to ask him too. How long has he been here? Did Ellie know? Was he hurt? Was he angry? Did he hate you for leaving? But after drugging him and disappearing in the middle of the night, asking those questions feels almost selfish somehow. So instead you ask the smallest one. The safest one.

“…Why are you here, Joel?”

This time he finally looks up. And the expression in his eyes makes your throat tighten instantly. Dark. Tired. Hurt.

“S’pose I’m the one oughta be askin’ questions.”

Silence stretches between you.

You glance away first. Joel doesn’t.

“How the hell do you hear every damn thing I tell you,” he says quietly, “and still leave anyway?”

Your jaw tightens. “Joel—”

“That stubbornness of yours real or you just enjoy makin’ me lose my goddamn mind?” His voice sharpens now. “You come here to kill yourself? Was that the plan?”

The words hit harder than expected. Because part of you knows he’s not completely wrong.

“I got close,” you argue quietly. “I’m almost done. Tomorrow I finish this.”

Joel lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Finish it how exactly?” He rises suddenly to his feet. “You see how many Wolves are out there? This ain’t a mission, darlin’, it’s a suicide note.”

“I’m not leaving without killing him.”

“Well you ain’t gettin’ the chance if you end up dead first!”

Taxi lifts his head immediately at the sharpness in Joel’s voice. You stand too fast. Pain flares through your arm but you ignore it. “What, you think I came all this way for nothing?!”

“Yes!” Joel explodes. “That’s exactly what I think!”

You stare at him in disbelief. Rain rattles softly against the windows behind him while the neon sign outside flickers weak blue light across his face. “You don’t understand.”

“No, YOU don’t understand!” Joel snaps back immediately. “If I hadn’t found you tonight you woulda died in there!”

“I saved you too!”

“That ain’t the damn point!”

His voice echoes through the empty jazz bar. Taxi whines softly from the couch. Joel runs one rough hand through soaked curls before pointing furiously toward your bandaged arm.

“You ain’t bulletproof, Kat! You ain’t immune to gettin’ your head blown off or blown apart or buried under some goddamn building!”

“I KNOW THAT!”

“Then why the hell are you actin’ like you got nothin’ left to lose?!”

Your breathing turns uneven instantly. “I always find a way.”

Joel stares at you for one long horrible second. Then suddenly he crosses the room and grabs both your arms hard enough to stop your pacing completely. “Goddamn it, Kat—” His voice breaks lower now. Rougher. Desperate. “Why don’t you get it?” His grip tightens. “Not everythin’ goes the way you planned.”

Your heartbeat stumbles.

“One mistake,” he whispers harshly. “One bad second and everythin’ falls apart. Why you runnin’ toward death like this, huh?” His jaw clenches hard. “You don’t think about yourself, fine. But do you ever think about what happens to me?”

Your lips part. Nothing comes out. So you look away instead.

“…Ellie needs you,” you whisper weakly. “If somethin’ happened to me, you’d still have—”

“Don’t.” His voice cuts straight through yours. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

You look back at him slowly. Joel’s eyes burn now. Actually burn.

“She ain’t you.”

The words hit like a punch. Joel breathes hard once through his nose before quieter now:

“You’re not Ellie to me.” He steps closer. So close you can feel warmth radiating from him despite the cold rain still clinging to his clothes. “You’re worse,” he mutters roughly. “So much goddamn worse.”

Your breath catches.

“Because I let myself love you.”

The confession lands heavy between both of you. Joel laughs once under his breath. Bitter. Broken.

“This stubborn old heart was finally startin’ to beat again and you just…” He shakes his head slightly. “You rip yourself outta my bed and disappear across the country like I’m supposed to survive that.”

Your throat tightens painfully. “I couldn’t let you get hurt.”

Joel stares at you like the words physically offend him.

“And what the hell you think happens to me if you die?”

Silence. Real silence this time.

Joel closes his eyes briefly before leaning forward until his forehead rests against yours. When he speaks again, his voice barely sounds steady anymore. “I told you about Sarah.” Your heart cracks quietly. “I told you exactly what losin’ somebody like that does to a man.” His nose brushes yours lightly when he exhales. “You’re there for me now.” The words melt something inside your chest instantly. “You understand?” he whispers. “Right fuckin' there.”

Your lips part softly.

Joel’s mouth hovers barely inches from yours now. Close enough that every breath mixes together. Close enough that thinking becomes impossible. You should keep arguing. You should push him away. Tell him to go back to Jackson. Tell him tomorrow changes nothing. But all you can think about is how badly you missed him. The smell of him. The warmth. The roughness in his voice. The way he says your name like it belongs to him. Your thighs tense unconsciously.

Joel notices immediately. Of course he does.

His eyes darken slightly while his hand slides from your arm to your waist slowly. Possessive. Careful.

Like he’s trying not to break under the weight of his own feelings.

“Listen to me,” he murmurs roughly. “I don’t give a damn about anybody or anything in this world the way I do you.” Your breath catches harder. “You hear me?” His fingers tighten slightly against your waist. “You got some kinda single-digit fuckin’ IQ or somethin’, huh? How many goddamn times do I gotta say it before it gets through that stubborn skull of yours?”

Your brows pull together immediately.

“Joel—”

“No.” His grip tightens when you try pulling back slightly. “No, you don’t get to pull that runaway bullshit and then stand there actin’ confused when I come after you.”

Heat flashes through your chest instantly.

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“Exactly!” Joel snaps. “That’s the damn problem!”

You turn your head away sharply, jaw tightening.

For half a second you almost step back.

Joel catches you immediately.

One rough hand locks around your waist and pulls you flush against him again before you can move an inch.

“You scare the livin’ shit outta me, Kat.”

The word comes out low. Dangerous. Desperate.

His forehead nearly touches yours now.

“You run into gunfights, infected, goddamn armies like your life don’t matter and it’s drivin’ me fuckin’ insane.”

Your pulse stumbles hard.

Joel’s jaw tightens once before he says the next part slower. Like he needs you to understand it this time. “You’re mine to lose sleep over now.”

Your breath catches sharply.

Joel’s eyes stay locked on yours.

Possessive. Furious. Completely wrecked by you. His hand slides tighter against your waist. “Mine to worry about. Mine to come look for. Mine to drag back alive if I gotta.”

Then he snaps. One hand grips your jaw. The other yanks you hard against him. And his mouth crashes into yours.

The kiss is brutal.

Desperate.

All teeth and heat and weeks of fear poured into one violent collision.

You gasp against his mouth immediately and Joel takes advantage instantly, kissing you deeper like he’s angry at you for making him miss you this badly.

Like he’s trying to punish himself and you at the same time.

His beard scrapes harsh against your skin while his fingers dig into your waist possessively enough to ache.

You clutch his soaked flannel automatically.

Joel groans low into your mouth the second you pull him closer.

The sound nearly destroys what little restraint you had left.

“Christ. Look what the hell you do to me,” he mutters against your lips before kissing you again harder somehow.

Raw. Messy. Needy.

Like neither of you fully believes the other is really here yet.

Joel kisses you like he’s trying to make up for every second you were gone. Like anger and relief and love have tangled together into something too big for him to hold quietly anymore.

Your back hits the edge of the old piano beside the stage with a dull thud.

Neither of you cares.

Rain fades into background noise beneath rough breathing, shifting clothes, and the scrape of calloused hands against soaked denim and flannel.

Joel’s fingers bury into your hair hard enough to tilt your head back while his mouth keeps finding yours again and again like he physically can’t stop once he starts.

You kiss him back just as desperately.

All the fear.

All the missing him.

All those nights alone in ruined buildings wishing he was there instead—

It all crashes out at once.

“Jesus…” Joel breathes against your lips, forehead pressing briefly to yours. “Missed you so goddamn much.”

The confession nearly breaks you.

Your fingers work shakily at the buttons of his flannel while he crowds closer between your legs.

“You weren’t supposed to come after me,” you whisper breathlessly, teasing despite yourself as you push the shirt from his shoulders.

Joel lets out a rough, humorless laugh against your mouth.

“Tough shit.”

His belt unfastens with a metallic clink.

Then he kisses you again before you can answer.

Harder this time.

Needier.

One large hand slides beneath your jacket, rough fingers spreading against the small of your back while the other grips your waist possessively enough to pull a soft sound from your throat.

Joel immediately catches it.

A dark smirk ghosts briefly across his face.

“Look at her now,” he mutters roughly against your mouth. “All needy.”

Heat rushes through your chest instantly.

“You keep makin’ sounds like that,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, “I’m gonna forget we’re supposed to be arguin’.” His thumb drags once along your cheek. “Real damn loud for somebody who left me.”

The words hit harder than they should.

Before you can answer, Joel’s hands find the zipper of your jacket instead.

He yanks it down impatiently.

Then your shirt follows, leaving you in nothing but your bra beneath the dim neon glow leaking through the rain-streaked windows.

Joel’s eyes drag over you slowly.

Hungry.

Overwhelmed.

Then his gaze catches on the fresh bandage around your arm. The softness disappears immediately. Joel leans down and presses a rough almost angry kiss against your forehead. “You scare the hell outta me,” he mutters. “Don’t pull that shit again.” Your hands slide over his bare chest, palms spreading across warm skin and tense muscle beneath your fingertips.

God.

You forgot how solid he feels. How warm. How safe. It almost hurts remembering it.

Joel exhales sharply the second you touch him. Then his hands are on you again. Touching like he physically can’t help it.

Your shirt snags briefly while he pulls it over your head one-handed before tossing it somewhere behind him without even looking.

His eyes move slowly across your skin afterward. “Christ,” he whispers quietly.

The way he says it sends heat straight through you.

Joel notices instantly.

That rough little smirk flickers again before something heavier replaces it.

His fingers brush lightly along your ribs before settling against your waist, thumbs hooking into your jeans and dragging them slowly down your legs. Cold air kisses exposed skin while rain taps softly against the windows outside.

“There she is,” Joel murmurs, voice low and wrecked as his hands settle against your thighs, holding you close. His kisses trailed to your neck and you gulped back a lustful sigh. He couldn’t know how much you were enjoying it. His fingers glided in between your folds, the vibrations already making you far too excited. He chuckled to himself, cupping you so your clit was between his fingers as he rubbed your heat. “She’s so fucking pretty and always ready for me,” he purred against your neck and you loved the excited rush his breath gave your skin. You yanked his hair pulling him back into another hungry kiss. His hands roamed your body, squeezing your soft spots, groping your ass, weaving his fingers through your hair, noting the places that made you squirm when he gave them attention. 

You started to retort but your knees dipped when he inserted a finger. His other hand reached around your back to hold you up and you moaned when he started to pump his fingers deep inside of you. Your hands slide up into his curls while his mouth moves against yours with enough care now to make your knees weaker than the violence of the first kiss ever could.

Taxi lifts his head from the couch nearby, ears twitching as he watches both of you pressed together beside the piano.

Joel notices immediately.

“C’mon, buddy,” he mutters roughly without taking his eyes and fingers off you. “Give us five goddamn minutes.”

Taxi huffs loudly from the couch. You grin softly against Joel’s mouth. “He’s protective,” you murmur, breathless. “Kinda reminds me of somebody.”

“Yeah? Smart dog then.”

“Smartest one around, actually. Shame he ended up with an idiot owner.”

Joel’s mouth twitches immediately. “Make that two idiots,” he murmurs.

Taxi barks once from the couch like he’s agreeing. You laugh softly. Joel points toward the dog without looking away from you. “Alright, smartass. Turn around.” Taxi lets out a dramatic huff before very pointedly turning his back to both of you and flopping back down onto the couch.

“How the hell do you just disappear on me,” he murmurs rough against your lips, his long finger curling inside you, “and take that pretty laugh with you too, huh?” You latch onto him, digging your nails into his arm, he exhales softly against your mouth. “Damn near forgot what it sounded like.” The vibrations shake through your core and curl low in your stomach, where a terrible and wonderful sensation begins to build, pulling a broken moan from your throat. “Yeah,” he mutters low against your lips. “Missed that too.”

With a grunt, he pulls his fingers out of you, still wet with your arousal, and presses them to his lips, sucking hungrily, almost angrily.

Then suddenly you’re in his arms.

Joel lifts you easily and lays you back against the old couch, one large hand settling against your waist as he leans over you. “‘M about two seconds away from losin’ what’s left of my damn self-control here.” One large hand slides up your thigh slowly before his dark eyes lock onto yours again. “So open wide for me, darlin’.”

You obey and spread your legs while he gets rid of his boxers and settles between your thighs. He leans down again and kisses you deeply. You wrap one hand around his dripping cock and squeeze softly, and simply feeling the way your grip trembles makes him weak. He can feel you smile against his mouth.

He drags his tongue across your lip and spreads your legs wider with his palm. He nibbles gently on your bottom lip, and you moan, arching against him.

He presses his swollen tip against your slick pussy and tries to still the swirling darkness inside him; he wants you, and he’s going to have you now and forever.

Even still, he feels anger clawing at the edges of his lust: anger that you left him like that, that you almost died, that you were so ready to sacrifice yourself for him and didn’t give a damn about dying so fearlessly.

Against all reason, he wants to punish you because you still don’t fully understand how much you mean to him, and because you’ve turned your immunity into an advantage, risking your life as if it were nothing. But he pushes those thoughts out of his mind.

He presses his fingers to your clit and teases you, and you moan against him, wrapping your legs around his hips, trying to urge him further. Exhaling quickly against your lips, he buries himself inside you in one smooth, severe stroke, and you cry out. You are so wet that the suddenness of it doesn’t sting, but the insistent burn and stretch inside you makes you shiver. He pulls back slightly to look into your eyes. From the way he looks down at you—like you are small and helpless and beloved, all for him—the realization makes his heart beat hard against his ribs and arouses him even further.

His next thrust is even harsher, and you dig your nails into his shoulders and writhe against him, wordlessly meeting his challenge. He grins darkly at you and fucks you in earnest, and the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the old jazz bar. He grunts with each thrust like he is exorcising something strange and wild, and you find yourself clutching at him with a ferocity that surprises you. You move against each other like animals desperate for release, but as your orgasm approaches, you realize he has no intention of finishing yet, even though he is struggling to hold back. When you grow insistent and press firmly against him each time he withdraws, he shakes his head at you like you are an insolent child. You whine and scratch his back, and he bites your shoulder where it meets your neck.

The couch shifts hard enough to bump against the wall, drawing a long suffering sigh from Taxi somewhere nearby.

Neither of you can help laughing softly at that. 

His gaze stops at your bra — the last piece still clinging to your body. He reaches with his large hand and unfastens it easily, grabbing your breasts possessively and burying his face between them.“Fuck, Joel, I’m—”

He crashes his mouth against yours before you can finish, swallowing the rest of your words as the kiss turns messy and desperate, teeth clashing briefly in the heat of it.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs roughly against your lips. “Jesus Christ… keep doin’ that and I ain’t gonna last.” He pulls back just enough to look at you before drawing you closer again, moving with a rhythm that grows rougher and more desperate the longer he kisses you. “Fuck… so goddamn tight, fuck, fuck. Feels too damn good.”

You scratch your nails down his back again as he finds that spot inside you once more. Joel sucks on your neck and uses the hand that isn’t holding yours to roughly pinch and twist your nipples.

“Right there,” you gasp softly, barely able to think anymore. “Joel… right there.”

He slams into you harder with every thrust, losing whatever control he had left the second he feels you falling apart beneath him.

Your moans break into desperate little sounds that only make him rougher, his forehead pressed against yours while he pushes his thick cock deep inside you. “That’s it,” he groans hoarsely. “Fuck, baby… just like that.” You cry out his name as pleasure crashes through you, your whole body trembling beneath him while your fingers clutch helplessly at his shoulders.

Joel watches you come apart with something almost feral in his expression, like the sight alone is enough to ruin him completely. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes shakily, gripping you tighter. “… gonna fuckin’ kill me one day.”

The way your walls squeeze him finally snaps the last thread holding him together, he grips the back of your head possessively and pulls you up into a searing kiss as he begins filling you up. His masculine groans are the sexiest sound you’ve ever heard—raw, rough, completely wrecked by you—and even if you hadn’t already been overwhelmed with pleasure, you know you’do anything just to hear them again.

By the time the both of you finally come down, exhaustion settles heavily into your bones. Your entire body still trembles from overstimulation, you feel him softening inside you, and without thinking, you cling closer to him — hooking one leg over his and wrapping an arm tightly around his waist while burying your face against his chest.

Joel lets out a tired breath and settles back against the couch with you tangled around him. One hand rests protectively over your arm while the other lazily twirls a strand of your hair around his finger. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, finally realizing how sweaty and completely spent both of you are. “Kat,” he murmurs quietly, fingertips tracing slow patterns against your skin. The softness in his voice makes you shiver more than anything else tonight. “Y’know I love you, right?”

Your eyes flutter half-shut as you look up at him. “I know,” you whisper back, voice rough and sleepy. Your fingers trace lazily across his chest. “Love you too, old man.”

A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth — soft enough that most people would miss it entirely. Then, reluctantly, Joel starts untangling himself from you.

“C’mon,” he mutters gently, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “Gotta clean you up before you pass out on me.”

Seattle, Day Three.

Joel wakes first. He doesn’t move right away. For a long moment he just lies there on the narrow couch with one arm wrapped tightly around your waist beneath the heavy wool blanket he’d found sometime during the night.

The thing had smelled like dust and old cedar when he shook it out upstairs near the storage room. Probably untouched for years. He remembers beating the hell out of it against the railing while muttering curses under his breath, trying to get enough dirt off it so you wouldn’t complain.

You still complained. Half asleep. Mumbling something about “old man nesting instincts.”

Joel almost smiles remembering it.

Now you sleep against his chest completely unaware, warm beneath the blanket, breathing slow and steady while Taxi snores softly nearby. Joel watches you quietly.

Your hair’s a mess. One cheek pressed against his shoulder. One leg tangled with his beneath the blanket. Peaceful. Too peaceful for somebody who spent the last several days fighting through Seattle like a damn one-woman apocalypse.

His fingers move carefully through your hair, brushing strands away from your face slowly enough not to wake you. Then his eyes drift downward.

And the softness in his expression changes immediately.

Bruises. Scratches. Old healing cuts layered beneath newer ones. Your shoulder carries a dark purple mark from rifle recoil, probably from firing that sniper nonstop for days. Your knuckles are split open in places. Another bruise blooms faintly along your ribs.

Joel’s jaw tightens quietly.

He’s seen bodies like this before. Survivors. People who lived too long outside walls. But seeing it on you feels different somehow. More personal. More infuriating.

His eyes stop at the bandage wrapped around your arm.

The bite.

Joel exhales slowly through his nose and looks back at your sleeping face. You were probably the strongest person he’d ever met. And that scared the hell out of him too.

He thinks about everything you survived before Jackson. Ten years outside. Fighting. Sleeping in ruins and abandoned cars and forests filled with infected. Your own father hunting you.

Your own father.

Joel still can’t wrap his mind around that part completely. His old man had been many things. Mean sometimes. Hard. But there had still been moments. A hand on the shoulder. A “good job, son.” Tiny things. Enough to know he’d been loved at least once growing up.

But you?

You learned young that love came with scalpels and cages and being hunted like an animal. And somehow you still came out capable of loving people anyway. Joel honestly doesn’t know how. Maybe he never will.

Taxi suddenly lets out a soft whine nearby. Joel glances over immediately. The shepherd lifts his head slightly from the floor, favoring his injured leg again.

“Hey,” Joel murmurs quietly. “Easy there.”

Carefully making sure not to wake you, Joel slips out from beneath the blanket and pulls his jeans back on before crouching beside Taxi.

“Lemme see it, boy.”

Taxi growls softly at first. Joel clicks his tongue.

“Shh. Relax, kiddo. Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

Taxi grumbles dramatically anyway. Joel snorts quietly.

“Yeah, yeah. You sound just like her.”

The wound isn’t terrible. Bullet graze. Angry-looking but clean. Joel pulls out antiseptic and carefully spreads ointment across the injury. Taxi flinches once.

“There ya go.” Joel scratches behind his ears afterward. “You did good lookin’ after her.”

Taxi’s tail thumps once against the floorboards.

“Hell,” Joel mutters quietly, “somebody had to.”

Taxi barks once like he fully agrees.

Joel laughs softly under his breath. “Yeah, well. That stubbornness rubbed off on you too apparently.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

Your sleepy voice makes Joel glance over immediately. You’re sitting upright now near the couch, pulling your shirt back on while watching both of them.

“Yeah?” Joel turns slightly toward you. “Dog’s almost as hardheaded as you are.” One corner of his mouth twitches faintly. “Guess crazy attracts crazy.”

You snort softly while stepping closer.

“How’s your arm?”

You notice immediately he avoids saying bite. Like the word itself pisses him off.

You flex your fingers carefully beneath the bandage. “Sore. Little throbbing. I’ll live.”

That does absolutely nothing for the look on Joel’s face.

“Lemme see.”

You hold your arm out without arguing this time. Joel unwraps the bandage slowly. His fingers shake slightly. You notice. He notices you noticing. Neither of you says anything about it.

The bite still looks ugly. Deep crescent punctures surrounded by bruising where the stalker’s jaw clamped down. But otherwise—

“No infection,” he mutters quietly, thumb brushing carefully near the wound. “No spreadin’. Nothin’.”

The awe in his voice almost sounds uncomfortable, like he’s rediscovering your immunity all over again.

You reach automatically for the knife lying nearby on the table. The second you angle it toward the bite— Joel catches your wrist hard.

“What’re you doin’?”

“If the mark’s still fresh, I can cut over it. Make it look like something else.”

Joel stares at you like you just suggested sawing your own arm off before immediately taking the knife away from you.

“You always this eager to carve yourself up?”

“It makes sense.”

He tosses the knife aside with a sharp look. “The bite’s deep enough already. Last thing you need’s an actual infection.”

You open your mouth to argue. Joel gives you a look. You close it again.

Satisfied, he starts rewrapping the bandage carefully before reaching into his bag and pulling out two cans of food.

“Eat somethin’.”

Your stomach betrays you instantly with a quiet growl. Joel hears it. Of course he does. A smug little look flashes across his face while he hands you the can.

“Knew it.”

You roll your eyes softly. “Don’t get cocky.”

Taxi suddenly perks up at the smell of food. Joel grabs another can from his bag, pops it open with his knife, and dumps the contents carefully onto a folded paper plate near the floor. “Found dog food near Seattle’s big ‘Fuck FEDRA’ gate.”

Taxi immediately starts eating.

You blink. “I checked there.”

Joel smirks slightly. “Yeah, well. Smuggler rule number one.” He settles back against the booth beside you. “There’s always another stash.”

You shake your head while eating a spoonful from your can.

“So…” you mutter thoughtfully between bites, “Joel Miller rescues us, patches us up, finds us shelter, feeds us…” Your eyes flick toward him. “Anything you can’t do?”

Joel looks at you over the rim of his coffee tin. “Convince you to come back to Jackson.”

“There it is,” you murmur.

“Damn right there it is.”

You stare down at your food for a second before quietly: “I can’t leave before this is finished.”

Joel exhales slowly through his nose. “Alright.” He nods once. “Then tell me the plan.”

You stare at him for a second like you’re waiting for the argument to come back. Joel shrugs one shoulder lightly.

“Pretty sure I could live another hundred damn years and still not win against that stubborn streak of yours.”

A faint tired smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“So I figured the next best thing is stickin’ around long enough to stop you from gettin’ yourself killed.”

His eyes meet yours then— steady and serious beneath the exhaustion.

“And help you finish this.”

You set the can aside and reach quickly for your backpack.

“Okay so—”

Joel steals the rest of your food while you’re distracted.

You whip your head toward him in disbelief. “Seriously?”

“You were done.”

“I was thinking.”

“You think better fed.”

You glare at him while he takes another completely unapologetic bite. Joel looks deeply unbothered for exactly two seconds before your expression finally cracks into genuine annoyance.

Then, with a quiet sigh like he’s dealing with the world’s grumpiest stray cat, he reaches into his backpack again.

“Relax, darlin’.”

He pulls out another can and tosses it into your lap. “Got another one.”

You look down at the label and immediately snort softly.

It’s actually your favorite.

“Wow,” you tease while turning the can in your hands, “that’s, like… suspiciously boyfriend behavior from you, Joel Miller.”

Joel immediately stops eating. Slowly lowers the spoon. “Take it back.”

You grin instantly. “What? Boyfriend?”

He exhales hard through his nose, already looking irritated in that deeply familiar way that only makes this funnier.

The second you laugh, Joel grabs your wrist and suddenly pulls you toward him hard enough that you let out a surprised noise, the can nearly slipping from your hands as you end up sprawled across his lap.

“Joel—”

“Y’know,” he mutters while leaning closer, one arm locking securely around your waist before you can even think about escaping, “I still think tying your stubborn ass to the back of my horse and draggin’ you back to Jackson’s a solid plan.”

“Wow.” You shake your head, grinning. “There’s the romance.”

Joel shakes his head under his breath before leaning closer suddenly, brushing a quick kiss against the tip of your nose.

“Romance,” he murmurs low while pulling back just slightly, “comes after we get your stubborn ass back to Jackson alive.”

“Deal,” you whisper.

Joel studies your face for another second like he’s trying to memorize it all over again before finally letting you slide reluctantly off his lap.

You settle back beside him while Joel reaches over to open your canned food for you. You lean forward and dig through your backpack before pulling out the stolen WLF radio.

“Let’s see what Seattle’s assholes are up to today.”

Joel’s entire posture sharpens instantly the second he sees it in your hands.

You twist the dial slowly. Static crackles loudly through the jazz bar.

“…patrol…” hissssss “…copy…” More static. You adjust it again. “…doctor…” You turn the dial carefully. The signal clears. “…repeat, Doctor Clouser’s requested package has been transferred to the hospital facility.”

Your stomach tightens instantly. Joel’s eyes lock onto yours.

Another voice answers through static: “Copy that, Ed. Use Route Six on your return. Scar activity’s spreadin’ east— avoid conflict if possible. And keep the lower quarantine level sealed. Doctor says nobody enters without clearance after last night’s incident.”

You and Joel stare at each other.

Hospital.

Confirmed.

The streets around the hospital feel dead in the wrong way. You move beside Joel through flooded streets littered with shell casings, broken arrows, and bodies left where they fell. WLF soldiers. Seraphites. Some so torn apart by infected it’s impossible to tell which side they belonged to anymore. Taxi walks ahead quietly now, ears twitching at every distant sound. The city smells like wet concrete, blood, mold, and smoke. Joel keeps his rifle raised while both of you move through the remains of another firefight. A burned-out military truck still smolders near the curb, its doors covered in bullet holes and dried blood. One entire wall nearby is painted black with huge dripping letters: FEEL HER LOVE. The words stretch across the brick wall in massive white paint, dripping down the rain-soaked surface beneath crude Seraphite symbols carved deep into the concrete.

But someone answered it. Down near the corner of the wall, sprayed violently in black paint over dried blood splatter, another message cuts across the white letters: FEEL THIS, BITCH. Below it, bodies are piled carelessly against the wall. Seraphites. You recognize them instantly from the rough dark cloaks hanging from torn limbs and rain-soaked rope belts still tied around waists. Some still clutch hammers and crude blades in stiff dead hands. The blood beneath them hasn’t fully washed away yet. Fresh enough that the rain still carries thin red streams slowly down the curb nearby. Your stomach twists slightly. “Those whistling assholes,” you mutter quietly while stepping around shattered glass and blood pooling near the curb. “Saw ’em gutting Wolves yesterday. Creepy fuckers.” Joel studies the hanging bodies for another second, jaw tightening slightly. “Yeah,” he mutters darkly. “Spent twenty years thinkin’ I’d already seen every kinda fucked up thing this world could turn people into.” You glance back toward the wall covered in blood and hanging corpses. “Then Seattle said hold my beer.” Joel actually laughs under his breath at that. Low. Brief. Real.

Then his expression hardens again as he scans the street ahead. “Everyone’s killin’ everybody,” he mutters. “Wolves, Scars… whole damn city’s at war.” His grip tightens slightly around the rifle. “Means we keep our heads down if we wanna make it to that hospital alive.” You glance toward the massive building looming farther ahead between flooded streets and collapsed apartments. “Front entrance probably crawling with Wolves anyway.” “Yeah.” Joel immediately turns away from the open street. “Too exposed.” He gestures with the rifle toward a row of half-collapsed buildings running parallel to the hospital district. “We circle around. Stay off the main roads. Maintenance tunnels, supply docks, rooftops… there’s always another way in.” You nod once and pull your hood lower against the rain. Taxi falls quietly into step beside both of you as you disappear deeper into the ruined side streets surrounding the hospital.

The hospital finally comes fully into view between buildings ahead. Massive. Concrete gray against the dark sky. Floodlights glow faintly near the lower levels while fog drifts around upper floors. So close now. Your hand automatically drops to the revolver holstered at your side. Your thumb brushes the worn grip while you pull the cylinder open and reload quietly. “Joel.” “Hm?” You hesitate. Which already tells him this matters.

Rain drips softly from broken signs overhead while Taxi pauses ahead to sniff cautiously near abandoned cars. You finally look at Joel. “I know leavin’ was selfish.” Joel stills slightly but says nothing. You swallow once. “It wasn’t just for me.” His eyes lift fully now. “It was for us.” The words feel strange out loud. Too vulnerable. Too honest. You look back down at the revolver while continuing quietly: “You and me. Future Days and all that shit.” A weak breath escapes you. “Before Jackson I never even let myself imagine havin’ somethin’ like that. Then I met you and suddenly…” Joel’s mouth slowly curves into the faintest smug smile. “Suddenly what, darlin’?” You roll your eyes instantly. “Don’t--” Joel’s grin grows slightly. “C’mon now. Wanna hear this part.” You glare at him briefly. Then finally sigh. “…I fell in love with you, alright?” you mutter. “There. Happy?” Joel looks devastatingly pleased with himself. “Little bit.” You shake your head while fighting a smile. Then your expression softens again. “I just wanted peace for once.” Your thumb traces the revolver grip absently. “Wanted somethin’ that actually belonged to me.” Joel watches you quietly for a long moment. Then he lowers his rifle and steps closer. “C’mere.” Before you can react, one arm hooks around your waist and pulls you firmly against him. The revolver remains loosely in your hand while Joel wraps both arms around you tightly beneath your jacket. “I know,” he murmurs against your hair. Joel pulls back just enough to look down at you. “But Christ, baby…” His thumb brushes your cheek. “Wish you hadn’t disappeared after I told you I’d help.” Guilt flickers sharply through your stomach. “I know. When we get back,” you whisper softly, “I’ll fix your heart.” Joel snorts. “Baby, you got yourself one hell of a fixer-upper.” “Maybe you can teach me."

Joel raises an eyebrow slightly. “Teach you what?” “How to fix old things. Worked pretty well with the guitar.” “Yeah?” he murmurs low. “Guess you’re a fast learner.” "Fuck yeah, I am." Your chest hurts from loving him. And that realization terrifies you a little. Joel squeezes your waist once before both of you continue moving again toward the hospital. Closer now. Too close. The streets gradually grow quieter the farther you go. No patrols. No distant shouting. No gunfire. Nothing. Joel slows first. You feel it too. The wrongness. You glance toward him. “…You feel that?” Joel nods once slowly. “Too quiet.” His grip tightens slightly around the rifle. “Don’t like it.” Neither do you. According to the radio traffic earlier, the area around the hospital should’ve been crawling with Wolves. Instead the streets feel abandoned. “We keep goin’ straight, we’re too exposed."

His eyes move toward the buildings lining the side streets near the hospital perimeter. “We circle around back first. Figure out where they got people stationed before we get anywhere near that place.” You nod, but Taxi suddenly growls low. Joel immediately raises the rifle scope. “Runner.” He points slightly right. “Two of ‘em.” You spot movement on the left side too. "There’s more over there.” Taxi suddenly bolts forward. “No— Taxi, wait!” The shepherd ignores you completely and charges ahead. You immediately move after him. Joel grabs your arm hard. “Kat— stop!” “What—” “Trap.” Your eyes drop instantly. Thin wire stretches low across the street between two wrecked cars. Shit. A runner slams into it first. BOOM. The explosion detonates loud enough to shake nearby windows. Fire and smoke erupt across the street while the infected body tears apart midair. Taxi yelps painfully as the shockwave throws him sideways onto wet pavement. “Taxi!" You rip free from Joel immediately. “NO!” Joel curses sharply behind you. Gunfire erupts the second you move. Not one shot. Several. “NOW!” someone yells from somewhere above. Fuck. Bullets slam into the pavement around your feet. Too close. Too precise. Joel fires back instantly. “Kat, NO!” But you’re already sliding across the pavement toward Taxi. The dog whines sharply on the ground, dazed and limping. “I got you,” you breathe quickly while reaching for him. More gunfire cracks overhead. But then— You realize something. They aren’t aiming at you. Every bullet hits beside you. Near your boots. Not kill shots. Joel notices too immediately from behind cover. “What the fuck…” Taxi struggles weakly beneath your hands while you kneel exposed in the middle of the street. Then a voice cuts through the chaos. Your real name. The name almost nobody alive still knows. You freeze. Cold spreads through your chest instantly.

Only two people ever called you that anymore. Slowly— You turn. Figures emerge near the hospital barricades ahead beneath floodlights. Armed Wolves surrounding them. And there— Him. Even from this distance you’d know that face anywhere. The same calm eyes. The same awful smile. Your stomach drops violently. “we were expecting you." he said "we" like.. pointedly… The world narrows instantly. Then you see another figure beside him. Bruised. Restrained. Gun pressed against his head. William. Your breath leaves your lungs. “…William.” Joel’s expression changes immediately the second he understands. This wasn’t coincidence. This wasn’t random. They were waiting. “Drop your weapon!” another Wolf shouts. Clouser smiles wider. “You came all this way for him, didn’t you?” His hand tightens against William’s shoulder possessively. “See? Here he is.” William’s eyes meet yours from across the street.

And suddenly for one horrible second you feel like you were little girl again. “Come now, sweetheart,” Clouser calls smoothly. “Wouldn’t want him dying before your reunion.” Joel’s rifle rises instantly. “Kat,” he says sharply. “Get your ass back here. I’ll cover you.” But you barely hear him anymore. Your heartbeat pounds too loud. William. Alive. Your eyes flick toward Taxi lying injured beside you. Then toward Joel behind cover. Then back toward Clouser. One shot. That’s all it would take. You’ve made harder shots before. Much harder. Your hand slowly drifts toward the revolver at your back. Joel sees it instantly. His expression changes immediately. “No.” You barely hear him. The world tunnels. One target. One bullet. One chance. You draw the revolver in one impossibly fast motion and fire. BANG. The bullet tears straight through Clouser’s head— Or almost. The shot hits the side of his skull violently, ripping through his ear and grazing along his temple instead of killing him outright. Blood sprays. Clouser collapses sideways screaming. Chaos erupts instantly. You almost laugh from the sheer rush of seeing him finally bleed— Then another shot slams through your shoulder hard enough to spin you backward onto the pavement. Pain explodes white-hot across your body. Joel’s voice roars somewhere distant. Gunfire erupts everywhere now. Joel immediately returns fire from cover, dropping one Wolf before being forced back behind concrete barriers under heavy fire. But even through the pain he sees you move. Still alive. Still conscious. Thank God. Clouser screams furiously from the ground while Wolves scramble around him. “STOP SHOOTING, YOU FUCKING IDIOTS!” Blood pours down the side of his face while medics drag him partially upright. “WE NEED HER ALIVE!” Your revolver skids across wet pavement out of reach. You lunge for it— Too slow. Three Wolves hit you at once.

You slam one in the stomach with your elbow hard enough to fold him in half before kicking another directly off you. But there are too many. Hands grab your wrists. Your legs. One Wolf twists your injured shoulder hard enough to force a cry from your throat. Joel immediately rises again from cover. “GET THE FUCK OFF HER!” He drops another Wolf with a headshot before bullets force him back again. Taxi snarls viciously from the ground, dragging himself toward you despite the pain tearing through his injured leg. “Hold her down!”

A Wolf slams your arms painfully behind your back while another drives your knees hard into the pavement. Zip ties cinch brutally tight around your wrists. You fight anyway. Thrashing. Kicking. Spitting curses through gritted teeth while they struggle to pin you properly. One soldier catches your boot directly across the face with a sharp crack. “Fuck—!” “Hold her still!” “Watch her hands!” Too fast. You waited too long.Should’ve moved faster.Should’ve had a better plan. Then rough hands yank you violently upright. Your boots drag through rainwater while Wolves force you across the flooded street toward him. Clouser’s eyes finally shift toward you. A faint smile twists across his mouth. Blood runs down the side of his face while rainwater drips steadily from his ruined coat. “…There she is.” Your stomach turns violently. “All those years hiding,” he murmurs. His eyes drag slowly over your face. “Just to walk yourself right back where you belong." “Fuck you!” You lunge toward him instantly. The Wolves wrench you back hard enough pain tears through your shoulders. “Easy!” “Hold her!” Clouser barely reacts. “Take her inside.” “No!” You twist violently again, panic flashing hotter now the second you realize what that means. “Get the fuck off me!” Then your eyes snap past them. “Joel!” Clouser pauses. His expression shifts slightly at the name. Slowly, his eyes drift past you toward the gunfire beyond the barricades. Toward Joel. Joel sees only you. “Kat!” And something inside him snaps completely.

He rises from cover without hesitation and opens fire again. One Wolf drops instantly. Another barely ducks behind a barricade before bullets rip apart the concrete beside his head. But there are too many. Gunfire explodes from three directions at once, forcing him back behind the ruined ambulance near the curb. Taxi barks frantically through the chaos, still trying to crawl toward you. Joel tries again anyway. Of course he does. The second he breaks cover, two Wolves rush him from the side. One slams into his ribs hard enough to drive him sideways into the wall while another hooks his rifle away violently. Joel elbows the first man directly in the throat. The second gets his nose shattered against Joel’s forehead. Then another Wolf grabs him from behind— Joel throws him over his shoulder hard enough to crack concrete— But someone finally jams a rifle against the back of his knee. “DOWN!” The shot doesn’t fire.

Instead the force behind it kicks Joel’s leg out from under him and drives him heavily onto one knee. Three rifles snap toward his head instantly. One pressed directly against his temple. Joel’s chest heaves violently as rain pours down his face. Still fighting. Still trying to look past them toward you. “Taxi!” he shouts hoarsely. The shepherd answers with another desperate bark somewhere nearby. One Wolf glances toward the injured dog lying near the street. “You want me to kill it?” he asks coldly. Clouser presses a blood-soaked cloth tighter against the ruined side of his head while staggering closer through the rain. “Leave it,” he rasps. “Thing’s practically dead already.” Taxi growls weakly anyway. Joel’s entire body tenses violently at the words. Then Clouser finally stops in front of him. Really looks at him. Recognition flickers slowly across his face beneath the blood. “…Well.” Rain drips steadily from his chin while he studies Joel almost curiously. “You’re Joel Miller.” Joel says nothing. His jaw clenches hard enough to twitch. Clouser lets out a faint disbelieving laugh through the pain. “Hm.” He shakes his head slightly. “Funny.” His ruined ear leaves blood running down his neck. “All this way…” His eyes darken. “Just to walk into your own execution.” Joel barely even processes the words. Doesn’t care. The only thing he’s still looking for is you. One of the Wolves glances toward Clouser questioningly. Clouser gives a small nod.

“If you touch her, I swear to God I’ll—” The rifle butt slams violently into the side of Joel’s head. Pain explodes white behind his eyes. Darkness swallows the rest of the sentence whole.

please don't forget that your thoughts and feelings about this story matter deeply to me so please share them with me. Thank you for being here. 💋

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[jisungandpedrolover]

I'm so nervous for the next chapter, my babies 🥺

Then boots step into view beside your head. Worn leather darkened by rainwater steps into view beside you. Jeans soaked dark at the hems. Holster strapped low against his thigh. One large hand gripping a revolver steady at his side— Your revolver. Your pulse stumbles instantly. Then you see the watch. Cracked glass. Worn leather strap. His broken watch. The one that never leaves his wrist. Your breath catches so sharply it hurts. No. No fucking way. Your eyes lock onto his hand again. Calloused fingers. Faint scars across rough knuckles. You know that hand. God, you know it.

I was on the edge on my seat at this part! loved how you described Joel, so brilliant!!! love love love your writing!

[divaofmads]

ME and the DEVIL

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Female Reader x Bruce Wayne

Chapter VII: He looked at me like a diagnosis

Summary: What Jonathan Crane felt for you looked like love, but it wasn’t; love would’ve wanted to protect you, while Jonathan wanted to bury you inside your fears until the only place you could return to was him, and the moment you started calming down just by breathing beside him, both of you realized how dangerously intimate that had become.

Warnings: Subtle Erotic Undertones (Non-explicit), Jealousy / Envy, Obsessive Behavior, Age Gap Jealousy & Emotional Fixation, Yandere Themes / Possessiveness, Angst, Emotional trauma and guilt, Touch Starvation Themes, Taboo Love, Slow Burn Sexual Tension, Gothic Horror Atmosphere, Forbidden Desire, Manipulation & Gaslighting, Obsessive Love, Dark Romance. English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Dividers by @strangergraphics @cafekitsune

Charlotte Rivers’ apartment stood high above Gotham, in that sterile altitude where people only watched the city’s filth from a distance; glass walls pulled in the violet-black tones of evening, and the flashing siren lights far below softened before they could reach this height, turning into something almost aesthetic. Inside, everything was immaculate: marble counters, neatly arranged files, a laptop left open on an unfinished article, and on the coffee table, folded with quiet significance — The Gotham Gazette.

When Bruce stepped inside, he didn’t even bother closing the door. This wasn’t a visit. It was something more direct — anger, barely contained, arriving exactly where it had been building.

Charlotte hadn’t been expecting him, but she wasn’t surprised either. She simply looked up, her expression calm, already braced — as if she had known this conversation was inevitable. Bruce took a few steps forward, picked up the newspaper from the table, and held it without opening it. He didn’t need to read it; he already knew every line, every word, every consequence.

“You did this,” he said. His voice wasn’t raised, but it wasn’t calm either — there was pressure beneath it, the sound of a man not losing control, but fighting not to.

Charlotte stood, keeping her distance without retreating. This was her space, and she wasn’t going to give that ground up. “Yes,” she said plainly. “I did.” Her shoulders straightened, chin lifting slightly. “Because it needed to be done.”

Bruce finally unfolded the paper, gripping it tight enough to crease it down the middle. His eyes moved across the headline, then the right column, then back again. “Needed?” he repeated, his voice lower now — sharper. “You mean giving Strange time? Letting him clear the tunnels? Erase the evidence?”

He stepped closer.

“Or ending the operation before it even began?”

Charlotte’s brow tightened slightly, but she didn’t step back. Her defense wasn’t emotional — it was logical, and she trusted it. “The truth came out,” she said. “For the first time, this city saw what it’s been living on top of. This is bigger than your secret operations, Bruce. This is public pressure. Accountability.”

She gestured toward the paper. “Nothing changes without this.”

Bruce’s gaze hardened, but his anger wasn’t unfocused — he knew exactly where to direct it. “You killed the timing,” he said. “And you know what that’s going to cost.”

Charlotte tilted her head slightly, a faint tension pulling at the corner of her lips. “I do,” she said. “But you also know that if we waited… someone would have buried all of it.”

“Who is ‘someone,’ Charlotte?” Bruce asked, his voice now sharper, more direct. “Strange… or something bigger than him?”

The question hung in the air. Charlotte didn’t answer — her gaze flickered for a brief second before returning to him.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “The result is the same. This city can’t stay silent anymore.”

Bruce folded the newspaper again — slowly this time. Not because the anger had subsided, but because it had changed shape into something more dangerous. “You didn’t just publish a story,” he said. “You exposed an operation.” A brief pause. His eyes locked onto hers. “And you turned an internal source into an open target.”

This time, Charlotte’s expression shifted — not retreating, but real. “I didn’t name her,” she said quickly. “I protected her.”

Bruce’s gaze cut through that statement. “Not enough.”

Silence stretched between them. A siren wailed somewhere outside, filtering faintly through the glass, but it did nothing to break the tension.

Charlotte inhaled slowly, then stepped closer — this time, she closed the distance. “That’s how you see it,” she said, softer now, but still resolute. “But I did what was right.”

Bruce answered immediately. “What’s right,” he said, “keeps people alive.”

Charlotte’s eyes narrowed; she searched for a response, found it, and delivered it without hesitation. “Or is this,” she said slowly, choosing each word with precision, “not really about keeping people alive?”

Bruce’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze deepened — that brief, dangerous silence that followed a question that hit its mark.

Charlotte leaned in slightly, her voice lowering — more personal now. Or is it…” she continued, “…that I disrupted James Gordon’s plan?”

A pause.

“Or is it,” she said, her eyes never leaving his, “…that she’s the one in danger?”

Her.

The word didn’t echo — but its weight filled the room.

This time, Bruce didn’t answer. But Charlotte didn’t need him to.

When Charlotte’s question lingered in the air, the tension in the room began feeding not only on what had been said, but on the weight of everything left unsaid. Bruce didn’t speak for several seconds, because whatever answer he gave wouldn’t just affect the argument — it would unravel the fragile balance he had built within himself. Finally, he turned his head slightly, his jaw tightening, and his voice returned to that familiar, controlled line — but this time, something else strained beneath it.

“This,” he said slowly, “was an operation. Gordon’s plan. Timing was critical. You…” He paused briefly, his gaze locking back onto Charlotte. “…you destroyed it.”

Charlotte didn’t step back. On the contrary, she moved a few steps closer; she wasn’t allowing Bruce to control the distance anymore, because she had already decided she wouldn’t be the one to retreat in this conversation. “You’re still calling it an operation,” she said, her tone sharpening. “Still calling it a plan.” She lifted her brows slightly, her eyes scanning his face. “But I see something else.”

Bruce’s patience was walking a razor’s edge, but he was still holding it together. “She’s an intern,” he said, firmer now, harder. “Someone who shouldn’t be in the middle of this. You pulled her into this file. You…” He hesitated for a fraction of a second, choosing the word. “…made her visible.”

Charlotte tilted her head slightly, as if she had been waiting for that exact sentence. A faint, almost pained smile touched her lips. “There it is,” she said quietly. “You’re finally starting to say the real reason.”

Bruce’s gaze darkened. “That’s not a reason. That’s—”

“—protective instinct,” Charlotte cut in. “I know. It’s always the same.” She stepped even closer; the space between them was now dangerously thin. “But this time, it’s different.”

“It’s not,” Bruce snapped, his voice tightening.

Charlotte shook her head slowly, as if watching a child deny an obvious truth. “No,” she said. “It is.”

The silence didn’t last long, but it sharpened.

“Because you’re not just protecting her.”

Bruce’s jaw locked. “What are you implying?”

Charlotte’s voice softened — but there was a blade beneath it. “I’m saying,” she said, “you’re not losing your plan over that girl… you’re losing yourself.”

The words hit Bruce. His expression didn’t change, not visibly, but that tiny shift in his gaze — that microscopic crack — was more than enough for someone like Charlotte.

“Father and daughter,” she continued, choosing each word carefully. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

Bruce’s voice dropped lower, darker. “Careful, Charlotte.”

But Charlotte didn’t retreat. She held his gaze without blinking, without flinching. “You’re in love with her, Bruce.”

The room froze. For a moment, Bruce’s breath caught — as if those words hadn’t just reached his ears, but struck something locked deep inside him. “That’s ridiculous,” he said immediately, reflexively — but that slight delay in his voice weakened the denial.

Charlotte lowered her head slightly, almost whispering now, but every word was clear.,“I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

Bruce said nothing.

“I’ve seen how you change when you’re around her.”

Silence.

“And when someone else gets close to her,” Charlotte continued, sharper now, “I’ve seen how you tense.”

Bruce’s fingers curled involuntarily, but he held himself back. This wasn’t a physical threat — it was something far more dangerous, because what Charlotte was saying wasn’t false. It was simply something that was never meant to be said out loud.

“That,” Bruce forced out, “is your interpretation.”

Charlotte let out a soft laugh — not amusement, but certainty.,“No,” she said. “It’s the truth.”She stepped closer. “And you can use that to hate me if you want,” she added, “but you can’t change it.”

Bruce’s gaze hardened — this time reaching a genuinely dangerous edge. His shoulders tensed, his body leaning forward slightly, as if he was on the verge of doing something, not just saying it — something he didn’t want to do, something he shouldn’t do. “Enough,” he said.

But Charlotte didn’t move. “Not enough,” she replied calmly, with brutal clarity. “Because you’re still lying to yourself.”

Bruce took a step forward. “This is over,” he said.

For the first time, Charlotte’s expression truly shifted. “What?”

Bruce didn’t take his eyes off her. “Us,” he said. “It’s over.”

Charlotte took a step back, genuinely shaken now. “No,” she said immediately, shaking her head. “No, this—this doesn’t happen like this.”

Bruce’s voice was cold. “It just did.”

Her breathing quickened. “You’re not serious,” she said. “Over an article—”

“This isn’t about an article,” Bruce cut in. “This was a choice.”

Charlotte shook her head, her eyes hardening. “And now you’re making one too,” she said. “You’re choosing her.”

Bruce didn’t answer. That silence said everything.

Charlotte’s voice didn’t break this time—but it sharpened. “This is a mistake,” she said. “You’ll take it back.”

Bruce stepped away, putting distance between them. “No,” he said.

And then—

The city split open.

The explosion tore through the sky like a crack ripping it in two; the windows trembled, the massive glass behind Charlotte flared white for a single instant before a burst of orange flame climbed upward, tearing through Gotham’s darkness.

Both of them turned toward the window on instinct.

In the distance — but close enough — a building was on fire.

Sirens.

Screams.

Chaos.

For the first time, Charlotte’s expression changed. “What is that—”

Bruce’s already had. His eyes searched the flames for something.

Someone.

And in that moment, they both thought the same thing—

…but only one of them admitted it.

While the echo of the explosion still rang in his chest, Bruce Wayne pulled away from the window without hesitation; there was no time to deliberate. In this city, hesitation was a luxury—and he had buried that luxury long ago.

As he moved toward the door, his steps were sharp, fast, and irreversible. He heard the voice behind him—but he didn’t stop.

“Bruce—” Charlotte Rivers called after him, her voice still carrying the fractured remains of their argument. “I’m coming with you.”

Bruce opened the door, but paused for a brief moment before stepping out. He turned his head slightly; his face fell into shadow, and his gaze closed off completely—not from emotion, but from decision.

“No,” he said. His voice was flat, but unyielding. “Stay here.”

Charlotte took a step forward, no longer the journalist, but someone refusing to stay outside the fight. “This is my story—”

Bruce cut her off mid-sentence. This was no longer a discussion. It was a line being drawn.

“This isn’t a story,” he said, his eyes locking onto hers for a fraction of a second. “It’s a fire.”

A brief pause. Then, lower—sharper: “And you’ve already fueled it enough.”

When the door shut, the silence left behind was heavier than the sirens outside.

Bruce took the stairs two at a time. By the time he stepped outside, the night was no longer the same; the sky was stained with the orange reflection of rising flames in the distance, and the city tensed like a living organism on the verge of losing control.

He reached his car, slammed the door shut, and started the engine—activating his comms at the same time.

“Alfred.”

The response was immediate. Alfred Pennyworth’s voice was as composed as ever, but there was an unusual urgency beneath it. “Sir, I was about to call you. We’re receiving multiple reports of explosions in the city center, particularly—”

“Location,” Bruce cut in, his grip tightening on the wheel. “Nearest active site. Now.”

A brief pause—data streams, keyboard input, system scans humming faintly in the background.

Then Alfred again, faster now, precise. “I’m sending coordinates. Gotham Central District, eastern sector. Not the epicenter of the blast, but… within the impact radius.”

Bruce’s phone vibrated once. The map lit up, the route automatically plotted. His eyes flicked to it for less than a second—enough.

He hit the accelerator.

The city was no longer normal.

The streets were chaos—people running, some shouting, others frozen in place; sirens overlapped, red and blue lights shattered across glass and steel. Bruce cut through traffic with sharp, controlled maneuvers as Alfred continued.

“Following the article,” Alfred said, his voice still controlled but now carrying heavier implications, “several activist groups mobilized rapidly. Protests have begun against the government and Arkham administration.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Go on.”

“However, these gatherings did not remain peaceful for long,” Alfred continued. “According to incoming intelligence, local gangs, organized crime elements, and possible terrorist cells have infiltrated the crowds. The protests… are evolving into coordinated chaos.”

Bruce didn’t take his eyes off the road, but his mind was already assembling the pattern. This wasn’t spontaneous.

It was engineered.

“The explosion?” he asked, short and sharp.

“Highly likely part of this wave of disruption,” Alfred replied. “But the chosen location… is not random.”

The car surged forward, the engine deepening as the city blurred around him.

“What do you mean?”

Alfred paused—a pause that carried weight.

“Sir… near the coordinates I sent, there is a public building.”

Bruce already knew. Still, he asked. “What building?”

Alfred’s voice lowered. “A library.”

Bruce’s grip on the wheel tightened further.

Alfred continued—direct, without hesitation this time: “And according to current information… the last confirmed sighting of Y/N was there.”

Time narrowed in that instant. Bruce’s mind stopped calculating possibilities— It locked onto a target. He pressed harder on the gas.

The city blurred behind him.

And for the first time—

This didn’t feel like a mission.

This was a race to reach someone.

–––

It was past eight in the evening, but inside the library, time had already fractured, severed from the rhythm of the outside world. Part of the ceiling had collapsed; heavy stone and splintered wood had caved into the floors below, shelves lay overturned, and pages—thousands of pages—drifted slowly to the ground with the dust, as if even the words themselves had been crushed beneath the violence. Fires burned in scattered pockets: a curtain being devoured by orange flame in one corner, sparks leaking from exposed electrical wires in another, all fed by the wind pouring in through shattered windows, sending smoke rising in thick layers. There was barely any light; the weak yellow flicker of emergency lamps stretched shadows into something larger, more threatening than they were. Most of the exit signs were broken or displaced. In this building, direction was no longer something you could trust. And yet—you chose to stay in the middle of it.

Instead of running, you turned toward the sounds, trying to find those who needed help. In this city, survival was often measured by how quickly you could save yourself—but there was something in you that resisted that.

“I’m here!” you called out, your voice muffled by the smoke, bouncing through an acoustic chaos that made it impossible to tell where a response might come from. A cough from somewhere, glass shattering from another direction, a distant scream—they overlapped, blurred together, distorting your sense of direction.

Still, you moved forward. Because there was no clear way back anyway.

The first person you found was a woman trapped beneath a fallen shelf. Your hands moved on instinct; you tried to lift the wood, the weight pressing down on your shoulders, but you didn’t let go—because what you saw in her eyes wasn’t just fear. It was surrender.

“Look at me,” you said, forcing your voice to stay steady. “Breathe. We’ll get you out together.”

She nodded, her gaze locking onto yours as if your presence was the only thing keeping her anchored. That was what pushed you forward—not your own fear, but the responsibility that came from seeing someone else’s.

Eventually, you managed to shift the shelf, pulled her free, and guided her toward a relatively open space. You tried to direct her toward an exit—but you weren’t even sure the direction you gave truly led to one. Still, giving direction was better than giving none.

As you moved deeper, the building began to change—not just physically, but in how it felt. When you turned into a corridor, the smoke thinned—but the silence grew. That unsettling, ringing silence. The panic from before faded behind you, replaced by something hollow. The sound of your footsteps crunching over broken glass echoed too loudly in the emptiness, betraying your every movement.

Then you saw them.

Children’s books scattered across the floor—pages torn, covers crushed. Bright colors, unnaturally vivid against the darkness. You took another step. And then you noticed the strings. Thin. Nearly invisible. Hanging from shelves—some snapped, others still intact. At first, you didn’t understand what you were seeing. Then you looked down.

Small wooden fragments. Broken shapes that resembled puppet joints. Half-formed figures tangled in strings. None of them whole. None of them complete. But together—they triggered something in the back of your mind. Something familiar. Your heart quickened. This wasn’t the gas. This was the place. What you were seeing—what you remembered—what you didn’t want to remember. You didn’t stop. Because you knew what stopping meant.

Then you heard something.

Faint. Brief.

A breath—or the sound of something shifting. You couldn’t tell. “Who’s there?” you called, your voice quieter now, sharper.

No answer. But the feeling didn’t leave. The sense that you weren’t alone. It wasn’t panic—yet. It was awareness. Something settling between your shoulders, keeping you alert.

You tried to turn back, to retrace your steps—but the corridor no longer looked the same. Fallen shelves, scattered debris, shifting shadows—everything had altered your sense of direction. When you turned another corner, you entered a lower section of the building. There was no fire here—but the air felt heavier, as if this space had been deliberately preserved, isolated from the chaos outside.

And in that moment, you understood—not exactly how—but that none of this was accidental.

That certain paths had led you here. That certain exits might have been deliberately closed. The thought didn’t fully settle—but it didn’t leave either. Still, you didn’t retreat. Because the possibility that someone might need you always outweighed everything else.

“Is anyone there?” you called again, more careful this time, moving slower. Your fingers brushed against the edge of a fallen shelf as you steadied yourself, your eyes straining to adjust to the dark.

And then—before you saw anything—you felt it. A presence. Not seen. Not heard.

Just… there.

Your breathing slowed instinctively. Your heart still raced—but it wasn’t panic. It was anticipation. Then, movement.

Subtle.

Controlled.

And before you could even turn— the empty space behind you filled.

“Right on time,” a voice said—low, calm, and disturbingly familiar.

Jonathan Crane stepped forward from the darkness; fractured light leaking through stained glass illuminated part of his face, leaving the rest in shadow—as if he carried two different selves at once.

“Even in all this noise,” he continued, his gaze never leaving you, “finding your way here…” He took another step closer. “…impressive.” A pause. “Or,” he added softly, “…inevitable.”

And in that moment, you felt it down to your bones: This place was not an accident. And neither was you being here.

The realization that where you were standing was no longer a coincidence didn’t remain just a passing thought; in that moment, as every piece clicked into place, it sharpened into something real—cold, precise, undeniable. Your breathing was still fast, your heart still hammering against your ribs, but this wasn’t panic anymore. It felt like an equation on the verge of collapse suddenly solving itself. As your eyes adjusted to the darkness and the silhouette of the man in front of you became clearer, the tension inside you shifted—fear giving way to anger, to questioning.

“This…” you said, your voice trembling at first before hardening mid-sentence, “this isn’t an accident.”

Jonathan Crane watched you—openly, without evasion, almost as if studying you. There was that familiar clinical distance in his gaze, but beneath it now lingered something else. Something more personal. Deeper. Dangerous.

“It isn’t,” he said calmly, as though he had never intended to deny it.

The answer silenced you for a brief second—but you didn’t step back. Instead, you took a step forward, closing the distance, because you knew retreat would make you look weak in this moment.

“The Court of Owls,” you said, not breaking eye contact. “This is their doing.”

A barely perceptible shift touched Crane’s lips—not quite a smile, but not denial either.

“And you,” you continued, sharper now, more direct, “you’re part of it. Or at least… close enough.”

The silence that followed was brief but dense. Smoke curled between you, carrying the scent of burning paper. Crane tilted his head slightly—not like someone hearing an accusation, but like someone weighing something he already understood.

“I know them,” he said at last, his voice low and cutting as ever, “but this… isn’t the entirety of their plan.”

“So this is a plan,” you pressed immediately, catching his words before he could step away from them. “And you knew about it.”

This time the silence was heavier.

Crane stepped forward—slowly, deliberately. Not enough to startle you, but enough to remove any easy escape. The distance between you thinned until you could feel the warmth of his breath.

“Yes,” he said, softer now. Almost intimate. “I knew.”

The confession wasn’t as shocking as it should have been—because you already knew it. And yet something inside you still tightened.

“And you still came,” you said, holding his gaze.

“Because you were here.”

That sentence shifted everything.

The smoke still hung thick in the air. The fire still burned. The building was still collapsing around you. But his words carved out a new axis—narrower, more personal, far more dangerous.

“Did you come to save me?” you asked, your tone edged with faint sarcasm—but beneath it was something real.

Crane’s gaze moved across your face. This wasn’t clinical anymore. It wasn’t observation. It felt like… recognition. As if he saw not only who you were in that moment, but every version of you that existed in his mind.

“I came to protect you,” he said.

That word—protect—struck something inside you.

Your mind reacted immediately, rejecting it, wanting to pull away. You knew this man wasn’t someone to trust. You had told yourself that again and again. But your body… your body didn’t process that truth at the same speed. Because his voice, his tone, the way he moved closer to you—somewhere, deep beneath thought, it all felt familiar.

“You expect me to believe that?” you asked—but your voice wasn’t as sharp as before.

Crane stepped closer again. Now there was almost no space between you. Even through the smoke, his presence felt sharper, more defined.

“No,” he said slowly. “But I don’t expect you to deny what you feel either.”

Your heartbeat faltered.

“How do you know what I feel?” you asked—this time with genuine curiosity, and something dangerously close to fear.

His answer came without hesitation.

“Because I know how your fear works,” he said. “And how you… remain standing even inside it.”

It was a compliment. And a diagnosis.

Your eyes locked onto his. You wanted to pull away—but you didn’t. Because part of you knew he was right. And that truth didn’t unsettle you the way it should have. It steadied you.

This was the moment you should have stepped back. But you didn’t. Because the next thing that happened wasn’t entirely conscious.

You moved closer. Your hands found his jacket, gripping it instinctively, and suddenly you were pressed against him. The motion existed somewhere between intention and impulse—a dangerous in-between.

Crane didn’t look surprised.

If anything, it was as if he had expected it.

His hands settled against your back—firm, but not restraining; not loose, but not trapping. Just enough to keep you there without forcing you. His breath brushed against your hair as his voice dropped closer to your ear.,“We need to get out of here,” he said, more practical now, more immediate—yet still carrying that same calm.

You were still against him. And the most dangerous part was this: You should have been afraid.

But you weren’t.

Not entirely.

That realization flickered at the back of your mind like an alarm—but your body didn’t respond fast enough to it. Being close to him… felt wrong.

And yet, somehow—right.

Crane pulled back slightly, but didn’t fully let go. His eyes found yours again—clearer now, more certain.,“This place isn’t safe,” he said. “And this… is only the beginning.”

“Who?” you asked, still that close, your breath mingling with his.

His gaze darkened for a fraction of a second. “Them,” he said simply. It wasn’t enough of an answer. But it was enough for you. Because in the next moment, when he began to guide you—with the subtle pressure of his hand, with the direction in his voice—

You didn’t resist. And somewhere unseen, for those watching this unfold, the conclusion became clear:

You weren’t broken.

But…

You weren’t alone anymore.

Inside the library, it was no longer just a disaster zone—it had become a labyrinth where your sense of direction slowly unraveled, where sounds overlapped until they lost all meaning, where every step erased the certainty of the one before it. Dust drifted down from broken beams in the ceiling, moving slowly in the fire’s orange breath, and the dry crackle of pages crushed beneath your feet sounded unnaturally loud in the hollow silence.

Jonathan Crane, by contrast, was a strange constant in the middle of the chaos. His movement through the smoke wasn’t hurried, wasn’t panicked; if anything, it was detached from the destruction around him—as if the collapsing structure didn’t dictate his pace, but instead he imposed his own rhythm onto it. As you moved with him, even while everything around you continued to fall apart, the steadiness of his steps created an unsettling sense of balance within the disorder.

“This way,” he said quietly, guiding you with a light pressure of his hand.

The touch wasn’t forceful—but it wasn’t open to debate either. It didn’t just suggest a path; it carried the certainty that this was already the only one.

Your mind was still working, still calculating, still reminding you that this man was not someone to trust—but your body wasn’t following that warning at the same speed. Because his voice had become something else in the darkness: a line to hold onto, thin and dangerous, but impossible to let go of if you didn’t want to lose your way.

“This isn’t an exit,” you said, glancing around, gesturing toward the narrow passage formed by broken shelves. Your logic resisted. It still questioned.

Crane turned his head slightly toward you; his eyes found you through the smoke. For a moment, there was something softer in his gaze—but it wasn’t kindness. It was recognition. A calm that came from seeing something familiar.

“The path to the exit,” he said, “is not always the most obvious one.” He paused briefly, then added. “But the safest one is usually… the one I know.”

That was a sentence you should have argued with. But you didn’t. Because in that moment, something broke loose above you—debris crashing down a few meters away, the impact shaking the ground beneath your feet. Instinctively, you moved closer to him; your hands brushed his arm—and then didn’t let go.

Crane noticed. But there was no triumph in it.

Only acceptance.

As if this had always been inevitable.

His hand settled lightly at your back, just above your waist; the pressure was gentle, but directive. When he guided you forward, placing you slightly ahead of him, the distance between you became more than physical—it began to take on a mental closeness as well.

“They brought me here,” you said, your voice still controlled but coming from somewhere deeper now. “Didn’t they?”

Crane didn’t answer immediately. He paused instead, listening to the space around you, then urged you forward again. “They guided you here,” he said at last, choosing his words carefully. “But coming… was your decision.”

“This is a test,” you said, more certain now. “They’re watching me.”

A faint shift touched Crane’s lips—an acknowledgment, but not a direct answer. “Yes,” he said. “They’re watching.”

Your heart quickened again—but not from panic. It was the sharp awareness of understanding the scene you were in. “And you’re one of them,” you added.

Crane didn’t nod. Didn’t deny it. “No,” he said calmly. “But I know what they’re doing.”

“So you knew about this trap.”

“Yes.”

“And you still came.”

This time, he looked at you fully—closer, more intense, as if his gaze cut through the smoke to reach you directly. “Because you were here,” he said again. The second time, the words landed heavier.

You took another step toward him—unintentionally, unconsciously. This closeness wasn’t just about seeking safety anymore. There was something else in it. A pull you couldn’t explain—and didn’t want to.

“I know I shouldn’t trust you,” you said, almost to yourself.

Crane didn’t hesitate. “I know,” he said. “And yet you still come to me.”

That sentence should have stopped you. But it didn’t. Because something collapsed again—far off, in another section. The vibration rolled through the floor, the smoke thickened, and this time you moved closer to him for real. Your hands gripped the fabric of his jacket, your balance faltering—and it was his hands that caught you.

One at your back.,The other at your arm.

Holding you steady.

Not letting go.

“I’m here,” he said, very close now—his voice low enough that only you could hear it. And those two words— felt familiar. Dangerously familiar.

Your breath mingled with his, and for a moment, everything else fell away—the fire, the collapse, the distant shouting. All of it receded until the only thing in your focus was him.

This wasn’t the absence of fear. It was fear… redirected.

“You did this to me,” you said finally, your voice low but clear. “To my mind.”

Crane didn’t pull back. “I didn’t hurt you,” he said.

“You changed me.”

The words hung between you.

His gaze didn’t soften—but it deepened. It wasn’t the look of someone denying the accusation. It was the look of someone accepting it… and justifying it.

“I made you closer to what you are,” he said.

That answer should have frightened you. But it didn’t. Because a part of you—thought it might be true. And that thought—was the most dangerous thing of all.

Crane guided you forward again. You moved through a narrow passage, ducking beneath fallen debris, slipping between broken shelves, until you reached a more open space. The fire burned stronger here, the light brighter—but it was also closer to the outside. Air moved more freely, wind slipping in and dragging the smoke with it.

And in that moment

Even from a distance, the library’s exterior looked like a body split open; its windows blown outward by the force of the explosion, its stone walls cracked in places, and the smoke rising from within drifting into the night like a black curtain. The echo of sirens circled the wreckage, and yet there was something disturbingly clear in the realization that no real intervention had reached this point.

When Bruce Wayne stopped the car, the engine was still trembling—but he was already out, already moving into the darkness. His steps were fast, but not reckless, because this wasn’t just a rescue.

This was a silent war—driven by instinct, fought against the possibility of loss.

The moment he stepped inside, the air changed. Smoke clung to his throat, the sharp scent of burned paper filled his lungs, and the ground shifted slightly beneath each step, reminding him that the structure was no longer safe.,But he didn’t stop.

“Y/N,” he called. At first, his voice was low—but as it echoed through the darkness, it hardened, sharpened, grew more decisive.

No answer.

Only the distant crackle of collapse, the groan of falling debris, the dry snapping of burning shelves.

As he moved deeper, the library’s layout lost all meaning. Shelves had toppled, paths were blocked, exit signs were either broken or pointing the wrong way. And this disorder—it wasn’t random.

It was too structured.

His eyes caught that detail—but his mind refused to process it. Because right now, there was only one thing that mattered.

“Y/N!”

This time, his voice cut sharper.

He turned into a corridor. The ground here was more stable, the smoke thinner—and even that was a warning. Moving away from the fire meant survival. But it also meant isolation.

His steps slowed for a fraction of a second. Because this space felt different.

Too quiet.

Too contained.

Too… prepared.

And then he saw it.

Not the movement first—

The silhouette.

Then both of you.

You stood among fallen shelves and shattered books, your hair tangled in smoke, traces of exhaustion and tension etched across your face—but there was no panic. Not as much as there should have been. And beside you, close enough to nearly touch you, stood Jonathan Crane. His posture was calm—disturbingly controlled—and his proximity to you… didn’t look accidental.

Bruce stopped. Time tightened. And in that brief moment, what he saw wasn’t just two people—it was a picture.

The way you leaned, not toward him, but slightly toward Crane. The way Crane’s hand rested against you, guiding—and you didn’t pull away. The rhythm of your breathing—not panic, but something closer to… alignment.

This wasn’t the scene Bruce expected. This was the one he feared.

Something inside him tightened sharply—something unnamed but unmistakable. Jealousy, guilt, and the loss of control collapsed into a single point. And in that instant, no matter how fast he had come—he understood.

He was too late.

“Y/N.” This time, his voice was lower. But heavier.

When you turned your head, your eyes met his—but what he expected to see wasn’t there.

No fear.

No plea for help.

No movement toward him.

Only… awareness. And that made the tension inside him deepen even further.

Crane turned his head slightly, saw Bruce—and showed no surprise. As if he had expected this moment. As if this encounter had never been outside his design.

The faint, almost invisible expression at the corner of his lips wasn’t a challenge. But it wasn’t innocent either.

He didn’t say, You’re late. But his gaze did.

Bruce took a step forward. Then another.

The distance between you closed—but the tension grew, because this wasn’t just physical space. It was the collision of two different ways of “protecting.”

“Are you okay?” he asked you. But his eyes never left Crane.

The question was simple. But it carried weight.

Before you could answer, Crane’s hand shifted slightly on your shoulder—not to hold, but to guide. And still… it didn’t let go.

“We need to leave,” Crane said quietly.

As if Bruce wasn’t there. As if the decision had already been made.

Bruce’s gaze dropped to that touch. And in that moment, everything inside him sharpened. Because you didn’t pull away.

That small detail—that almost imperceptible lack of movement—expanded in Bruce’s mind, took shape, settled into meaning.

It could have been instinct.

Shock.

A misunderstanding.

But to him—

It was a sign.

And the worst part was this:

That sign left him outside.

“Let her go,” Bruce said. His voice now harder. Clearer. More… personal.

Crane didn’t answer directly. He only looked at you. Then back at Bruce. As if he knew—the line between them would be drawn by you. And that made Bruce angrier. Because for the first time—

This choice wasn’t his to control.

The interior of the library—the narrow space that moments ago had been filled with the breath of three people—had now folded back into its own darkness. Smoke drifted upward in slow layers, the scent of burned pages still hanging in the air, while sparks slipped between collapsed shelves, flickering one last time before dying out.

Even though the tension of the encounter had physically dissipated, its residue lingered in the space—and within that hollow, Jonathan Crane stood motionless. He neither hurried nor moved to leave. It was as if he were replaying what had just happened in his mind, measuring every detail, reassessing every reaction.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze falling to the spot where you had stood moments before. A faint glint appeared in his eyes—cold, calculating, yet disturbingly personal. The corner of his mouth shifted almost imperceptibly; not quite a smile, but the quiet expression of someone who had reached a conclusion.

“Faster than I expected,” he murmured, his voice low enough to dissolve into the smoke, yet clear enough to himself.

He took a step. The crunch of broken glass echoed in the silence. Then he stopped, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his phone. The screen lit up his face for a brief second—and in that light, the expression he wore was far darker than the calm he had shown you.

He dialed from memory.

When the line connected, he didn’t speak immediately. He listened to the breathing on the other end, weighed the silence for a moment—then spoke. His voice was different now: sharper, controlled, belonging to something… else.

“It’s begun,” he said.

The shift in his gaze alone was enough to understand the tone of the conversation. His eyes hardened; that almost softened expression vanished completely.

“No,” he continued. “This isn’t street chaos. This is… directed.”

A brief pause. His eyes lifted toward the fractured ceiling of the library, then lowered again.

“Strange couldn’t generate this kind of reach on his own.”

He listened.

Then gave a slight nod, as if he had already known what the other person was saying.

“Yes,” he said. “I came to the same conclusion.”

He stepped deeper into the shadows; half his face was now completely swallowed by darkness.

“This is about the ones behind him.”

A short silence.

“The Court of Owls.”

Even here, the word carried a colder weight.

Crane’s eyes narrowed, as if a possibility had just come into sharper focus. “Strange… is just a face,” he said. “But the structure behind him… older. More patient.” His fingers traced the edge of the phone absently—not restless, but habitual, the movement of someone thinking. “And what happened tonight…” he paused briefly, “…wasn’t a purge. It was a probe.”

The voice on the other end responded.

Crane’s lips curved faintly.

“Yes,” he said, quieter now. “They’re testing too.”

His gaze drifted again—to where you had stood.

This time, there was more than analysis in his eyes.

There was possession.

“And so am I.”

The words were meant for the other side—but more than that, they were for himself.

The voice on the line rose again; this time Crane answered briefly.

“Not yet,” he said. “Before they make their move…” He paused, exhaled slowly. “…I don’t intend to disrupt the balance.”

A slight tilt of his head.

“Let the shadows remain where they are.”

It sounded like an order. Before ending the call, Crane added one final thing. His voice dropped to almost a whisper—but its weight deepened. “If the Court of Owls has opened this game…” he said, “…then I’ll change the rules.”

He ended the call.

For a moment, he remained still. He didn’t leave. Didn’t move. As if there was one last thing he needed to fix in his mind before stepping away. Then, slowly, he lifted his head. His gaze returned to that same spot—where you had stood. And this time, there was clarity in it.

A decision.

“I won’t hide you anymore,” he murmured.

The words were spoken into emptiness.

But their weight—belonged to what was coming next.

The air in the Batcave had always carried the scent of metal, dust, and suppressed anger—but tonight, another smell clung to it: the heavy odor of burned paper and smoke-soaked stone. Your clothes still carried the collapse of the library; the soot tangled in your hair dragged those dark corridors back into your mind with every breath. Shadows hanging from the cavern’s towering ceiling fractured beneath the cold glow of computer screens, while massive monitors flickered with live feeds from across Gotham: burning streets, police barricades, screaming civilians, masked criminals weaving through protests.

The city wasn’t merely afraid anymore.

The city was breaking apart.

You sat on the edge of the medical platform while carefully cleaned the cuts along your arm. His touch carried the steady confidence of old hands long accustomed to keeping people together, and in the harsh mechanical atmosphere of the Batcave, it created an oddly human warmth. When the alcohol touched the wound, your breath hitched involuntarily, but you didn’t make a sound. Alfred noticed. He glanced at you over the rim of his glasses; there was concern in his expression, but also a seriousness that never once diminished you.

“The entire eastern line of the city is locked down,” he said calmly, though his tone carried weight as he secured a fresh bandage. “After the library explosion, the public turned the area around Arkham into a protest zone. The police have sealed the primary entrances to the forgotten tunnels.” He paused briefly before adding, “And unfortunately, it’s not only protesters in the streets anymore… opportunists have joined them.”

A few meters away, didn’t answer. He stood before the Batcomputer; one monitor displayed Arkham’s old infrastructure plans, another scanned maps of the underground tunnels, while a third played distorted security footage. Parts of his armor had been removed, but he still didn’t entirely look like Bruce Wayne. The stiffness in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw, the intensity with which he stared at the screens—it all revealed that Batman hadn’t fully left the cave. But you could tell his attention wasn’t truly on the monitors. Because every time he looked at you, something in his gaze changed. And inside that change lingered the shadow of what he had seen in the library:

Crane’s hand against your back.

The way you had stood close to him.

And worst of all—

the fact that you hadn’t been afraid of him.

“The western drainage line collapsed,” Bruce said at last. His voice was flat, but too controlled—the kind of control people used when forcing something down. His fingers entered a few more commands, another section of the map expanding across the screen. “The main entrance is unusable. Even if we got past the police barricades, movement inside would be impossible.”

You straightened slightly; your shoulder protested immediately, but you ignored it. “The old morgue connection,” you said quickly. “There was an unregistered service tunnel in Arkham’s north wing. Crane once…" You stopped halfway through the sentence.

That was the mistake.

Bruce’s fingers froze over the keyboard.

The silence in the cave suddenly felt heavier.

Even Alfred slowed his movements for a brief moment.

Bruce didn’t lift his head, but his shoulders tightened; only someone watching him carefully would have noticed.

“Crane told you that?” he asked finally.

The question was simple. The tone wasn’t.

You felt it immediately. “No,” you answered, speaking faster than you intended despite not wanting to sound defensive. “I saw it while reviewing archival layouts during the internship. Those tunnels were used by maintenance crews.”

This time, Bruce looked at you.

The glance was brief, but sharp. Not pure anger—something darker, more restrained. Because this wasn’t really about the tunnels.

It was about the invisible line inside him that tightened every time Jonathan Crane’s name surfaced.

“That’s too dangerous,” he said.

“For Batman?” you shot back immediately, exhaustion sharpening your voice into a challenge. “Or for me?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

The blue glow of the Batcomputer lit half his face while leaving the other half in shadow—just as Gotham itself seemed to split him in two.

“For both,” he said quietly.

“Half the city is trying to kill itself in the streets right now because we found Strange’s lab,” you said, turning fully toward him now. “And if we don’t get into those tunnels, every piece of evidence will disappear.”

Bruce stepped toward you. Not aggressively, but with certainty.

“Those tunnels are collapsing.”

“I’m not afraid.”

The moment the words left your mouth, his expression changed. Because Bruce knew they were true. That was the problem.

Your lack of fear.

Or rather, the fact that fear didn’t stop you.

And another thought he didn’t want was still lodged in his mind: in the library, standing beside Crane, you had looked exactly the same. You had been injured, your breathing uneven—and still, you had moved toward him. After seeing that, Bruce could no longer suppress things as easily as before.

“This isn’t courage,” Bruce said, his voice harder now. “It’s throwing yourself into the fire.”

“You’ve been doing that for years.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m learning.”

That answer changed the air between you.

For several seconds, Bruce said nothing. There was anger in his stare, but beneath it moved something far more dangerous—fear. Because for the first time, he wasn’t seeing you merely as someone who needed protection anymore.

He was beginning to see you as someone truly stepping into Batman’s world. And he hated it. Because even imagining you inside that world was tearing him apart from the inside.

Alfred quietly stepped back. As he gathered the medical instruments with slow, deliberate movements, he watched the two of you for a moment before clearing his throat softly.

“I suspect,” he said in his usual polite tone, though there was unmistakable intent beneath it, “that the two of you have quite a few things left to discuss.”

Bruce never took his eyes off you. And you didn’t look away from him either. When Alfred disappeared toward the upper platform where the light faded into shadow, the Batcave suddenly felt larger, quieter, and far more dangerous. The hum of the computer systems could no longer fill the silence between you.

Bruce took another step closer. And in that moment, the tension inside the cave stopped being only about the Arkham tunnels.

The silence inside the Batcave grew heavier after Alfred disappeared onto the upper platform; the cavernous emptiness beneath the earth was now filled only with the low hum of computer screens, and even that mechanical sound wasn’t enough to smother the tension between you. Gotham’s underground tomb had always been cold, but tonight the coldness wasn’t only in the air—it lived in the stiffness of Bruce’s shoulders, in the way he kept looking away from you, in whatever he was trying so hard to force down every time he breathed. The smell of smoke still clung to him. Burned paper lingered in your hair, soot stained your clothes, and the thin cuts along your skin kept dragging him back to an image he clearly didn’t want to relive:

Crane touching you.

For several seconds, said nothing. The blue light of the Batcomputer split across the sharp lines of his face, hardening the tension in his jaw and deepening the exhaustion beneath his eyes. But exhaustion wasn’t the real problem.

The real problem was that the things he was used to controlling were beginning to slip from his grasp.

Gotham’s chaos, Strange, the Court of Owls—those were solvable problems to him. But what he had seen in the library—your closeness to Jonathan Crane, the fact that you hadn’t been afraid of him, the way you had instinctively held onto him—none of that felt solvable.

And you could feel it.

Because every time Bruce looked at you, something in his eyes hardened for the briefest moment before he forced himself to look away again, as though part of him wanted to see you while another part hated what he saw. The longer the silence stretched, the more restless the tension inside you became, until finally you spoke, because saying nothing felt heavier than speaking.

“You’re acting like this because of Crane.”

Your words didn’t echo through the cave, but they hit Bruce immediately; his shoulders tightened, his gaze flicked instinctively toward you before snapping back to the screens. It wasn’t denial.

It was the reflex of someone being struck directly on a wound.

“This isn’t about Crane,” he said at last, his voice low and far too controlled.

You let out a short, breathless laugh—tired, but sharp. “No?” you asked quietly as you slid off the medical platform. “Because that’s not what it looks like to me.”

This time, Bruce turned fully toward you.

The distance between you wasn’t large, but it carried enough electricity to make the dim light of the cave feel intimate and dangerous at the same time. Shadows swallowed half your faces, making the conversation feel far too personal.

“You were standing in the middle of death back there,” he said harshly. “And you—” He cut himself off. Because he didn’t want to say the rest. But you wanted to hear it.

“And I what?” you asked, your voice softer now.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. His eyes flickered briefly to your shoulder—to the place where Crane had held you. The glance was so quick that someone else might have missed it.

You didn’t. And in that moment, you understood: this wasn’t only fear.

It was something more physical. More instinctive. “I saw him touch you,” Bruce said finally.

The air inside the cave shifted.

The moment the words left his mouth, he looked away from you again, as though even he could hear the weight of what he had admitted. His hand tightened hard against the edge of the Batcomputer; it looked like anger, but beneath it was something else entirely—helplessness. Because he couldn’t get the image out of his head.

Crane’s hand against your back. The way you moved toward him. The fact that Bruce had arrived a few seconds too late.

“Bruce—”

“And you weren’t afraid,” he continued, his voice lower this time, a fracture hidden beneath every word. “That’s the real problem.”

Silence settled over the cave again, but now it was different—more personal, more exposed.

You stepped closer to him because you wanted to see what he was really feeling.

“Do you want me to be afraid of him?” you asked.

Bruce shook his head slightly, though the answer didn’t come right away. And when his eyes finally met yours again, you saw the crack inside him more clearly than ever before—a fear buried beneath Batman’s discipline, something he hadn’t allowed anyone to see in years.

“When I looked at you standing beside him…” he said slowly, as though every word hurt to force out, “…it felt like I was losing you.”

Your heartbeat stumbled. Because Bruce Wayne was not someone who confessed easily—especially not his fears, especially not fears that involved you. But the man standing in front of you now was fighting something far more personal than Gotham’s darkness. And feeling that created a warmth inside you you didn’t want. But at the same time, another thought surfaced.

Charlotte.

The name moved through your chest like a thin, sharp blade of jealousy, and before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out.

“There’s still Charlotte.”

Bruce’s expression shifted; the name caught him off guard, but he didn’t retreat. For a few long seconds, he simply looked at you before exhaling slowly.

“I know,” he said.

“No, you don’t,” you answered immediately, your voice sharpening as the insecurity you’d been trying to suppress finally surfaced. “You look at me like that in the library, and now you’re saying these things to me, but then you’ll go back to Charlotte and—”

“I won’t.”

He cut you off so quickly the rest of your sentence died in your throat. Bruce stepped closer. Now the distance between you was close enough to feel his breath. His face remained half-shadowed, but his eyes were completely open now. He wasn’t looking away anymore. “It’s over,” he said quietly, but with absolute certainty.

Your breath caught involuntarily. “What?”

“With Charlotte.” He paused, his eyes moving across your face as though he were finally allowing himself to stop suppressing something he’d buried for years. “It should’ve ended a long time ago.”

There was guilt in that confession. But no regret.

“When?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper now.

Bruce lowered his head slightly. His eyes closed for a moment before lifting back to yours.

“When I saw you with him in the church…” he said—and even without speaking Crane’s name, both of you knew exactly who he meant. “…I stopped lying to myself.”

The air in the cave grew heavier.

Bruce was standing very close to you now. The scent of smoke still clung to him, mixing with the ash and burn marks still covering you. He lifted his hand, but didn’t touch you immediately; his fingers stopped only inches from your face, as though he knew crossing that final line would mean there was no going back.

“I never wanted this,” he admitted honestly, his voice sounding truly exhausted for the first time. “I didn’t want you in this world. I didn’t want you near Batman. And I never wanted you anywhere near Crane.”

Finally, his fingers touched your cheek.

The contact was slow, careful, and painfully personal; his hand lingered against your skin for several seconds too long, as though he needed to convince himself that you were really there.

“But now…” Bruce’s voice dropped into almost a whisper, his breath close enough to brush your lips, “…being away from you feels more dangerous.”

And in that moment, it felt as though all the coldness of the Batcave was melting beneath the heat building between you.

The air inside the Batcave was heavy—not only because of the cave’s natural cold, but because the emotions that had been suppressed for hours were finally beginning to fracture beneath the surface. Blue light from the computer screens broke across the stone walls, while the mechanical hum echoing from the depths of the cavern pulsed beneath the silence between you like a low heartbeat. But no sound could smother the tension created by the fact that Bruce was standing this close to you anymore.

The smell of smoke still clung to him, mixing with the scent of burned paper lingering against your skin, turning the air between you strangely warm and suffocating. Bruce’s fingers were still resting against your cheek, and the carefulness of that touch unsettled you more than anything else—because you could feel him trying to hold himself back, as though he knew that if he truly touched you, he would cross a line he could never return from.

But he wasn’t pulling away.

Neither were you.

His breath brushed your face now. It wasn’t uneven, but it was too controlled; people only breathed like that when they were trying desperately not to lose control. When his eyes dropped briefly to your lips, your heart slammed hard against your ribs, because there were years buried in that look—longing, guilt, fear, jealousy, and the devastating realization of how deeply the thought of losing you had affected him. Especially after seeing you beside Crane. That image hadn’t left his mind, and you could feel it.

“Bruce…” you whispered, though your voice came out far more breathless than you intended.

Bruce didn’t close his eyes. He refused to stop looking at you, as though he knew that if he looked away, he might still be able to regain control of himself.

“I shouldn’t do this,” he said finally, but there was no conviction in the words. It sounded more like a warning—the last thing he was saying to himself.

“Then don’t,” you answered softly, but you didn’t step back.

That was the mistake.

Because whatever final line Bruce still had left inside him shattered in that moment.

The pressure of his hand against your cheek deepened slightly—not rough, but possessive—and the next few seconds moved so slowly it felt as though time itself had thickened around you. Bruce rested his forehead against yours first, closing his eyes as his breath trembled just above your lips, like he was genuinely trying to stop himself one last time.

Then he tilted his head slightly.

And finally kissed you.

The kiss didn’t begin harshly.

If anything, it was terrifyingly careful.

Bruce wasn’t rushing. The movement of his lips against yours was slow, deep, almost cautious—but beneath that restraint was such intense suppression that your breath caught involuntarily. And when he trapped your lower lip between his own, you felt the wild hunger hidden beneath all that control. Slowly, as though he wanted to memorize every part of you, he drew your lips between his, and the warmth and softness of that moment surged through your entire body.

Your hands instinctively curled into the front of his suit, and Bruce inhaled sharply at the feeling, the sound muffled between your mouths.

“God…” he murmured against your lips, his voice roughened and frayed.

It sounded less like desire than surrender.

When Bruce kissed you again, he let himself fall deeper into it this time; his lips lingered longer against yours, your breaths tangled together, and the coldness of the cave seemed to disappear completely. The innocence of the first touch dissolved into something wetter, hotter, unbearably impatient. A muffled sound escaped him into your mouth as his breath merged with yours.

When he drew your upper lip between his lips and kissed you with a slow, aching intensity, a sharp wave of electricity rolled through your body hard enough to make your knees weaken. The instant Bruce felt it, his hand tightened around your waist, sealing you against him. You could feel more than the hardness of his chest now—you could feel the way his entire body responded to you with every breath, the restrained pulse of desire beneath muscles held together by sheer discipline.

Then his lips parted slightly. And when the tip of his tongue touched yours for the first time, time stopped completely.

The contact was impossibly warm, impossibly intimate. The slow meeting of your mouths felt too honest for words; every unspoken confession, every buried feeling, every year of restraint came alive in that single moment. As Bruce deepened the kiss, it no longer felt merely physical—it felt like he was opening the darkest parts of himself to you.

Moisture gathered where your lips met, catching the faint blue light every time you separated just enough to breathe before finding each other again.

Bruce’s fingers slid deeper into the hair at the back of your neck as he tilted your head slightly, deepening the kiss further. Now your mouths moved against each other with a hungrier, more demanding rhythm. Every slow pull of his lips, every deeper kiss, dragged a rough, restrained sound from his throat—proof that the wildness he had spent years suppressing was finally slipping free.

His breath burned against your skin now.

When you finally broke apart long enough to breathe, both of you were genuinely breathless. But Bruce didn’t move away. Instead, his lips trailed down to your jaw, then lower to your neck, leaving warm, damp kisses against your skin. You could feel the heat of his mouth everywhere he touched you.

His forehead rested against yours again. His eyes were half-lidded now, and for the first time his breathing had truly become uneven. Gotham’s most controlled man looked shaken by the simple act of touching you.

His thumb brushed slowly across your cheek before his eyes drifted back to your lips.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he said in a low, almost broken voice.

Your heart lurched again.

Because he wasn’t saying it like an accusation.

He sounded like someone who was terrified of it—and still didn’t want to stop.

Before you could answer, Bruce kissed you again. This time the kiss was deeper, more open, more honest. His lips stayed against yours longer, his breath tangled with yours, and when you pulled him closer by the front of his suit, a restrained breath escaped his throat.

His hands were entirely focused on you now; one remained at your waist while the other moved slowly beneath your neck, and with every second of his touch you could feel how desperately he was still trying to be careful with you. But that carefulness wasn’t enough anymore. Because while Bruce kissed you, he was finally letting go of everything he had spent years trying to suppress.

And both of you could feel it.

In the cold heart of the Batcave, beneath the blue glow of computer screens, Bruce Wayne touching you made the chaos consuming Gotham feel distant for a few stolen minutes. And that was exactly what made it dangerous—because both of you knew it wouldn’t last.

Bruce’s hand slid lower along your back before he lifted you effortlessly into his arms; the movement was so natural, so strong, that your breath trembled between your lips. A second later he sat you on the edge of the worktable, and the cold metal against your body made you shiver softly—but Bruce stepped between your legs immediately, his tall frame settling there until the cold vanished completely. He was so close now that your breaths tangled together, every movement instinctively answering the other. His hands rested on your waist, but the pressure of his fingers became more possessive with every passing second, sending your heartbeat racing even faster.

“Bruce…” you whispered breathlessly, but even the way you said his name had become something else now.

Bruce tilted his head slightly; his lips brushed the edge of your jaw, then drifted toward your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. His grip tightened around your waist, and when you instinctively leaned closer to him, a restrained breath escaped his throat. The sound was small, but it carried the crack of something that had been held back for years.

“Don’t do this to me,” he murmured, his lips still close to your skin, voice rough and low.

“Do what?”

Bruce lifted his eyes to yours, and there was something in them now that could no longer be hidden. “Act like I could ever let you go.”

Your heart slammed hard against your ribs.

When his lips moved against yours again, deeper this time, you leaned into him without thinking; your hands slid from his shoulders to the back of his neck, and another muffled breath broke from Bruce. That sound alone was enough to ruin you, because Bruce Wayne was not a man who lost control easily. But the uneven rhythm of his breathing, the tightness of his hold on you, the way he kept coming back to your lips again and again—it all revealed how long something beneath all that discipline had been buried alive.

“Breathe,” he murmured, resting his forehead briefly against yours. But his own breathing was uneven now too.

A faint smile touched your lips, still only inches from his. “You’re not breathing either.”

For a few seconds Bruce’s eyes wandered slowly over your face—your lips, your neck, your disheveled hair. Then he kissed you again, slower this time, but more intense. His hands slid upward from your waist, fingers moving heavily along the fabric over your back, and your entire body tightened involuntarily beneath his touch. The lights of the Batcave blurred behind your eyes until the only thing that felt real anymore was him.

When you finally pulled back for air, your head tipped slightly backward; Bruce’s lips left brief, burning kisses along your jaw and just beneath your neck, and your heart lurched violently again. Feeling it, Bruce closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, as though making one final attempt to stop himself.

“Bruce…” Your voice trembled this time.

“I know,” he said immediately, his voice roughened. “God, I know.”

But he didn’t pull away.

If anything, he moved closer. His forehead rested briefly against your shoulder, his breath warm on your skin, one of his hands gripping the fabric at your waist without meaning to. In that moment he no longer looked like the most dangerous man in Gotham—just a tired man who couldn’t stop touching you.

“What happens now?” you finally asked, still breathless; and both of you knew the question wasn’t only about the way you were holding each other.

Bruce kept his eyes closed for several seconds before finally lifting his head. “Arkham,” he said quietly. “I’m looking for another entrance to the Forgotten Tunnels. The protests made the main access unusable, but the old morgue connection might still work.”

You watched him carefully; his lips were still flushed from kissing you only minutes earlier, and the sight alone made it difficult to think clearly. Still, a small smile appeared on your face.

“So we’re finally going together.”

Bruce’s hands stopped instantly against your waist.

His expression sharpened; the warmth from moments ago hadn’t vanished completely, but it was already giving way to that familiar Batman severity. “No,” he said immediately.

You lifted a brow slightly, as though this had already been decided. “Bruce.”

“No,” he repeated, firmer this time. “This isn’t up for discussion.”

But he was still standing between your legs.

Still touching you.

And that contradiction made his words almost impossible to believe.

When you noticed it, a small, breathless smile touched the corner of your mouth. “A minute ago you were kissing me,” you said softly. “Now you’re giving orders?”

Bruce’s eyes darkened—not with anger, but with the tension of a man trying desperately to regain control of himself. He didn’t remove his hands from your waist, but he leaned back slightly, as though he knew that if he stayed any closer he’d only end up kissing you again.

“This isn’t a game,” he said sharply. “You saw what happened in the library.”

“And I’m still here.”

“That’s exactly the problem.” Bruce’s voice suddenly deepened with intensity. “You still think this won’t break you.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but Bruce continued before you could speak. Now there was something in his voice beyond protectiveness—something dangerously close to tenderness wrapped in anger.

“If I go in there, all the attention will be on me,” he said. “But if you’re beside me…” He cut himself off abruptly, jaw tightening. Because he didn’t want to say the rest aloud.

Because the rest was:

I’m afraid of losing you.

And both of you already knew it.

Bruce’s last sentence seemed to linger in the cave long after he said it. The stone walls of the Batcave were used to swallowing sound, but some words refused to disappear—especially when they came from Bruce Wayne. His hands were still on your waist; he wasn’t pushing you away, but at the same time he was holding on just a little too tightly, as if he were afraid that if he really let go, Gotham’s darkness would swallow you whole. The hard surface of his armor pressed against your legs, his breathing was still uneven, and in the middle of it all, what you saw in Bruce’s eyes shook you more deeply than you expected: not Batman’s fear, but Bruce’s.

You breathed in slowly. Your lips still carried the warmth of his kiss, the ghost of his breath lingered against your neck, and your entire body still felt overheated from the closeness you had shared only minutes earlier. But the tension between you was no longer only physical now; it had shifted into something heavier, more dangerous. Because for the first time, Bruce wasn’t simply telling you not to go. For the first time, he was openly showing you that the thought of losing you would truly destroy him.

“You think you can fix this by protecting me,” you finally said. Your voice came out soft, but there was restrained hurt beneath it. One of your hands still rested against his shoulder; beneath your fingers you could feel how tightly his muscles had locked. “But by keeping me out of it… you’re already losing me.”

Bruce’s gaze snapped immediately back to your face.

The words hit him like a physical blow.

Because they were true.

And Bruce Wayne had spent his entire life unable to escape the cruelest truths.

His breathing grew heavier. There was no anger in his eyes as he looked at you now—only something more vulnerable. He lowered his head slightly, as though trying to choose his words carefully before speaking, though the problem wasn’t that he didn’t know what to say.

The problem was that he knew exactly what he felt.

“You weren’t born into this,” he said at last, his voice low and intense. “I was.”

“No,” you answered immediately, without backing away. “You chose it.”

That silenced him.

The blue glow of the Batcomputer sharpened the hard lines of his face as he stared at you for several long seconds, as though reevaluating you—not as someone who simply needed protection anymore, but as someone capable of making her own choices. And that realization unsettled him. Because you were no longer the girl standing at the edge of the cave, looking into Batman’s world from a safe distance.

You were walking into it now.

And the more Bruce realized he couldn’t stop you, the more personal his fear became.

Then his hands slowly slipped away from your waist.

It wasn’t abrupt.

It was gentle.

But you understood exactly what he was doing.

He was trying to pull back.

Maybe not physically, but emotionally; trying to gather up the control he had lost while kissing you, trying to force logic back between the two of you. When he shifted slightly, as though to let you step down from the platform, you instinctively caught his wrist.

Bruce stopped.

His eyes dropped immediately to your fingers.

Then lifted back to yours.

“Do you really think you can leave me behind?” you asked quietly.

The question didn’t echo through the cave, but you could see it echo inside him. You felt it in the way his jaw tightened again, in the unevenness of his breathing, in the brief moment his eyes closed. Because maybe he wanted to leave you behind—but for the first time, he was truly understanding that it was no longer possible.

“You don’t understand,” he finally said. This time his voice sounded tired rather than hard. “Crane… I can see what he left in you.”

The moment you heard the name, tension shifted inside you again. Bruce noticed immediately; his gaze moved across your face with Batman’s relentless attention, missing nothing.

“You don’t know what he’s done to you,” he continued quietly. “The way you looked at him in the library…” He stopped. He didn’t want to finish the sentence.

But he did anyway.

“It was like you trusted him.”

Your chest tightened, because there wasn’t only jealousy in those words.

There was hurt too.

You stayed silent for a few seconds before stepping slightly closer to him again. When the distance between you narrowed, Bruce’s breathing changed, but he still didn’t pull away.

“And what about you?” you asked.

Bruce’s brow furrowed faintly.

“What?”

“What you’ve done to me… is that any different?”

The question caught him completely off guard.

Something painfully rare flashed across his face then: vulnerability. Because you weren’t only talking about Crane. You were saying that Bruce affected you too. That he pulled you toward him. That he wouldn’t let you go. And Bruce could no longer deny it.

The silence deepened.

The only thing left in the cave was the sound of your breathing.

At last Bruce lowered his head slightly; his forehead rested against yours again, and when he closed his eyes you felt the faint tremor that passed through his shoulders. It wasn’t Batman trembling.

It was a man who had held himself together like stone for years finally beginning to tire.

“I did everything I could,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “To keep you away from this. From Batman… from Gotham… from me.”

His hand rose to your face again; his thumb moved slowly across your cheek before he lifted his eyes back to yours. And now there was an honesty in them that had finally stopped fighting.

“And now,” he said, his breath close enough to brush your lips, “I’m terrified this city is going to take you away from me.”

And with that sentence, every wall between you finally began to crack.

The air inside the Batcave had grown heavy not only from emotional tension, but from the familiar silence of war that always settled in before an operation. Even though the warmth of what had passed between you only minutes earlier still lingered against your skin, the rhythm of the cave was beginning to shift again. When Bruce stepped back, it didn’t feel like rejection; it felt more like the harsh discipline of a man forcing himself back into being Batman.,But this time, there was one important difference:,He wasn’t trying to leave you behind anymore. He just wasn’t fully ready to stop fighting it yet.

As the massive Batcomputer screens flickered back to life, blue map lines spread across the dark stone walls of the cave; old Gotham infrastructure, Arkham’s long-abandoned service routes, underground drainage systems, and forgotten passageways connected to the hospital morgue unfolded layer by layer across the monitors. Bruce stayed silent for several seconds, his fingers moving rapidly yet precisely over the keyboard, the focused expression on his face sharpening more with every passing moment.

He was becoming Batman again—the version of himself built to solve problems.

And yet you could still feel the presence of the man beneath that cold concentration, the man who hadn’t forgotten the way he had kissed you only moments ago.

Alfred Pennyworth adjusted his glasses slightly as he studied the maps over Bruce’s shoulder. The glow of the cave lights deepened the lines on his older face, but his eyes remained sharp and attentive.

“The northern morgue line,” he said at last, pointing toward one of the thin routes at the bottom of the map. “Official records list it as sealed, but according to Gotham’s older hospital plans, there used to be a service elevator here.”

Bruce acknowledged it with a brief nod. “It was shut down after the fire,” he said. “That’s why the police aren’t monitoring it.”

“Which is exactly why the Court would use it,” you said without thinking.

Bruce’s gaze snapped toward you immediately.

That look no longer surprised you; when you spoke, he listened now. Truly listened. When Batman focused his full attention on someone, it changed the rhythm of their breathing instinctively, because Bruce Wayne didn’t just analyze words—he analyzed hesitation, pauses between breaths, even where your eyes drifted while you thought.

“How do you know?” he asked.

You stepped closer to the Batcomputer, the cold glow of the monitors illuminating your face and making the traces of smoke and soot still visible on your skin.

“Crane used to say old structures were more useful than modern security systems,” you said slowly. “Especially Arkham’s abandoned service sectors. Because nobody ever thinks to check the old blueprints.” You paused briefly before adding, “Once, he told me the northern morgue line had been used off-record for years. Not by maintenance crews… by experimental transport teams.”

The moment you said it, Bruce’s expression hardened again.

Jonathan Crane’s name changed the atmosphere of the cave every single time it was spoken; by now you could feel it clearly. Bruce said nothing, but you saw his jaw tighten once more. Because for him, this was no longer just about Crane being dangerous.

Crane had gotten inside your head.

And every time Bruce thought about that, something deeply physical and deeply restrained twisted inside him.

But this time Alfred didn’t stay silent.

“Master Bruce,” he said calmly, though with deliberate emphasis, “underestimating her would be a serious mistake.”

Bruce looked toward Alfred.

Alfred continued, his voice carrying its usual politeness, though there was a subtle sense of defense beneath it. “She’s the one who extracted information from inside Arkham. She’s the one who found Strange’s laboratory. And at the moment, she’s also the one giving us the only viable route we have.” He turned his head slightly toward you. “It isn’t difficult to understand why Dr. Crane trusted her.”

Bruce did not like that sentence.

You saw it immediately.

Because Alfred had unintentionally touched the exact thing that unsettled Bruce most: Jonathan Crane had trusted you. Had taken you seriously. Had brought you into his dark world. And now Bruce was slowly being forced to accept that he could no longer keep you outside of it.

The silence stretched for several seconds.

Then Bruce exhaled heavily and closed the map on the Batcomputer.

“We leave in ten minutes,” he said in a short, decisive tone.

You looked at him instinctively.

This wasn’t a discussion anymore.

It was acceptance.

Bruce seemed to realize that too, because his eyes met yours briefly; there was still fear in them, but now there was resolve as well. Then he turned and walked deeper into the cave, the dark plates of his armor casting heavy shadows beneath the low lighting.

After a few seconds of hesitation, you followed him.

This section of the Batcave was darker; lined with weapon lockers, equipment panels, tactical shelves, and half-shadowed technological stations. When Bruce opened one of the large metal cabinets, rows of carefully organized gear came into view: cables, compact light modules, cutting tools, protective masks—all arranged with military precision.

After collecting several items with his back still turned to you, Bruce finally looked over his shoulder. When he held out a dark fabric mask, the cave lights caught faintly against the matte black material between his fingers.

“You’re wearing this,” he said.

You took the mask from him; the inside contained layered filters, heavy but high quality beneath your fingertips.

“What is it?”

Bruce watched you for several seconds before stepping closer. As the distance between you narrowed again, the warmth of the kiss you’d shared moments earlier returned instinctively. Because Bruce’s voice had lowered again, and even while handing you equipment, his gaze briefly dropped to your lips.

“There could be old chemicals in the tunnels,” he said. “Mold, combustible gas, degraded experimental compounds… we don’t know what they hid down there.”

Then he reached out and fitted the mask onto your face himself.

The gesture was unnecessary. And both of you knew it. But Bruce did it anyway.

As his fingers carefully adjusted the straps behind your ears, his breath brushed softly against your cheek; the touch felt too slow, too personal. When you stayed still and looked at him, Bruce held your gaze for several long seconds.

For a moment, the rest of the cave disappeared again.

“Get ready,” he said at last, his voice still low. “Your first real mission is waiting for you.”

Jonathan Crane’s estate was one of those places that felt severed from the rest of Gotham; while the city’s rotten heart screamed in the streets, while protests tangled with police sirens and newspapers kept Hugo Strange’s name pinned across their front pages, this old manor remained silent, as though it belonged to another century entirely. Dry ivy crawled across the exterior stone walls, shifting faintly in the wind, and the rain-darkened masonry looked like gravestones beneath the moonlight.

When Charlotte Rivers stepped out of the car, even the sound of her heels striking the stone path felt too sharp in the silence. She still carried traces of the fight from earlier that evening—disheveled hair, hastily repaired makeup, and the hardened anger of wounded pride. The alcohol in her system hadn’t ruined her movements, but it had sharpened her emotions; every thought felt more pointed, every jealousy more raw.

When the door opened, Jonathan Crane’s expression didn’t change.

He wore a dark shirt with the top buttons left undone, and when he looked at Charlotte through his glasses, there was neither surprise nor pleasure on his face. That unsettled her in a way she hated, because this was the most frightening thing about Jonathan Crane:

He stayed calm even when everyone else was falling apart.

The long corridor behind him was dimly lit; the house glowed with low amber lighting, heavy bookshelves and antique wooden furniture making the manor feel even more suffocating. The moment Charlotte stepped inside, she caught the mingled scent of old paper, medicine, and something dry that faintly resembled incense.

“Dr. Rivers,” Crane said softly as he closed the door behind her. “I wasn’t expecting you at this hour.”

Charlotte let out a short, bitter laugh. When she dropped her purse onto the table, the sound of the glass bottle inside echoed faintly.

“I wasn’t expecting Bruce Wayne to leave me for an intern either.”

The sentence landed in the room like a knife.

Jonathan’s face didn’t change.

But Charlotte saw his eyes.

And for the first time, she truly felt disturbed.

Because there was jealousy in Jonathan Crane’s gaze—but not the kind an ordinary man would feel. It was quieter than that. Deeper. More possessive. As though the information hadn’t angered him so much as confirmed a thought that had already been growing inside him for a long time.

Crane walked slowly toward the bar. His movements weren’t rushed; if anything, they were frighteningly controlled. As he poured a drink into a crystal glass, he spoke over his shoulder.

“I never considered Bruce Wayne’s decisions emotionally consistent to begin with.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes, but the anger inside her flared again.

“He tried to tell me it was just some protective instinct,” she said sharply. “That father-daughter nonsense. But I’m not stupid.” She stepped closer, the sound of her heels echoing across the wooden floor. “I saw the way he looked at her.”

When Jonathan handed her the glass, their fingers brushed briefly. Crane’s hands were warm, but his expression still looked professionally composed.

That only unsettled Charlotte more.

Because his tone was calm.

But whatever lived beneath it was not.

“And how did he look at her?” Crane asked quietly.

Charlotte took a long drink before looking back at him. Jonathan’s eyes were fixed carefully on her face, as though he wasn’t merely listening to her words—he was analyzing them.

“Obsessed,” she finally said. “Like if that girl stopped breathing, Bruce Wayne would stop too.”

Jonathan’s gaze remained perfectly still for several seconds.

Then he smiled very faintly.

There was no warmth in it.

And when Charlotte noticed that, a cold shiver slipped down her spine.

“Interesting,” Crane said slowly. “Because I thought the exact same thing.”

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly.

For the first time, Charlotte truly felt she had come to the wrong place.

Because Jonathan wasn’t mocking her.

He was being sincere.

Crane sat down with measured movements, his long fingers gliding slowly along the rim of his glass while his eyes never left Charlotte’s face.

“Bruce Wayne thinks he can protect her,” he said calmly. “But what people fail to understand is this…” He paused briefly. “Some people don’t want protection.”

Another pause.

“Some people move toward the darkness.”

Charlotte frowned. “That’s not romantic, Jonathan.”

“No,” he said immediately.

The answer came too fast.

Then he leaned back slightly in his chair; behind his glasses, his gaze looked sharper in the shadows now.

“It isn’t romantic,” he repeated more quietly. “But it may be inevitable.”

Unease began crawling through Charlotte because the way Jonathan Crane spoke about Y/N wasn’t normal. He wasn’t speaking like a doctor anymore. He wasn’t even speaking like a man in love.

It sounded more like someone slowly moving toward claiming something he had already carried inside his mind for a very long time. And the moment Charlotte realized that, some of the drunken anger inside her gave way to something far more real:

Fear.

“You’re not in love with her,” she said before she could stop herself.

Jonathan’s gaze shifted toward her slowly.

The silence deepened.

Charlotte continued because she knew if she stopped now, she would become afraid. “This is something else.” Her lips suddenly felt dry. “You want to possess her.”

Jonathan said nothing for several seconds.

Then he tilted his head slightly, and something dark—almost gentle—moved behind his eyes.

“The human mind,” he said softly at last, “returns to the place where it feels safe, Charlotte.”

The sentence sounded simple. But suddenly Charlotte remembered why Y/N hadn’t been afraid of Jonathan in the library.,And for the first time, she genuinely shivered.,Because a terrifying thought settled into her mind: Maybe Jonathan Crane had already gotten much deeper into the girl’s head than anyone realized. And maybe—it was already far too late to stop him.

Jonathan Crane stayed silent for a long time.

At first, Charlotte Rivers assumed it was deliberate—another psychological game. She knew Crane enjoyed unsettling people with silence; he used it on patients at Arkham too, letting silence come before words, allowing the person in front of him to drown inside their own mind. But this silence felt different. Heavier. More personal. Even the crackling of the fire in the fireplace sounded uneasy within it, and the longer Jonathan’s gaze remained fixed on her face, the more Charlotte felt the warmth of the alcohol inside her slowly turning into fear. Eventually, Jonathan set his glass down on the table. The crystal striking wood created a small but sharp echo through the room.

Then he rose slowly to his feet. There was no visible threat in the movement. And that was exactly what made it threatening. An angry person could shout, lose control, make mistakes—but Jonathan Crane never lost control. He only moved closer. “Bruce Wayne left you,” he said calmly. “Because he finally realized what he wants.”

Charlotte’s jaw tightened. “Is that why you invited me here? To psychoanalyze me?”

Jonathan tilted his head slightly, his gaze glinting behind his glasses in the shadows. “No,” he said slowly. “I didn’t invite you.” A brief pause. “You came here.” The sentence settled inside Charlotte like a bad feeling. Because it was true.

She had walked into this place on her own. And for the first time, she began to feel truly alone inside the manor.

Jonathan crossed the room with slow, measured steps. When he opened the drawer of a small table between the bookshelves, his back was turned to her, yet Charlotte still felt completely seen by him.

Crane pulled out a file. Then several newspaper clippings. The Gotham Gazette headline sat on top. Y/N’s name. Arkham. The explosion. Wayne Foundation.

Jonathan laid the clippings carefully onto the table. The movement was almost gentle. “How do you think people break in Gotham, Charlotte?” he asked suddenly.

Charlotte frowned. “What?”

Jonathan turned toward her. And for the first time, Charlotte truly saw the expression on his face clearly. This was not the face of a jealous man. It was the face of an obsessed one. “People think breaking someone requires violence,” Jonathan said softly. “It doesn’t.” He slowly touched one of the clippings; beneath his fingers, Y/N’s name was visible. “The most effective method… is learning a person’s fears.” Then his fingers moved slightly across the paper. “And after that,” he continued quietly, “you build a world around those fears.”

Charlotte’s throat went dry. “Jonathan…”

“I remember the first day I saw her,” Crane continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “People only saw a broken girl. Traumatized. Angry. Distracting.” A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. “But I saw more.”

Charlotte suddenly wanted to back away. Truly leave. Because Jonathan Crane was no longer speaking like a doctor. He was speaking like a man admiring his own obsession. And it was unlike anything Charlotte had ever seen before.

“You’re sick,” she said before she could stop herself.

Jonathan’s gaze shifted slowly toward her. And he smiled. This one was more visible. But still completely empty of warmth. “We all are,” he said calmly. Then he started walking toward her.

Charlotte instinctively stepped back several paces; her heel caught the edge of the rug, but she couldn’t pull her eyes away from him anymore. Because Jonathan’s voice remained calm— while whatever lived beneath it grew darker and darker.

“Bruce Wayne thinks he can protect her,” he said. “Batman believes he can keep her away from the darkness.” He tilted his head slightly. “But he doesn’t understand how fear works.”

Charlotte’s heartbeat quickened.

Jonathan watched her silently for several seconds. Then he continued in the same disturbingly calm tone: “The human mind attaches itself to repeated emotions. Safety. Fear. Relief.” His eyes drifted briefly into space, as though he could already see Y/N inside his thoughts. “They’re all chemical cycles.” His gaze lowered slightly. “And if someone finds you beside them in the middle of their fear…” he said softly, “they come back to you.”

Charlotte’s stomach twisted. Because now she understood. The library. The way Y/N had clung to Jonathan. That disturbing sense of trust. And the horrifying calmness on Jonathan’s face as he described it.

“What did you do to her?” Charlotte whispered.

Jonathan’s eyes returned to her. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then he gave the faintest shrug. “I helped her.”

Charlotte genuinely wanted to leave now. She reached for her bag, but Jonathan’s voice stopped her.

“I think you should sit down.” It sounded like a request. But it wasn’t.

Charlotte felt that truth in her bones. When she looked at him again, Jonathan’s expression hadn’t changed—but something much darker now lived openly in his eyes. The naked threat beneath his calmness had finally surfaced completely.

“You need me,” Jonathan said quietly. “Because Gotham is going to start looking for someone to blame very soon.” A short pause. “And when people are afraid,” he continued, “they’re very easy to direct.”

Charlotte’s breathing tightened.

Jonathan stepped closer. “You’re intelligent,” he said. “So you can understand this… some people only need a very small push to completely fall apart.” He tilted his head slightly, his tone almost gentle. “Sometimes,” he murmured, “a little gas is enough.”

The blood drained from Charlotte’s face. Jonathan saw it. And he liked it. “You’re going to continue working with me,” he said finally, calm but absolute. “Because you know far too much now.”

Charlotte backed away, throat tightening. “No.”

Jonathan’s eyes moved slowly across her face. Then, very slowly, he smiled. “Saying no,” he said softly, “only matters when someone truly has a choice.”

The silence in the room deepened. The fireplace crackled. And when Jonathan’s gaze briefly drifted toward the newspaper clipping on the table, Charlotte saw the expression on his face clearly.

This wasn’t love. It was something closer to hunger.Jonathan slowly brushed his fingertips over Y/N’s photograph on the clipping. The movement felt almost intimate. Then he closed his eyes, as though replaying her inside his mind—the way she had clung to him in the smoke-filled library, her frightened breathing, the way she had trusted him. And the next sentence that left his lips turned Charlotte completely cold inside.

“She’ll come back to me,” Jonathan whispered. “Because now… she looks for me inside her fears.”

[pedroncigarettes]

[missadangel]

The Ex Education

Ex husband!Harry Castillo x Ex Wife!F!Reader

series masterlist . previous chapter. next chapter

Lesson 18

Summary: Problem #1: Harry’s proposal came when you least expected it. Problem #2: Your answer definitely wasn’t what he expected either. Solution: still under negotiation.

Warnings and WC: 13.8k ⚠️ 18+ SMUT/EXPLICIT CONTENT/ MDNI kissing, morning sex, oral sex -f- receiving, pregnant & soft & possessive sex, pregnancy, dirty talk, praise kink, fingering, multiple positions, mutual orgasm, Harry goes down on Reader while she’s on a work call, soft smut, aggressive oral fixation, cum eating, body worshipping, teasing, heavy sexual tension, established relationship, exes to lovers, nipple play, creampie, high-risk pregnancy mention, overprotective daddy-to-be!Harry, possessive romance, billionaire romance, rich people problems, upper east side drama, John is back, elite Manhattan society, jealousy, corporate politics, healing journey, family dynamics, emotional vulnerability, domestic fluff, romantic tension, Pedro Pascal mention, Ron is a Pedro Pascal fan apparently, banter, humor, old money aesthetics, love vs logic, soft Harry hours, overprotective husband energy, emotionally repressed man in love, rom-com vibes. OC Characters (Ron=Harry’s assistant, Emily=Reader's bestie, Chloe=Reader's elite friend, Mikey=Readers brother Scarlet&Richard=Reader's parents, Yuliana=Reader's maid, Vivienne=Harry's mother, Sienna=Harry's sister, Dana=Reader's EA (Executive Assistant), Eloise=Harry’s Grandmother.)

authors note: Sorry for the delay babies… My eyes were absolutely killing me for the past few days, but they’re finally doing a little better now. I really hope you enjoy this chapter. And please forgive any mistakes — I literally wrote parts of this wearing sunglasses because staring at the screen was hurting my eyes too much, lol🕶️ love you all💋

• The Song: Say Yes to Heaven by Lana Del Rey

Love Is Never Logical

Tribeca. Monday - 8:32 a.m.

“Marry me,” Harry murmured against your lips.

Sleep still clung to you in soft fragments, your mind slow to catch up as warmth pressed around you from every side. For a second, all you registered was him.

Your lashes fluttered open slowly and there he was, leaning over you beneath the pale morning light spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his bedroom. His hair was slightly messy from sleep, dark curls falling carelessly onto his forehead, his jaw still rough with the beginnings of stubble. Bare. Warm. One arm braced beside your head while the other stayed wrapped around your waist beneath the sheets, like even in sleep he hadn’t risked letting you drift too far away.

His mouth brushed yours again, warm and slow, carrying traces of whiskey from last night mixed with his cologne and yours still lingering faintly on his skin. Beneath it all was the unmistakable scent of sex still clinging to both of you — slept-in sheets, bare skin, sweat, tangled limbs, and hours spent wrapped around each other instead of sleeping.

Your breath caught softly against his lips, somewhere between a laugh and disbelief.

“Mm… good morning to you too, handsome,” you murmured sleepily, stretching slightly beneath him.

Harry’s eyes softened instantly at the sound of your voice. “Marry me,” he repeated, lower this time, his lips leaving yours to press slow kisses along your jaw and down the side of your neck.

You let out a quiet breath at the sensation, fingers sliding lazily into his hair. “You’re very persistent this morning, Mr. Castillo.”

“Consistent,” he corrected smugly against your skin.

His mouth drifted lower, brushing over your collarbone now, lingering there just long enough to make your breathing deepen. You felt his smile against your skin when a small sigh escaped you.

You laughed softly under your breath. “Consistently trying to manipulate me while I’m half asleep, apparently.”

Harry hummed thoughtfully. “Worth trying.” His hand slid slowly along your bare thigh, his warm palm smoothing over soft skin as he pulled you closer against his naked body beneath the sheets, like there hadn’t been a single moment during the night where he hadn’t needed to touch you somehow. The lingering warmth between your thighs made you shift slightly, still sticky and oversensitive from hours earlier, the feeling clinging to your skin with every small movement beneath the blankets. Sleep still fogged your mind, but the faint reminder of him left against your body made your cheeks warm as you tucked yourself closer into his chest.

“Manipulation before breakfast. Impressive.”

“I prefer strategic persistence.”

Your stomach tightened instantly. “Harry,” you murmured, finally opening your eyes properly now.

Your hand pressed lightly against his chest, trying to push him back enough to look at him, but the moment his hand settled higher against your thigh, your breath caught again.

“Not wearing the ring yet is not the same thing as rejecting you.”

A slow smile pulled at his mouth. “Still sounded suspiciously close to rejection.”

You rolled your eyes lightly, fingers brushing through his curls before your gaze flicked toward the digital clock sitting on the nightstand beside the bed. “You proposed less than ten hours ago.”

“And I’m already prepared to ask again,” he murmured against your jaw. A kiss. “Repeatedly.” Another. “Until you say…” Then another, on the lips. “…yes.”

You laughed softly into the kiss this time, your arms slipping around his neck as you finally gave up trying to resist him entirely, letting yourself melt back into the sheets beneath him.

Eight hours earlier…

The Vestry— 8:17 p.m.

The Vestry had never looked like this before.

The restaurant still breathed with its usual elegance—low golden lighting, dark polished wood, the distant clink of crystal and silver somewhere far from the private section hidden deeper inside—but tonight, everything near your table had been transformed into something quieter. More intimate.

Every surrounding table had been cleared for the evening. Reserved. Untouched.

Deep red peonies bloomed across the room in low arrangements surrounded by candlelight, their petals scattered carefully along the dark floor leading toward the center table like someone had spent hours making sure every detail felt intentional.

And someone had.

Harry stood near the table in a black suit he very clearly had not worn all day. Everything about him looked deliberate tonight.

The sharp lines of the tailored jacket. The crisp black shirt beneath. The silver watch at his wrist. Even his curls had been styled back more carefully than usual, though a few strands had already fallen loose again from how many times he’d dragged his hand through them in the last twenty minutes alone.

Because Harry Castillo— was nervous. Actually nervous.

The small velvet ring box rested in his hand while he stared at it for what was probably the hundredth time tonight.

That ring.

Fresh from Harry Winston after being professionally restored only days ago, the diamond caught the candlelight in violent flashes every time he moved it.

Harry turned the ring slowly between his fingers, quiet for a moment as he imagined it where it belonged.

Back on your hand.

A faint smile pulled at his mouth before he could stop it.

Around him, the staff moved carefully, attentively, adjusting candles, straightening glasses, checking the flowers for what was probably the tenth time tonight. The Vestry had always treated the two of you differently. It was where you first met, where your first dinner turned into something neither of you had managed to walk away from afterward. Everyone here knew that.

And everyone in Manhattan knew Harry Castillo.

Some of the staff had watched your first marriage unfold in real time from these very tables. Some remembered the nights Harry used to come here alone after the divorce, sitting at the same table for hours with a whiskey in front of him he barely touched.

So the second the private reservations came in tonight, whispers had spread through the restaurant almost instantly.

Mr. Castillo is proposing again.

Which explained why every single detail tonight had been handled with almost ridiculous care. The red peonies. The candles. The completely cleared section of the restaurant surrounding your table. Even the musicians near the bar had been quietly instructed to hold At Last until the exact moment you arrived.

A few lingering guests near the main dining area had started noticing the atmosphere, especially the women openly watching Harry with varying levels of envy and emotional investment.

Because unfortunately for everyone involved— he looked devastating tonight.

One of the managers approached carefully.

“Mr. Castillo, the wine pairing has been prepared and the kitchen is ready whenever you are.”

Harry nodded once. “Thanks.”

“The flowers were refreshed twenty minutes ago as requested.”

Another nod.

“And the musicians have your timing.”

“Perfect.”

The manager smiled knowingly before stepping away again.

Harry exhaled slowly and pulled out his phone. Ron picked up almost immediately.

“Well?” Harry asked.

“She just left,” Ron said proudly. “Dana confirmed it herself.”

Harry’s stomach tightened instantly. “She’s on her way?”

“She’s on her way.”

Ron paused. Then—

“You okay?”

Harry looked down at the ring again. “…no.”

“Boss, relax. She’s going to say yes.”

“You sound very confident about that.”

“You’re wearing that suit. At this point saying no would qualify as a felony in at least three states.”

Harry laughed at that, then, before he could answer, one of the servers approached him quickly.

“Mr. Castillo,” he said softly, unable to hide his smile, “Ms. Queen just arrived.”

Everything inside Harry seemed to stop.

Then immediately start all over again twice as hard. His pulse slammed against his ribs. He swallowed. Adjusted his cuff. Straightened his jacket unnecessarily.

The server discreetly disappeared again while Harry reached for one of the untouched glasses of water on the table, taking a slow sip just to give his hands something to do besides shake.

Then— he turned toward the entrance.

And there you were.

The moment you stepped inside, the entire room seemed to narrow around you automatically.

The hostess greeted you softly while another employee carefully took your coat, but your attention had already drifted past them into the restaurant itself.

At first, all you noticed were the empty tables. The flowers. The candlelight. The scattered crimson petals across the floor.

Then your eyes lifted further.

And found him.

Harry stood waiting near the center table, one hand resting loosely near his pocket, the black suit fitting him so perfectly it almost knocked the breath from your lungs entirely.

No. Not almost. It did.

For one suspended second, you genuinely forgot how to breathe.

He looked— more handsome than you remembered. More handsome than your wedding day somehow.

And nervous.

That part hit you hardest.

His smile widened the second your eyes met, something vulnerable flickering behind all that composure so briefly most people would’ve missed it completely.

But you never missed things when it came to him.

Soft jazz drifted through the room around you.

At Last.

Without thinking, you started walking toward him. Drawn. Like your body already knew where it belonged.

Harry didn’t move either.

He just watched you approach him slowly, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that made the entire room disappear piece by piece until it felt like only the two of you still existed inside it.

You stopped inches away from him. Close enough to feel his warmth. Close enough to smell the faint cedar and amber of his cologne.

Your lips parted slightly, but your thoughts had stopped functioning somewhere halfway across the restaurant.

“Harry…”

Your eyes flicked around the room once more before returning to him helplessly.

Harry smiled crookedly.

God. That smile.

“Welcome, baby.”

His voice gave him away immediately. Harry tilted his head slightly, wetting his lips once before extending one hand toward you.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

You automatically placed your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours instantly before he lifted your hand and pressed a soft kiss against your knuckles.

And suddenly— you understood.

Really understood.

All of it.

The flowers. The empty room. The music. The way he looked at you.

Your heart climbed straight into your throat. Your eyes burned almost immediately, emotion crashing into you so fast it nearly made you dizzy. A small part of you—the part that still hated losing control, hated surprises, hated not being emotionally prepared—tried to panic for half a second.

But Harry’s thumb brushed slowly over your hand. And the panic disappeared beneath something louder. Something warmer.

Harry took one slow breath. Then another. Like he was steadying himself.

Finally— without letting go of your hand— he lowered himself onto one knee.

Your breath caught completely.

This felt nothing like the first proposal.

That one had been impulsive. Reckless. Like the two of you had collided into something inevitable too fast to stop yourselves from falling into it.

But this— this had been chosen. Thought about. Planned carefully. Earned through every mistake, every heartbreak, every impossible road that somehow led you back to each other anyway. Built carefully piece by piece by someone who knew exactly what this moment meant.

And because you knew him so well, you could see every emotion fighting behind his eyes all at once.

Hope. Fear. Love.

And something unbearably vulnerable underneath all of it.

Harry lifted your hand again, pressing another kiss against your skin before finally speaking.

“My love…”

Your tears spilled instantly at the way he said it.

“I wanted to do this here,” he said softly, glancing briefly around the restaurant. “At the place where I first held your hand. Where we had our very first dinner.” His gaze returned to yours. “It didn’t feel right anywhere else.”

Your lips trembled.

Harry smiled gently when you nodded through your tears.

Then he inhaled deeply and reached into his jacket pocket.

The moment you saw the black velvet box— your heart stopped.

Harry opened it carefully.

And there it was.

The same ring. The same one he had proposed with seven years ago. The same ring you wore for two years. The same ring you placed back into his hand on the courthouse steps the day your marriage ended.

The same ring he had apparently kept through every year apart.

Every what if. Every almost. Every version of losing you.

But now— it somehow looked different.

Not because the diamond had been restored.

Because you had.

Your vision blurred completely.

“Harry you--” you whispered shakily.

“Wait,” he said softly, smiling through his own emotion now. “Please let me ask properly.”

You nodded immediately despite the tears slipping endlessly down your cheeks.

Because suddenly you realized— he had probably spent all night thinking about this moment.

Harry looked at you for a long second before speaking again.

“Do you remember what I said the first time I asked you?”

You didn’t even have to think.

“‘I feel like I found something everyone spends their whole life looking for.’”

Your voice broke halfway through repeating the words.

The memory hit both of you instantly.

Harry smiled softly.

“When we... lost each other…” he admitted quietly, “I thought I lost that too.”

Your face crumpled immediately.

“Harry…”

He shook his head gently before you could stop him.

“But somehow…” His eyes held yours completely now. “Years later, you still chose me again.”

A tear slipped down his cheek this time too.

“You have no idea how lucky that makes me feel.”

Your hand covered your mouth as another sob escaped you.

Harry looked down briefly at the ring before lifting his gaze back to yours one final time. Completely open. Completely in love.

He held the ring toward you carefully.

“Will you marry me again, baby?”

Your hand covered your mouth as another shaky breath left you. Tears blurred your vision so badly you could barely see him anymore.

Harry stayed there in front of you, still holding the ring carefully between his fingers, his eyes locked on yours with so much hope it almost hurt to look at him.

For a second— you couldn’t speak.

Your heart was screaming yes.

God.

Every part of you wanted to say yes. Right now. Immediately.

But another feeling crashed into it just as hard.

Fear.

Not of him. Never him.

Of everything else.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out at first.

Harry’s smile faltered only slightly. Just enough for you to notice.

“Baby…” he said softly after a moment, his voice careful now. “Talk to me.”

You shook your head quickly, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Harry…” You pressed a hand against your chest helplessly. “This is… this is everything.”

The tension in his face loosened a fraction.

But only a fraction.

“I...” you whispered instantly. “I love you. Harry, I love you so much.”

“Then say yes.”

You let out another uneven breath, looking down briefly as you tried to steady your thoughts enough to speak.

Harry waited.

Silent now.

Watching you carefully.

Still kneeling.

Still holding the ring.

Like he would’ve stayed there all night if that’s what you needed.

And slowly— the hope in his expression began to shift into something quieter.

“…is it the ring?”

You blinked. “What?”

A faint, almost teasing smile pulled weakly at the corner of his mouth despite the hurt still sitting underneath it.

“Did I make a mistake not getting a new one?”

“Harry, no,” you sighed. “Of course not.”

His thumb brushed slowly against your hand.

“Then what is it?” he asked gently.

“Because I don’t want this to happen in the middle of chaos,” you whispered.

Harry’s mouth twitched faintly despite the disappointment still lingering there.

“Baby,” he murmured softly, “our entire relationship has been chaos.”

“Exactly,” you sniffled. “And look how that turned out for us the first time.”

Somewhere behind you, a tray of untouched champagne glasses shifted softly.

The staff had still been waiting. Watching carefully from a respectful distance near the back of the private room, all clearly expecting the moment the ring slipped onto your finger.

A few of the younger servers had started leaning forward slightly, curiosity getting the better of them the longer the two of you stayed there talking quietly instead of celebrating.

The manager immediately shot them a look.

The staff scattered subtly after that, pretending very hard not to be emotionally invested while absolutely being emotionally invested.

You bent down, your hands finding his jaw gently as you pressed a soft kiss against his cheek. Then another against his lips.

Harry closed his eyes briefly at the contact.

“Don’t do that,” you murmured softly against his mouth. “Don’t look so heartbroken.”

A quiet laugh escaped him despite himself, eyes glassy now too.

“How exactly am I supposed to look right now, baby?”

Your chest tightened painfully.

You brushed your thumb gently beneath his eye before kissing him once more.

Then softer—

“Come here,” you whispered softly. “Let’s sit down and eat something while we talk, okay? I’m sttarving.”

A tiny smile pulled at your mouth through the tears.

“Apparently I’m eating for three now.”

That finally made Harry smile properly.

You took his hand carefully, helping him back to his feet.

The second he stood fully again, he pressed his lips together briefly, the faintest pout pulling at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

It was subtle. Small.

But devastatingly obvious to you anyway.

Your chest ached instantly.

“Harry…”

“I’m okay.”

Which unfortunately sounded very much like he was not okay at all.

You let out the smallest laugh through your tears and reached for his hand again before he could retreat further into himself.

“Harry, listen to me.”

He looked up quietly.

“Okay, look…” You glanced around the room helplessly. The candles. The flowers. The music still playing softly somewhere behind you. “This is beautiful.”

Your voice softened immediately.

“No, actually, it’s more than beautiful. I swear, I couldn’t have imagined something this perfect.”

Harry stayed quiet.

You squeezed his hand gently.

“And thank you,” you whispered honestly. “For all of this.”

Some of the tension in his shoulders eased slightly at that.

“But…” You exhaled shakily. “You deserve an explanation.”

Harry’s eyes stayed locked on yours.

“And if I say yes… if we get engaged again…” You shook your head slightly. “I need it to feel right this time.”

A quiet silence settled between you before you continued.

“Our lives are already constantly in front of cameras, Harry. Every relationship headline turns into a business headline too.”

You swallowed softly.

“And now with the company barely stabilizing after the scandal…”

Harry’s jaw tightened slightly.

“The board’s watching every move I make right now,” you continued quietly. “I just became executive chair. Investors are nervous. The press practically lives outside my building.”

You let out a weak breath.

“If we announce another engagement now, it becomes another spectacle. Another distraction. Another thing people use against us.”

“Baby,” Harry said softly, “the company is not more important than us.”

“I know it’s not.” Your voice caught slightly. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

You stepped closer again.

“I’m saying this matters too much for me to let it become part of all that noise.”

That landed.

You saw it immediately in his face.

Not anger. Not frustration.

Just hurt.

Quiet hurt.

“And now we’re having twins,” you whispered shakily. “Everything in my life changed overnight again.”

A weak laugh escaped you through the emotion.

“Which apparently is very on brand for us.”

That finally pulled the faintest breath of amusement from him.

But your eyes filled again almost immediately.

“I just got you back, Harry.” Your fingers tightened around his hand. “And I’m terrified of something ruining this again before we even get the chance to really live it.”

Harry swallowed once before speaking quietly.

“You think marrying me ruins this?”

“No,” you answered instantly, stepping closer again. “God, no.”

Your free hand moved gently against his chest.

“I’m saying this matters too much.”

The honesty in your voice softened something in his expression immediately.

“I’m happy,” you admitted shakily. “Too happy, actually.”

A weak laugh escaped you.

“That’s what scares me.”

Silence settled softly between you again.

Jazz music drifted through the restaurant quietly behind you while candlelight flickered against the empty tables around you.

Harry looked down briefly at the ring still sitting in his hand before lifting his eyes back to yours.

“You’re not saying no,” he said softly.

Your answer came immediately.

“No.”

Relief flickered across his face so fast it almost hurt to look at.

You stepped even closer then, your voice gentler now.

“I want you to ask me again.”

Harry’s brows lifted slightly.

“When all of this settles down a little,” you whispered. “When I can actually breathe long enough to enjoy it properly.”

Your eyes dropped briefly toward the ring.

“Because when I wear that ring again…” Your throat tightened softly. “I don’t want it to feel tied to scandals or headlines or board meetings.”

You looked back up at him.

“I just want it to mean you and me.”

Harry stared at you quietly.

So you smiled through your tears and squeezed his hand again.

“So…” Your voice softened almost shyly now. “Give me a little more time.”

A tiny smile pulled weakly at your mouth.

“Then ask me again.”

Back to now.

Honestly, you still weren’t entirely sure how you had ended up back in his bed after not saying yes the night before.

Not that you regretted it.

Because, in your defense— Harry had looked unfairly good last night.

By the end of dinner, every time he glanced at you with those dark brown eyes and that heartbreakingly soft expression, heat had curled lower and lower in your stomach until simply sitting across from him had started feeling impossible.

And the worst part?

The sad puppy look had somehow made him even more attractive.

Which felt deeply unfair to your hormonal state.

So maybe— maybe that was why, the second you got into the limousine, you had looked over at him and quietly told him how devastatingly handsome he looked tonight.

Harry had blinked at you at first. Surprised.

Then slowly smiled.

And once your hand slid across his thigh beneath the dim lights of the car— everything after that had completely unraveled.

Because Harry had touched you back immediately.

And the second your mouths found each other— logic disappeared.

After that there had only been heat. Need. Hunger.

One kiss turned into another. Then hands. Then desperate grabbing and breathless laughter somewhere between kisses while the driver very professionally pretended not to notice anything happening in the backseat.

By the time you’d stumbled into Harry’s apartment, you were already pulling at the buttons of his shirt impatiently while he kissed down your neck hard enough to make you gasp.

Clothes disappeared somewhere between the hallway and the bedroom.

And sometime later— after being pulled apart and put back together by his hands and mouth more times than you could count— you found yourself completely naked beneath him, his tongue roaming all over your skin, his hips snapping against yours as you both moaned in pleasure over and over. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, along with your cries of his name echoing shamelessly through the penthouse, while Harry whispered against your skin like he planned to spend the rest of his life memorizing every sound you made.

The night blurred beautifully out of focus.

Until eventually—it became morning.

Again.

“Be my wife again,” Harry murmured, trailing kisses down your body, stopping to suck your nipples and dip his tongue into your belly button. He parted your thighs wider as he settled between your legs, his eyes staring intently at your pussy.

“Harry…” you breathed weakly.

His lips brushed the inside of your thigh, his mustache grazing your skin so deliciously.

“I want this every morning. Waking up with you.” Another kiss. “Starting my day exactly like this.”

A shaky breath escaped you.

“You do realize marriage isn’t technically required for that,” you managed, trying and failing to sound unaffected.

Harry lifted his head slightly to look up at you.

His curls were completely ruined now, his jaw rough with stubble, his mouth swollen from kissing you for most of the night.

And somehow— that only made him hotter.

“Is that so?” he asked, licking his thumb. “Then move in.”

His damp thumb grazed your folds, drawing a sharp breath from you.

Your thighs trembled as his thumbs spread your folds, revealing glistening pink flesh, and he didn’t hesitate—he dragged his tongue through your slit in one long, filthy stroke, savoring the tang of your arousal. You gasped, your fingers knotting in his hair as your back arched off the bed.

“Harr—rrgghhh...”

“What was that, baby? Couldn’t hear you,” Harry asked playfully, lifting his head to look up at your face from between your legs.

You pushed his head.

“That’s not fair and you know it.”

“Maybe,” he said huskily, his eyes darkening, “I need to be more convincing.”

Your pulse jumped violently.

Harry’s gaze stayed locked on yours as his fingers slid inside you, curving to caress the front of your mound, increasing the pressure as your loud moans turned into screams.

Suddenly— your phone started ringing loudly against the nightstand.

The pressure of his suction continued as he moved his tongue, trailing it along your lips. You groaned in both frustration and pleasure.

“Oh my God.”

Harry barely reacted.

In fact, if anything, the faint amusement at the corner of his mouth only deepened.

You grabbed your phone quickly and glanced at the screen.

Gerard.

“Harry, wait,” you whispered immediately. “I actually need to answer this.”

Harry hummed against your folds without looking up.

“Answer it.”

Your eyes widened.

“But... ugh... you are unbelievable. Please. Behave,” you warned weakly.

That only earned you a completely unapologetic smirk against your skin.

You swallowed hard before finally answering the call, forcing your voice into something resembling professionalism.

“Good morning,” you said carefully, looking at Harry’s head between your thighs, making your heart jump. “Yes, I’m awake.”

Eventually releasing you from his mouth, you thought he would behave, but instead he raised his hand to part your labia, licking across your slit and pausing to pay special attention to your clit. Another slow hum vibrated against your skin and you nearly lost your train of thought completely.

Your eyes flew shut instantly.

“Oh—”

You caught yourself at the last second, pressing your lips together hard.

On the other end, Gerard continued talking casually, thankfully oblivious.

You glared downward immediately.

Harry looked entirely unbothered.

“Such a good girl,” he murmured softly. “Still talking business while I’m trying to ruin your morning.”

“Yes,” you managed shakily into the phone, Harry’s praise made your head spin, only arousing you even more. “I’ll probably come in a little later today.” A sigh and pause. “Mmhm.”

Your free hand flew over your mouth suddenly as Harry’s arm wrapped around your waist, stilling your hips and holding you in place. He increased the pressure of the hand inside you, rubbing intently against your walls as he sucked harder on your clit.

“Oh,” you breathed out automatically before quickly correcting yourself.

Your eyes flew to Harry, silently mouthing ‘Fuck, oh my fucking God’ at him, lips moving without a sound as you fought to keep your composure. Gerard kept talking about business, and you had no IQ left to understand what he was saying. Thanks to Harry’s amazing mouth and what it was doing to you, your brain was completely gone; all you wanted now was to cum, hard.

“Oh—yes. Perfect. That’s fine.”

The slight stubble on his chin rubbed against your clit when he pushed his tongue inside you deeper. Worse, you felt his nose nestle into the curve of ass next and you bit down hard on your finger immediately to stop the sound threatening to escape.

“I’m listening,” you lied shakily.

Gerard asked if you were okay because you probably sounded like you were in pain.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, pressing your fingers against your forehead as heat flooded your entire face. “Morning brain.”

You felt Harry chuckle against your wet pussy lips.

“Easy, baby,” he hummed. “Breathe. Answer him properly.”

You shot him a warning look instantly.

He only looked entertained.

“Actually,” you said quickly, your voice shaky and thinner now. You felt your orgasm approaching, legs shaking, and there was no way you could stay silent from now on. “We can discuss the board updates after lunch… Yes.” Too fast. You swallowed quickly. “Yes. I just—” your breath caught again before you forced the sentence out, “I need coffee before I can think properly.”

That, at least, sounded believable.

“Perfect,” you whispered desperately. “Thank you.”

The second the call disconnected, you tossed your phone somewhere across the bed before collapsing back against the pillows with a shaky exhale.

Harry barely gave you a second to recover.

“Mm, good girl,” he murmured against your inner thigh, his voice low with satisfaction. “Knew I could make you forget all about that call.”

“Ungh— Harry—”

Your back arched instantly as his tongue slid through your folds again, slow at first, like he was savoring every sound you made for him. The wet sounds of his mouth filled the room alongside your breathless cries, and the realization of how quickly he unraveled you only made you wetter.

One hand slid up your body, squeezing your breast while the other kept you steady against the mattress as he worked you apart with devastating patience. Every flick of his tongue dragged another broken sound from your lips until you were squirming beneath him, thighs trembling around his shoulders.

He held your thighs firmly, completely unbothered by the way you kept squirming against him.

“Stay still for me, baby,” he murmured before diving back into your pussy, twisting his tongue around your tight, wet hole.

You groaned and grinded your hips on his face, riding his tongue. Your fingers tangled in his hair as your hips rolled helplessly against his mouth while he groaned softly like he enjoyed this just as much as you did.

Harry loved taking care of you. Loved watching you fall apart. Loved pulling every trembling sound from your throat until you couldn’t think about anything except him.

For five years, he’d tried to force himself to want someone else. Tried to lose himself in different faces, different touches, different women. But every time, something felt missing—like his body refused to forget you even when his mind begged it to.

Now he finally understood.

It had never been about them. It had always been about your absence.

And now that you were here, beneath his hands and in his arms, everything in him felt terrifyingly, perfectly right.

“Oh my God—”

“That’s it, my queen,” he said smoothly, one hand sliding up your stomach before curling around your breast. “There you go.”

The pressure building inside you snapped tight so fast it almost made you dizzy. You buried your face against the pillow, trying and failing to muffle your moan as your thighs shook around him.

Harry didn’t stop.

He kept licking into you through every tremor, dragging out the aftershocks until you were breathless and oversensitive beneath him.

Only then did he finally pull back.

His lips were swollen, his expression smug, and the sight alone nearly made you groan again.

He leaned down and kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You melted into it immediately, kissing him back harder, your fingers sliding into his hair.

When he finally pulled away, you stared at him for a second before letting out a disbelieving laugh.

“Harry Castillo,” you breathed, still dazed, “you are an actual menace.”

“Menace?” he repeated softly, raising an eyebrow. “Baby, I was simply being supportive.”

You rolled your hips against his cock, your hand slides between your bodies and covers his erection, squeezing and stroking, your voice dripping with teasing impatience.

“If you really wanna support me, you can start by fucking me with this perfect CEO cock of yours.”

Harry groaned as you both felt his cock twitch inside your palm.

“That’s not CEO cock, baby.”

He pushed your hand aside and grabbed your ass with both hands.

“That’s your future husband’s cock.”

A loud moan escaped you as he slid deep inside you in one smooth thrust.

“Ohhhh!?” you teased softly between moans and breaths. “Sounds like someone’s trying to get a confession out of me under pressure.”

“Baby, this cock got you pregnant with twins.” Harry smirked against your skin. “Don’t you think it deserves to be worshipped?”

Harry chuckled quietly when your response dissolved into another broken moan.

“Use your words, baby. Tell me you love it.”

“I—” you gasped helplessly, nails digging into his shoulders. “Fuck, Harry—I love your cock.”

The sound that left him was somewhere between a groan and a smug laugh.

“Yeah...” he murmured. “I know you do.”

After that, you could barely say anything at all, completely overstimulated by everything he was doing to you. He kissed and bit at your neck, sucking marks into your skin while his hands gripped your hips tightly as he fucked you.

Even then, he forced himself to stay gentle, constantly reminding himself that you were pregnant with his babies now.

His babies.

That thought alone made him shudder, arousal curling even tighter in his stomach, his thrusts growing deeper, more desperate despite his restraint.

His breathing turned ragged against your neck, and you knew he wasn’t going to last much longer either.

You clutched at his shoulders, burning at the feeling of being fucked by him first thing in the morning. Deep down, you realized you wanted to wake up like this every day for the rest of your life.

A soft cry slipped from your lips as he moved inside you, filling you so perfectly it almost hurt.

Your thoughts scattered helplessly—Harry, your twins, everything the two of you had survived together—until pleasure drowned all coherent thought completely.

Your body suddenly shuddered hard beneath him as your orgasm crashed through you fast and overwhelming. You cried out his name over and over, hips bucking against his thrusts as wave after wave of pleasure tore through your exhausted body.

Harry came with you, your walls tightening around him and dragging the orgasm out of him with a rough groan.

Breathless, trembling, he finally collapsed beside you, careful not to put too much weight on you as he pulled you against his chest.

“So,” he murmured, voice rough with amusement and exhaustion, “after all those orgasms…”

He tilted his head just enough to look at you with a smug little smile.

“Any chance you’re finally thinking about marrying me?”

Before you could answer, another shaky breath left your lips, your body still trembling faintly beneath his.

“Hey.”

His entire expression changed as he pushed himself up, one hand cupping your face while the other slid protectively over your stomach.

“Baby, look at me.”

“I’m okay,” you whispered breathlessly, trying to steady your breathing.

His brows stayed furrowed anyway, concern written all over his face.

“You sure?”

You nodded softly, smiling lazily at him.

“Well, this is what happens when you overstimulate your pregnant girlfriend before breakfast.”

Harry exhaled quietly, still not fully convinced.

He brushed your hair away from your damp forehead before pressing a lingering kiss there.

“Come here,” he murmured gently, climbing out of bed first before reaching for your hand.

You blinked up at him.

“Harry—”

“Nope.” His tone turned softly stubborn. “You’re carrying my babies. I’m allowed to worry about you.”

A weak laugh escaped you as he carefully helped you sit up.

“Come on,” he said quietly, keeping one arm securely around your waist once you were standing. “Let’s get you into the shower.”

You stepped out of the shower wrapped in steam and warmth, toweling your hair dry as you wandered back into Harry’s bedroom.

That was when you noticed your clothes scattered across the hallway floor.

Wrinkled. Ruined.

And absolutely impossible to wear to work twice in a row—especially not as the executive chair of a company currently surviving off public image and fragile investor confidence.

You let out a long sigh. “Fantastic.”

After staring at the disaster for another second, you finally gave up and crossed toward Harry’s closet instead. Your fingers brushed over rows of dark fabrics before you pulled out one of his black t-shirts and slipped it over your bare skin.

It swallowed you whole.

And somehow smelled exactly like him.

By the time you reached the kitchen, the smell of breakfast had already wrapped around the penthouse. Butter, coffee, maple syrup, something warm and savory all at once.

Your stomach growled instantly, hunger hitting you so hard it almost made you dizzy.

Pregnancy was brutal.

Harry stood by the island pouring orange juice into a glass when he looked up—and immediately froze.

His eyes dragged slowly over you in his shirt. A slow grin spread across his face. “Well,” he murmured approvingly, “that looks dangerously good on you.”

You rolled your eyes automatically, but heat still crept up your neck.

Mostly because you knew exactly why he looked so pleased.

Harry loved seeing you like this.

Barefoot in his kitchen. Wearing his clothes. Looking like you belonged there.

Like old times.

Like the first few months after your engagement, when you used to steal his shirts and he’d act personally victimized every single time you tried giving them back.

You slid into one of the chairs at the island before finally looking down at the table properly—

—and blinked.

“Harry.”

The table was covered.

Fluffy scrambled eggs with herbs. Pancakes stacked high with fresh berries. Buttered toast. Avocado slices. Greek yogurt bowls. Fruit. Fresh juice. Coffee. Tea.

And sitting beside Harry’s plate was a folded piece of paper absolutely covered in notes.

Your brows lifted slowly. “…is that my pregnancy diet list?”

Harry glanced down casually. “Doctor’s recommendations,” he corrected while checking something off with complete seriousness. “Very different.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “You made all of this?”

“Yeah,” he said simply.

You looked over the table again before narrowing your eyes slightly. “No bacon?” you mumbled in disappointment.

Harry sat beside you, already reaching for the paper again. “No,” he said firmly after rereading a line. “Too risky.”

“But the doctor said I can eat it if it’s cooked properly.”

“Mm.” He didn’t even look guilty. “We’re still choosing the zero-risk option.”

You pouted immediately. “But I want bacon.”

Without missing a beat, Harry cut off a piece of omelet with his fork and held it toward your mouth instead. “But look at this,” he coaxed smoothly. “Way better. C’mon, open up.”

You stared at him. “…are you seriously airplane-feeding me right now?”

“Yes.”

The confidence in his answer made you snort softly.

Not wanting to hurt his feelings after all this effort, you finally sighed dramatically and opened your mouth. “…fine.”

Harry looked unbearably satisfied as he fed you the bite.

And annoyingly enough? It was delicious.

Every single thing on the table was.

You watched in disbelief as he kept trying to pile more food onto your plate afterward, stopping you from reaching for the jam just to hand it to you himself a second later.

It was ridiculous. Completely over the top. And if you were being honest, the intensity of his care was starting to overwhelm you a little.

Still…

After everything that had happened, maybe it made sense.

Maybe this was temporary.

Maybe in a few days Harry would calm down.

…right?

After finishing your plate, you glanced toward the clock and sighed.

“Harry, I need to go home.”

You wiped your mouth carefully before standing.

“I don’t have anything to wear here, and I still need to get my hair done.”

Harry stood immediately after you, catching your waist before you could fully walk away.

“Well…” he started carefully.

You narrowed your eyes instantly.

“Wait—did you handle that too? What’s next? You bought me a dress? Scheduled my glam team?”

Harry smiled faintly.

But the look in his eyes stayed strangely serious.

“Come here. There’s something I wanna show you.”

Curiosity flickered through you as he guided you through the quieter side of the penthouse until he stopped in front of a closed door you’d never paid much attention to before.

Harry rested his hand on the handle but didn’t open it immediately.

Instead, he looked at you. “If you’d said yes to me last night…” He exhaled slowly, tried again. “You would’ve woken up this morning as my fiancée.”

You raised your eyebrows. Harry swallowed once before continuing. “And this would’ve been your present.”

Then finally, he opened the door.

You stopped completely.

Because the room—

God.

The room was unmistakably yours.

Soft cream tones mixed with dark wood accents. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Warm lighting. A marble vanity already covered with your skincare products arranged exactly the way you liked them. A closet section filled with clothes in your exact style.

Not random designer pieces.

You.

Elegant silhouettes. Cashmere sets. Soft silk dresses. Structured coats. Evening gowns in shades you always gravitated toward. Casual pieces for mornings at home. Sleek heels lined beneath custom shelves. Jewelry trays. Satin robes.

Even your favorite perfume sat beside the mirror.

And tucked farther inside—

Your favorite candle from Paris. The one you thought had sold out years ago.

Your chest tightened painfully.

Because this wasn’t some extravagant billionaire gesture.

It was personal.

It looked painfully similar to the dressing room in your old house together—the one where you used to start your mornings and end your nights while Harry sat nearby pretending not to watch you get ready.

This version was smaller yet warmer.

More intimate.

A soft place carved into the middle of his minimalist penthouse solely for you.

Like the space you still occupied in his heart.

Your fingers drifted slowly across the vanity before your gaze caught something else.

Your initials.

Pressed subtly into the leather jewelry case near the mirror.

You blinked once. Then again.

“…you built me a dressing room?”

“I figured if life’s finally decided to give us something back instead of taking from us…” He said. “You probably missed your dressing room too.”

Then leaned casually against the doorway, watching you instead of the room itself.

“Well? Do you like it?”

Your vision blurred before you even realized tears had filled your eyes.

One slipped down your cheek, making you laugh softly in disbelief as you turned toward him.

“Harry…” Your voice cracked slightly. “I love it.”

You looked around again, overwhelmed by how perfectly everything reflected you.

“There are things here I would’ve picked myself,” you whispered. “You remembered everything.”

Harry’s mouth twitched slightly.

“I may have asked Mikey to send me photos of your room.”

You turned toward him immediately.

“You what?”

“In my defense,” Harry said calmly, “your brother took the assignment very seriously.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“That idiot.”

Harry actually looked mildly traumatized for a second.

“He sent me a lot of voice notes,” he admitted carefully.

Your smile widened instantly.

“Of course he did.”

“I know more about your preferred closet lighting than any man ever should.”

“Ugh, Mikey talks too much. And when it comes to illegally sneaking into my room, apparently he sees it as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“Mm.” Harry stepped closer slowly. “But he was right about one thing.”

Your breath caught slightly.

“What?”

His gaze moved around the room once before settling back on you, softer now.

“You deserve to have a place that feels like you in this house.”

The words hit somewhere deep in your chest.

Harry reached for your hand gently, lifting it to his lips without breaking eye contact as he pressed a slow kiss against your knuckles. Then his arms slid around your waist, pulling you closer until the front of your body rested against his. One hand moving up to smooth your still-damp hair back from your face, your eyes lifted to his instantly.

It wasn’t even the room.

It was the fact that he remembered.

Remembered the tiny rituals of your old life together. The mornings spent in front of the vanity while he sat nearby drinking coffee. The nights you’d end there together after galas and charity dinners, exhausted and still tangled up in each other.

Harry had remembered all of it.

Your throat tightened painfully.

“Thank you, Harry,” you murmured and kissed him softly. “Really.”

Harry smiled against your lips, his hands settling naturally on your waist.

“You know,” he murmured casually, “if you wanted to call yourself my fiancée after this, I probably wouldn’t stop you.”

“Shut up.”

“That’s not a no.”

You tried to hide your smile.

“Maybe yes.”

“Wait.” Harry tilted his head slightly. “Was that a yes yes?”

You turned away before he could fully see your smile, pretending to inspect the dresses instead.

“Mhmm.”

“Hold on. What kind of mhmm was that?”

You looked back at him innocently.

“Harry. No pressure, remember?”

“Right, right.” He nodded seriously, walking closer. “I’m just saying the option still exists.”

He held up one finger.

“Option A: yes.”

Then another.

“Option B…” His mouth curved slowly. “Also yes.”

You laughed and smacked his shoulder lightly.

“Oh my God, go get dressed already, Castillo. We’re gonna be late for work.”

Castillo Capital… 09:34 a.m.

Harry stepped out of the elevator looking too happy. Not subtle happy either. Actually happy.

The kind that made people immediately suspicious.

Ron looked up from the tablet in his hands the second Harry walked onto the executive floor and nearly dropped the damn thing.

“…good morning, boss,” he said, already grinning.

Harry barely glanced at him as he walked past.

“Morning.”

Ron’s grin widened instantly.

Oh, something definitely happened.

He followed Harry straight into the office.

“I prepared all the reports and presentation files for the meeting,” Ron said, falling into step behind him. “Also—good news from London.”

Harry loosened his scarf slightly as he moved toward his desk.

“The investors liked the revised presentation package. Looks like you won’t need to fly back anytime soon.”

Harry paused halfway through removing his coat.

“…really?”

“Mhm.” Ron watched him carefully. “Apparently John handled it.”

That got Harry’s attention immediately.

He looked over.

“John’s back?”

“He landed this morning.”

Harry leaned briefly against the desk, processing that quietly.

Things with John had changed recently.

Not perfectly.

But better.

Ever since you turned John down and he moved back to London to work as CFO at Castillo Capital’s European headquarters, something between the two men had slowly started repairing itself.

Carefully. Awkwardly.

A few weeks ago, they could barely get through a conversation without tension creeping in somewhere.

Now there were occasional phone calls. Business discussions that didn’t immediately turn hostile.

Tiny improvements.

But for Harry, even that felt like progress.

And handling the London situation without being asked— that meant something.

Harry exhaled quietly. “I’ll call him later.”

Ron nodded once before slowly approaching the desk with very obvious curiosity written all over his face.

Then—

“So…”

Harry looked up already annoyed. “What.”

Ron clasped his hands dramatically. “When exactly are we celebrating?”

Harry blinked once. “…celebrating what?”

Ron stared at him in disbelief. “The engagement?”

Silence.

Harry rubbed a hand across his jaw. “…there is no engagement, Ron.”

Ron froze. Completely.

“I’m sorry,” he said carefully. “I think perhaps I misheard that because it sounded incredibly odd.”

Harry opened his laptop. “She didn’t say yes.”

Ron’s mouth fell open. “YOU GOT REJECTED?”

“I did not get rejected.”

“Harry—”

“She said she needs time.”

Ron paused. Then grimaced slightly. “…that somehow feels emotionally worse.”

Harry leaned back in the chair, exhaling through his nose while rubbing tiredly at his forehead. “It’s not like that.”

Ron’s expression softened a little.

“Well…” he admitted carefully, “to be fair, her entire life exploded in less than a month.”

Harry’s eyes lifted back toward him immediately. “I know. I’m giving her time.” Then his mouth curved slightly. “But I’m changing her mind.”

Ron blinked. “…How?”

“She’s going to say yes eventually.”

Ron leaned against the edge of the desk, folding his arms. “Okay but—respectfully—she already did not say yes. So what exactly changes now?”

Harry smiled faintly. “First of all,” he said calmly, “I’m going to become an extremely good husband candidate.”

Ron stared at him. “…you already are one.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“I’m serious. You’re rich, attractive, emotionally obsessed with her which women weirdly love, and somehow still polite. Frankly, if I looked like you I’d be unbearable.”

Harry huffed.

“Thanks, I guess. Well...That’s not-.”

“Every other woman in Manhattan would’ve said yes before you even opened the ring box.”

“She’s not every other woman, Ron.”

“Well, obviously,” he said. “She’s Queen.”

Harry leaned back in his chair again, quieter this time. “I just need to remove the things she’s scared about.”

Ron narrowed his eyes immediately. “And how exactly are you planning to do that?”

A smug look slowly appeared on Harry’s face. “Already started this morning.”

Ron looked concerned instantly. “…should I be worried?”

“I made breakfast,” Harry said simply.

Not even slightly humble about it. “A very good breakfast.”

Ron blinked once. “…okay…”

Harry ignored the reaction entirely.

“I got the full dietary list from her doctor,” he continued casually. “Adjusted the temperature in the penthouse. Replaced half the kitchen. Checked every ingredient expiration date myself.”

Ron stared.

Harry kept going. “Less caffeine. Less stress. More sleep. More water. More iron.” He shrugged once like this was all perfectly normal billionaire behavior. “From now on she gets the most thoughtful version of me possible.”

Silence.

Ron slowly lowered the tablet in his hands. “…boss?”

Harry glanced up.

“That strategy feels…” Ron searched carefully for the right wording. “…a little dangerous for Ms. Queen.”

Harry frowned slightly. “Dangerous?”

“Pressure,” Ron corrected carefully. “Like… emotional pressure.”

Harry immediately looked offended. “I’m not pressuring her.”

Ron gave him a long look. “Would you like me to pull up the dictionary definition of pressure?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, shut up.”

Ron pointed dramatically.

“See? That right there? That’s the face of a man one scented candle away from becoming somebody’s husband again.”

Harry looked entirely unimpressed. “She likes me because I’m reliable.”

“No,” Ron corrected. “She likes you because you’re emotionally constipated in a very expensive way.”

Harry stared at him. Ron gestured vaguely with the tablet. “If you suddenly become aggressively attentive twenty-four hours a day, she might flee the country.”

Harry rolled his eyes again. “That’s ridiculous.”

Ron studied him for another second. Then— “…you know,” he said cautiously, “I could probably schedule an emergency therapy session for you.”

Harry looked up slowly.

Ron shrugged. “I’m just saying. This is exactly how it starts, by the way. First breakfast. Then matching pajamas. Then suddenly you own decorative hand towels.”

“Get out.”

“I’m leaving. I’m leaving.”

3 days earlier. Le Bernardin — Private Dining Room 9:21 p.m.

Warm amber lighting reflected softly against crystal glasses and polished silver while the muted sounds of the restaurant drifted faintly through the private room doors.

Harry sat beside you at the curved velvet booth, one arm stretched comfortably along the back of your seat behind you, his fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder absentmindedly whenever he spoke.

Across from you, Ron looked one bite away from a spiritual experience.

He pointed dramatically at his steak with his fork.

“Okay,” he declared after another bite, “this is genuinely the best steak I’ve ever had in my life.”

Dana nudged him immediately beneath the table.

“Ron,” she whispered sharply, “could you maybe try sounding slightly more sophisticated? Our bosses are sitting right there.”

You and Harry exchanged amused looks instantly.

Ron looked deeply offended.

“But, honey…” He gestured vaguely with the knife. “We’re off the clock.”

Dana gave Harry an apologetic smile.

Harry just shrugged calmly.

“He’s right,” he said. “Tonight we’re here as friends.”

Ron grinned triumphantly.

“Mmph—double date,” he mumbled proudly through another bite.

You giggled as Dana immediately kicked him under the table.

“Ow—Jesus Christ.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Ah yes,” he drawled dryly. “Double date.”

Then he looked over at you, his gaze immediately softening.

“You should eat a little more, baby.”

You sighed quietly, already knowing exactly where this was going.

“Harry,” you murmured, leaning back slightly against the booth. “I’m full.”

And honestly?

You were.

The fitted black dress you wore tonight wasn’t maternity wear—couldn’t be, not yet. Not when half of Manhattan was still watching Queen Financial like vultures circling a wounded animal. The soft fabric still hid the slight curve of your stomach for now, but after an entire dinner, you could already feel the tightness around your waist becoming uncomfortable.

Harry’s eyes flicked downward instantly anyway, concern already forming on his face.

“You barely ate.”

“I ate plenty.”

“Then at least drink your juice. Vitamin C.”

You narrowed your eyes immediately.

“Yes, because what I really need tonight is a vitamin C overdose.”

Ron leaned back with a grin.

“You two genuinely sound like somebody’s married aunt and uncle.”

Dana laughed softly into her wine.

“No,” Ron corrected immediately. “Actually worse. You sound like a couple that owns matching vitamins.”

“Yeah, well…” You glanced briefly toward Harry before swirling your juice lightly. “I don’t think Manhattan’s emotionally prepared for us to start acting married again.”

A softer pause.

“Especially considering the pregnancy.”

Harry looked like he was about to say something—

—but Dana cut in first.

“You have no idea how many interview requests I declined today,” she muttered while reaching for her wine. “Forbes Women. Vanity Fair. The Financial Times. One podcast literally called you ‘the face of modern feminine capitalism.’”

You buried your face briefly in your hand.

“God.”

Ron looked genuinely impressed.

“…okay wow.”

Dana pointed at him immediately.

“One magazine referred to her as ‘the unattainable queen of Wall Street.’”

Ron blinked.

“…okay wait, that one’s actually kinda cool.”

You sighed dramatically.

“Until they find out I’m pregnant with twins from my ex-husband.”

Harry’s thumb brushed quietly against your knee beneath the table.

“Well,” he murmured smoothly, “technically I could solve the ex-husband part.”

You looked over at him instantly.

“We still need to stabilize the company first,” you said more quietly, taking another sip of your juice. “And considering this whole ‘powerful independent woman’ image is apparently helping the company and the market right now… maybe the word marriage shouldn’t be floating around Manhattan just yet.”

Harry’s expression barely changed.

But something calmer settled into his eyes.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, reaching for your hand beneath the table before lifting it slowly to his mouth, “you’re not staying away from me because of a few investors and gossip columns.”

His lips brushed gently against your knuckles.

“We’ll survive all of it together. Like we always do.”

The heat that rushed to your face was immediate.

Across the table, Ron sighed dramatically.

“See?” he muttered. “Marriage is beautiful. Love is real. I support this completely.”

Dana turned toward him slowly.

“Oh?” she asked pleasantly.

Ron immediately sensed danger.

Dana tilted her head slightly.

“I didn’t realize your thoughts on marriage had suddenly become so positive,” she said sweetly. “Especially considering how creatively you’ve been avoiding dinner with my parents for three months.”

Harry quietly leaned closer to your ear.

“…oops,” he murmured.

You bit your lower lip trying not to grin.

Dana set her wine glass down carefully without looking away from Ron.

“Good to know,” she continued sweetly. “Very enlightening, actually.”

“Dana, baby—”

“No, no,” she interrupted calmly while standing from the table. “Please continue your passionate pro-marriage speech.”

Ron looked horrified. “Wait—I didn’t mean—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Castillo. Ms. Queen.”

Dana smiled politely before walking toward the restroom.

Ron watched her leave in genuine panic. “…how did this become about me?”

You gave him a look over the rim of your glass. “Women don’t usually enjoy being kept waiting, Ron.”

Beside you, Harry nodded in agreement without hesitation.

Ron looked betrayed. “Oh God.”

You laughed softly before standing. “I should probably go save you.”

“Please do,” Ron whispered desperately. “Thank you.”

As you followed Dana toward the hallway, Harry watched you disappear around the corner before slowly leaning back in his chair.

Ron rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m fucked... Sorry, boss.”

Harry smirked faintly into his whiskey. “No,” he said calmly. “You’re right. You’re fucked.”

Ron groaned quietly while Harry’s gaze drifted toward the hallway again, the ghost of your words still lingering in his head.

Women don’t usually enjoy being kept waiting.

Harry was almost completely certain you hadn’t meant him at all.

Back to now…

You and Dana looked at each other simultaneously across the office.

Realization hit both of you at the exact same time. “…oh my God,” Dana muttered first.

Your eyes widened slightly.

“That’s why he proposed last night.”

“And Ron immediately started defending marriage which immediately backfired on him.”

You both stared at each other for one long second—

—before bursting into laughter.

Dana shook her head slowly, still laughing under her breath.

“Men.”

You sighed deeply, leaning back in your chair.

“It’s amazing they’ve survived this long.”

Chez Akiko… 1:14 p.m.

“I’m telling you, Emily, Harry’s being absurdly attentive right now,” you complained, leaning back dramatically in your chair. “Like… concerningly attentive. How am I supposed to survive nine months of this?”

Your voice came out slightly louder than intended.

Emily only smiled knowingly as she slid the warm cup of sakura tea toward you before sitting down across from you.

“Well,” she said carefully, “to be fair… Harry is trying very hard right now.” You stared at her. “I’m serious,” you complained, taking the tea. “He monitors everything now. What I eat, what I drink, how long I sleep.” You narrowed your eyes. “This morning he adjusted the temperature in his apartment because apparently my feet were cold.”

Emily placed a hand dramatically over her heart. “That’s actually adorable.”

“He turned my office into Poison Ivy’s apartment.”

Emily immediately burst out laughing. “Okay, first of all,” she said between laughs, “she’s my favorite DC character, so that sounds cute.”

You groaned quietly, resting your forehead briefly against your hand.

“And my mother keeps calling every two hours. I swear she’s tracking my breathing remotely somehow.” You lifted your head again. “This was her fifth call today.”

Emily laughed softly before reaching across the table to squeeze your hand.

“Hon… all of them went through a huge loss with you two. I genuinely don’t think they expected to ever see this again.”

Your expression softened slightly.

Emily smiled gently.

“They’re excited. Probably too excited. But they’ll calm down eventually.” A beat. “Harry included.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “You really think so?”

“No,” Emily admitted honestly. “But I think he’ll become easier to manage once you marry him.”

You blinked once. “…excuse me?”

Emily gave you an incredulous look. “Oh please. Why did you even reject him?”

“I did not reject him.”

“You emotionally delayed him. Same thing.”

You stared at her in betrayal. “Em.”

“What?” She shrugged unapologetically. “You’ve literally been waiting for that man to propose to you again.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. “…that is not the point.”

Emily sipped her drink calmly. “Then explain the point.”

You exhaled slowly, fingers tracing around the edge of your cup.

“I’m not the same person I was back then.” Your voice quieted slightly. “Everything’s different now. The company, the board, the scandal…”

You shook your head.

“I became executive chair less than a week ago. I can’t just immediately announce I’m engaged to Harry Castillo on top of all that.”

Emily sighed dramatically. “You people genuinely never rest, huh?”

You laughed softly despite yourself.

“No seriously.” She leaned back in the booth. “When exactly are you two planning to experience love like normal people?”

You snorted.

“We are normal people.”

Emily stared at you flatly. “You own private jets.”

“Okay fair.”

Emily pointed at you. “Everything with you two sounds emotionally expensive.”

You laughed again, shaking your head. “Sometimes being completely ordinary sounds amazing.”

“You could never survive being ordinary.”

“Rude.”

“You cried once because a hotel suite in Milan had bad lighting.”

“That happened one time.”

“Twice.”

You narrowed your eyes.

Emily grinned proudly.

Before you could answer, the entrance door opened, the small bell above it ringing softly through the restaurant.

Emily glanced up first.

“Oh—wait, isn’t that…”

You turned slightly in your seat.

And immediately froze.

John.

Your eyes widened in surprise.

He spotted you almost instantly too, that familiar crooked smile appearing on his face as he started walking toward the table.

You stood automatically.

“Hey,” he said warmly. “How are you?”

“Good,” you laughed softly, pulling him into a quick hug. “You’re back already?”

“Landed this morning.” He stepped back, looking at you properly now. “Dana told me you were here.” His brows lifted slightly. “Thought I should come see Manhattan’s newest public executioner.”

You groaned. “Oh God.”

“No seriously,” John continued, pulling out the chair beside you. “That speech was everywhere in London. People were talking about it at breakfast.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Well… someone needed to be humbled publicly.”

John laughed under his breath. “That was one hell of a way to do it.”

You gestured toward the seat beside you. “Sit. I was about to order lunch anyway.”

John glanced toward Emily politely. “Hey.”

Emily smiled instantly. “Hi.” Then, already grabbing the menu: “So,” she asked brightly, “what are we feeding the international businessman today?”

At the same time—

The executive meeting had finally ended. Which meant half of Castillo Capital immediately flooded toward elevators, coffee carts, lunch reservations, and emotional survival mechanisms.

Harry walked beside Ron down the hallway, loosening his tie slightly while scanning through emails on his phone. “So,” he said casually, “if John landed this morning, why didn’t he come upstairs?”

Ron shrugged. “Maybe he’s sleeping.”

Harry gave him a look. “At one in the afternoon?”

“Jet lag affects people differently.”

Harry hummed absently. Still suspicious.

Before he could say anything else, Ron’s phone buzzed loudly in his hand. His entire expression softened immediately.

Harry looked over slowly. “…Dana?”

Ron smiled shamelessly while answering. “Hi, baby.”

Harry pulled out his own phone and called you while they continued toward the office.

The line rang once. No answer. His brows furrowed immediately. He tried again. Still nothing. Harry slowed his steps slightly. “…Ron.”

“Mm?”

“Ask Dana where she is.”

Ron blinked. “Who?”

Harry stared at him.

“Right. Right.” Ron quickly covered the speaker with his hand. “Baby, where’s Ms. Queen right now?” A pause. Then Ron’s expression shifted. “…oh.”

Harry narrowed his eyes instantly. “What.”

Ron slowly pulled the phone away from his ear. “She’s at lunch.”

“Where?”

Ron visibly hesitated. “…Chez Akiko.”

Silence.

Harry stopped walking entirely. Then slowly turned toward him. “Emily’s restaurant?” His brows pulled together instantly. “She can’t eat half the menu there.”

“In fairness, they also serve cooked foo—”

“Ron.” Harry was already turning around. “My coat.”

Ron sighed dramatically but grabbed it from the office chair anyway before hurrying after him.

“Protective daddy mode activated,” he muttered under his breath.

Ten minutes later—they were in the back of the limousine heading downtown.

Ron looked over cautiously. “You know…” he started carefully, “this does feel a little stalker-adjacent.”

Harry didn’t even look up from his phone, already sending you multiple texts in a row. “They’re my babies too, Ron.”

Ron opened his mouth. Closed it again. “…fair.”

The car slowed near the restaurant windows.

Then Ron suddenly leaned forward. “Oh my God.”

Harry looked up immediately. And froze.

Inside the restaurant—you were laughing. John sat beside you. Too close beside you.

Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Ron stared through the window in disbelief. “Okay,” he said slowly, “Mr. Pitts returning from London and immediately ending up at lunch with your future fiancée does feel narratively suspicious.”

Harry didn’t answer. He was too busy staring at the way John leaned behind your chair casually, resting an arm along the back of the booth while talking to you.

Ron glanced sideways at Harry’s expression and immediately swallowed. “…oh boy.”

The limousine stopped. Harry stepped out first. Fast. Behind him, Ron’s phone buzzed again.

Dana.

Ron answered quickly while jogging to keep up. “Yes, baby?” A pause. “…sweetheart, I think you’re calling about this a little too late.” Another pause. Ron glanced toward Harry. “…yeah no, he saw John. I’m hanging up.” He ended the call immediately before hurrying after him. “Apparently,” Ron continued cautiously, “John stopped by the office first and asked Dana where Ms. Queen was—”

“Yes, Ron,” Harry said coolly without slowing down. “I gathered that from the part where he’s currently halfway inside her booth.”

Ron wisely stopped talking. Then looked through the restaurant windows again. “…did he change his hair?” Harry slowly turned his head. Ron immediately raised both hands. “I’m just saying—it looks annoyingly good.”

Harry stared at him blankly.

“But not as good as yours,” Ron added quickly. “Obviously.”

Ron pointed vaguely at him while still walking. “Honestly, you kinda look like Pedro Pascal if he slept eight hours a night, owned Manhattan, and had a private equity portfolio.”

Harry kept walking. “Ron.”

“No listen,” Ron insisted immediately. “Pedro Pascal never even accepted the Sexiest Man Alive title when they wanted him to do it. Which is honestly very you. Humble. Mysterious. Emotionally repressed.”

Harry looked deeply exhausted now.

“And if you ever saw his Tumblr fanbase,” Ron added seriously, “you’d understand this is an elite compliment.”

Harry pointed at him without even looking. “Stop talking.”

“Understood.” Ron dramatically zipped his lips.

The bell above the restaurant door chimed the second Harry pushed it open.

Emily looked up first. “Oh, shit,” she said slowly. “Well. This lunch just became a live-action soap opera.”

You turned at the familiar voice before she even finished.

“Baby.”

Your head snapped toward the entrance instantly. “Harry?”

Behind him, Ron gave you a tiny apologetic smile.

John looked up too before standing from his seat. “Harry,” he greeted evenly.

“John.”

The two men shook hands. And didn’t let go. At all.

You sighed immediately.

Harry smiled politely without taking his eyes off him. “Good to see you back,” he said smoothly. “Though I have to admit, I expected to see you at today’s executive meeting first. Especially considering I was waiting for the London reports.”

His grip tightened slightly.

John smiled pleasantly right back, matching the pressure instantly. “Funny,” he replied casually. “I figured the office would still be there later. Checking on her felt more important.”

“Oh?” Harry’s smile never faltered. “Immediately after landing? How thoughtful of you.”

Their smiles somehow got tighter.

Ron immediately stepped between them with corporate-level panic management instincts.

“Gentlemen,” he announced brightly while physically separating their hands, “let’s remember Castillo Capital remains deeply committed to workplace brotherhood.”

Neither of them looked at him.

Ron continued anyway. “And Mr. Pitts, we are all extremely grateful for your work handling the London investors.”

Harry finally looked away from John then. “Yes,” he said calmly.

Then stepped directly toward you.

His arm slid around your waist naturally before he pressed a kiss against your temple. “I’m especially grateful,” he added smoothly, “because it means I get more time with my girl.”

John smiled politely.

But there was tension behind it now.

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Harry, what are you—”

“Baby,” Harry interrupted gently, glancing down at the table. “Why are you eating here?”

Emily blinked. “Uh…”

Harry pointed lightly toward the sushi menu. “The doctor literally gave us a list of things you can’t eat.”

You crossed your arms instantly. “She also said I need omega-3.”

Harry opened his mouth.

Emily beat him to it. “She’s eating grilled salmon and rice,” Emily informed him dryly. “I’m not poisoning your offspring, relax.”

Ron muttered under his breath: “Offspring is such an aggressive word.”

"Well,” she said dryly, “if you storm into my restaurant and start criticizing my menu, I’d suggest being grateful aggressive is the only word involved.”

You giggled. “Fair.”

John looked between all of you with visible confusion.

Harry noticed immediately. “Oh,” he said casually. “Right. You didn’t know.”

You closed your eyes briefly. “Harry—”

“She’s pregnant,” Harry finished proudly anyway. “We’re having twins.”

John blinked once in genuine shock.

You elbowed Harry immediately. “We are trying to keep that private.”

“Right.” Harry nodded once. “Temporarily private.”

John’s expression softened almost instantly as he looked back at you. “…wow.” A small smile appeared on his face. “That’s…” He exhaled quietly. “Honestly, I’m really happy for you both.”

Something about the sincerity in his voice made you soften too.

“You deserve another chance after everything.”

You smiled faintly. “Thanks, John.”

He grabbed his coat slowly. “I should probably head out anyway.”

Your brows lifted slightly. “You don’t have to leave.”

John glanced briefly toward Harry. “No,” he said lightly. “I think I do.”

He leaned down slightly beside you. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

You nodded softly.

Then John looked toward Harry again. “I’ll see you at the office.”

Harry gave a short nod. “See you there.”

The second John walked out—Ron winced dramatically. “Ouch.”

Emily crossed her arms, looking between all of you with deep disappointment. “Oh, this is absolutely becoming a circus.” Then her eyes landed on Harry. “So,” she said dryly, “would Mr. Castillo perhaps like to retract his earlier comments about my restaurant?”

Harry blinked once before the faintest hint of amusement touched his face. “My apologies, Emily.”

Harry sat beside you briefly before looking back at her. “Maybe I can redeem myself by having lunch here after all.”

Emily narrowed her eyes. “…go on.”

Harry picked up the menu calmly. “I’ll take the grilled miso black cod. Steamed rice. And whatever soup she’s allowed to eat.” You rolled your eyes instantly. “And green tea,” he added smoothly without looking up.

Emily’s expression softened despite herself. “Okay,” she admitted. “That’s actually a respectable order.”

Ron immediately slid into the booth across from you. “Perfect,” he announced. “Because all this television-level emotional warfare made me hungry.”

Harry finally looked up from the menu. “We’ll also be leaving an extremely generous tip.”

“Okay,” she grinned. “Your orders will be out shortly. And the customer is always right.”

You turned slowly toward Harry. “…are you following me now?”

“No,” Harry said simply. “I’m caring about you aggressively.” You stared at him. He gently pushed your plate slightly closer toward you. “Eat before it gets cold,” Harry murmured, holding a bite toward your mouth. “Cold food lowers body temperature.”

With your mouth still full, you rolled your eyes. “My body temperature is currently very high, actually.”

Behind you, Emily slowly leaned toward Ron. “…okay,” she whispered. “She was not exaggerating.”

Ron nodded gravely. “You have no idea.”

Later That Night… Queen Residence. 9:41 p.m.

The kitchen was quiet except for the soft clink of your spoon against the ceramic mug in your hands. You stared down at the swirl of melted chocolate absentmindedly, barely noticing the steam curling upward anymore. Somewhere behind you— “Sweetheart?” You blinked slowly. “Hm?” You finally looked up. “What?” Lara frowned slightly as she stepped closer into the kitchen. “I asked you three times if you were alright.” Her brows softened. “Bad day at work?” You shook your head immediately. “No, everything’s fine, I just…” You exhaled quietly, leaning your hip against the marble counter. “I think I hurt Harry’s feelings.” “What happened?” You looked back down into your mug. “I told him a few days ago I was moving into his place. But tonight before we left, I told him maybe I needed to think about it again. He didn’t say anything,” you continued quickly. “Not really. But I think it hurt him.” “Why did you change your mind?” You sighed heavily. “He’s just…” You rubbed tiredly at your forehead. “He’s become so overprotective lately. About the pregnancy, about me, about everything.” You let out a frustrated breath. “I know he means well but sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe.” “That’s probably normal.” “Yeah. I just feel overwhelmed all the time lately.” Lara stepped closer, gently lifting your chin between her fingers. “Harry loves you,” she said softly. “That’s all this is.” “I know.” “And trust me,” she added warmly, “that man is not capable of staying upset with you for longer than five minutes.” A weak smile pulled at your mouth. But guilt still sat heavily in your chest. You looked back down again. “He already thinks I rejected him,” you admitted quietly. "Oh." That hurt to say out loud. You covered your face briefly with both hands. “God, I’m awful,” you groaned. “I finally get the love of my life back and somehow I’m still hurting him.” Lara looked ready to speak again—but Scarlet stopped her gently with one look; apparently, she heard your conversation. “Lara,” she said softly, “give us a minute?” Lara hesitated only briefly before nodding. As she passed, she squeezed your cheek affectionately. “Don’t upset yourself over this honey… a love like yours isn’t going to fall apart over something like this.” Then she disappeared quietly from the kitchen. Scarlet waited until the room settled again before speaking. “Come sit with me.” You blinked slightly at her tone. Soft. Almost careful. That alone surprised you enough to obey immediately. You pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down slowly while Scarlet took the seat beside you. Usually when your mother said we need to talk, it meant discussions about business decisions, press appearances, wardrobe disasters, assistants quitting unexpectedly, or family reputation. Not this. Never this. Scarlet looked at you quietly for a long moment before finally speaking. “You know…” she murmured slowly, “I think I may have raised you a little too harshly.” Your brows lifted slightly. “…a little?” A small laugh escaped her despite herself. “I taught you to survive,” she admitted. “To think logically. To never let emotions cloud your judgment.” Her eyes softened as they held yours. “And you became extraordinary because of it.” Your throat tightened slightly. “I’m proud of you, baby,” she whispered. “More proud than you’ll ever understand.” “Mom…” “Wait.” She shook her head gently. “Let me finish.” You nodded slowly. Scarlet rarely talked about feelings like this. Rarely talked about old pain at all. To her, heartbreak had always been something you survived privately and learned from quietly. Weakness was corrected. Mistakes were buried.

Emotions were controlled. And she had taught you the same thing. Until Harry. Scarlet looked down briefly before continuing. “But do you know something I learned too late?” You stayed quiet. Her eyes lifted back to yours. “Logic keeps you alive.” A faint smile touched her lips. “But love…” Her voice softened. “Love is what makes life worth living.” Your chest tightened instantly. “There are people who spend their entire lives never feeling what you feel for that man,” she continued quietly. “Do you understand how lucky that makes you?” Tears burned suddenly behind your eyes. Scarlet smiled gently this time. “Although,” she added, “Harry is probably the luckier one.” A watery laugh escaped you immediately. “He is.” She reached over, brushing your hair back softly. You felt your vision blur completely now. Scarlet held out her hand toward you slowly. “Give me your hand.” You did without hesitation.

She took it carefully and lifted it toward her lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles. Something about that nearly broke you entirely. “Your mother, Scarlet Queen exaggerates sometimes and she does have a tendency to dramatize things,” she murmured lightly. “But this time,” she continued softly, placing your hand gently over your own heart, “don’t listen to your logic.” Your breath caught. “Listen to this instead.” Her hand stayed over yours for a second longer. “The company will survive scandals. The board will survive gossip. The world will survive headlines.” Her eyes filled slightly now too. “But life is very short, baby. You found your way back to each other after everything.” Her thumb brushed gently over your hand. “Don’t lose it again.” You stared at her completely stunned. Because this— this version of your mother— was something you had almost never seen before. Not with you. Not about Harry. Not about love. You moved suddenly, wrapping your arms tightly around her. “Do you really think so?” you whispered shakily against her shoulder. Scarlet held you immediately, one hand smoothing slowly through your hair exactly the way she used to when you were little. “No,” she whispered softly. You pulled back slightly. A tiny smile touched her lips. “I don’t think.” She tapped lightly over your heart again. “Love does.” A quiet breath left her. “That’s love speaking. Maybe it’s time you stopped listening to your logic… and started listening to this instead.”

“Wow.” You and Scarlet turned simultaneously toward the doorway. Mikey stood there holding a bottle of water, staring at the two of you in disbelief. “Scarlet Queen giving emotional mother speeches?” he said slowly. “Somebody alert the media immediately.” Scarlet closed her eyes briefly. “Michael.” “No seriously,” he continued while walking farther into the kitchen, “I think Manhattan just experienced a seismic event.” You laughed softly despite the tears still clinging to your lashes. Mikey placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “Maybe I should start listening to my heart too. Ah yes…” he sighed dreamily toward the ceiling. “My heart is saying Sienna… Sienna…” Scarlet pointed at him coldly. “No. Your heart says ridiculous things.” “And it sounds like a seventeen-year-old frat boy,” you added. “You two can mock me all you want,” he declared confidently, “but Sienna invited me to her gallery opening.” You blinked. “…she did?” Mikey looked unbearably smug now. “Mhm.” He pointed between both of you proudly. “You’ll see. Soon enough, I’m gonna win her heart.” A dangerous silence followed that statement. Scarlet stared at him for a long second before slowly looking back at you. Then back at him. “…I cannot believe you’re both my children."

Saturday Evening Castillo Estate — Rhineback. 7:17 p.m. The entire estate felt warmer tonight. Softer somehow. Golden light spilled across the sitting room while the fireplace crackled quietly nearby, the scent of fresh espresso and vanilla lingering faintly in the air after dinner. Eloise sat between you and Harry on the large cream-colored sofa, still holding the ultrasound photos carefully in her hands like they were something sacred. The second you had shown them to her after dinner, she had burst into tears immediately. Now she kept looking down at the tiny blurry images every few seconds like she still couldn’t quite believe they were real. “Dios mío…” she whispered emotionally, pressing a hand over her chest. “Dos bebés…” Harry smiled softly beside her while one of his arms rested around your shoulders. “Twins,” he corrected gently. Eloise looked up at both of you, eyes shining. “Double blessing,” she murmured in Spanish-accented English. “Two little angels…” Her voice trembled slightly. “Ay, gracias a Dios. I have never been this happy in all my life. Seeing you together like this…” Her eyes filled again. “Now I can die peacefully.” “Eloise,” you groaned immediately. Harry sighed. “Mama…” Vivienne murmured. “What?” she defended herself innocently. “I’m old.” You laughed softly and leaned closer to squeeze her arm. “You’re literally healthier than half of Manhattan,” you told her. “Exactly,” Harry added dryly. “You yelled at a gardener for touching your roses yesterday. You’re clearly surviving another twenty years minimum.” “He deserved it.” You and Harry laughed together while she continued clutching the ultrasound photos possessively against her chest. “Besides,” she added smugly now, patting your hand, “I need to meet my great-grandbabies properly before I go anywhere.” Harry’s entire expression softened at that word. Great-grandbabies.

You felt his fingers tighten slightly around yours. — Later that evening, after dinner had settled and the house grew quieter, you stepped out onto the back veranda with your phone pressed between your shoulder and ear. “…No, Dana, if one more magazine calls me ‘the feminine face of corporate resilience,’ I’m actually going to commit crimes.” Dana laughed loudly through the speaker. “You say that now, but your approval ratings are terrifyingly high.” You rolled your eyes fondly, pacing slowly beneath the soft terrace lights. The evening air had turned cooler outside, enough to send a small shiver through you. “…okay, email me the revised board schedule tomorrow,” you murmured. “And tell Ron to stop sending me engagement ring memes.” You sighed before ending the call. The second you lowered your phone, a soft warmth settled over your shoulders. You turned slightly. Vivienne stood behind you holding the edges of a cashmere shawl gently around you.

“There, ” she murmured warmly. “Better.” “Thank you.” Vivienne smiled faintly. “Do you have a minute?” “Of course.” She nodded toward the garden seating area, and the two of you slowly sat down together beneath the soft glow of the terrace lights. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Vivienne smiled quietly to herself. “You made Eloise very happy tonight,” she said softly. “She fell asleep smiling.” A small laugh escaped her. “She was mumbling about twins in Spanish ten minutes ago.” You smiled down at your hands. “She deserved to know.” “She did.” Vivienne’s eyes softened. “And honestly?” She exhaled quietly. “I think all of us needed something joyful again.” A silence settled between you. Gentle. Comfortable. Then Vivienne looked over at you fully. “You bring light into this family,” she said softly. “Especially for Harry.” Your chest tightened instantly. You stayed quiet. Vivienne’s gaze drifted somewhere distant now.

“When you left…” she admitted quietly, “he thought he lost that light forever.” You blinked slowly. “He tried not to show it to me.” A sad smile touched her lips. “But mothers know.” Her eyes glistened slightly now. “I used to hear him come home and sit in silence for hours. Sometimes I’d call him and immediately know he’d been crying before he answered.” Pain twisted sharply in your chest. Vivienne reached over then, taking your hand gently into hers. “I was terrified,” she admitted honestly. “Terrified that his heart would never fully heal.” Your eyes burned immediately. “But now?” Her expression softened beautifully. “Whenever he visits me… or even when I hear his voice on the phone…” She smiled through the emotion gathering in her eyes. “I always know when he’s just been with you.” A weak smile pulled at your lips. Vivienne laughed softly. “He gets this ridiculous smile on his face.” She shook her head affectionately. “Even his voice changes.” Your throat tightened painfully. “And when you become a mother,” Vivienne continued gently, squeezing your hand, “you’ll understand exactly what I mean. How deeply you learn someone. How a single expression or change in tone can tell you everything.” You looked down briefly, trying to steady yourself. Vivienne waited patiently before speaking again. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is…” She smiled softly now. “There are things in this world money can never buy.” Her thumb brushed gently over your hand. “Love. Peace. Belonging.” Her eyes held yours carefully. “Those feelings are what make life worth living.” Your vision blurred slightly. “So don’t lose them,” she whispered. “And don’t lose each other.” A tiny breath left her afterward before she added carefully: “And I hope this doesn’t sound selfish…” You looked at her immediately. “…but I do hope you marry my son again someday. A watery laugh escaped as you wiped quickly beneath your eyes. “Vivienne,” you whispered shakily, “are you trying to make me cry? Because my pregnancy hormones are already dangerously unstable right now.” Vivienne laughed softly through her own tears before immediately pulling you into her arms. “Come here, honey.” You held onto her tightly. And for the first time in a very long time, it didn’t feel like you were being held by Harry’s mother. It felt like family. Vivienne kissed the side of your head gently. “Thank you,” she whispered emotionally. “For everything.” Your chest tightened painfully again. “You gave me my son back.” A tear slipped down your cheek. Vivienne only held you tighter. “And I hope the two of you spend the rest of your lives making each other happy.

Later That Night… The bedroom was quiet except for the faint sound of rain tapping softly against the windows. Warm lamplight spilled across the room in golden shadows while Harry sat against the headboard, sleeves rolled up slightly, distracted by something on his laptop. You stood alone in the bathroom staring at yourself in the mirror one last time. Your heart wouldn’t stop pounding. The silk babydoll Harry had bought for you in London draped softly against your skin, the deep shade of violet making your flushed cheeks even warmer somehow. Delicate lace traced over your chest and thighs, the matching set beneath it expensive enough to make you nervous all over again. For a second, you almost laughed at yourself. You had negotiated billion-dollar deals without blinking. But this? This terrified you. Not because of the lingerie. Because of what you were about to say. Out in the bedroom, you heard Harry shift slightly before the sound of his laptop finally closing. “Baby? Everything okay in there?” A tiny beat passed. “You’re not getting sick again, are you?” Your chest tightened painfully at the concern in his voice. God. You loved him so much. Slowly, you opened the bathroom door. And Harry froze. Completely. His eyes lifted from the bed— then stayed there. On you. The expression on his face changed instantly, somewhere between awe and complete devastation. “…fuck,” he breathed quietly. You walked toward him slowly, pulse thundering in your ears beneath the soft fabric brushing your thighs. Harry watched every step like he physically couldn’t look away. “Do you,” he asked hoarsely, eyes dragging slowly over your body, “have any idea how dangerous you are?” A nervous smile tugged softly at your lips. Then you climbed carefully onto the bed and settled into his lap, your arms sliding around his neck while his hands instinctively found your waist. Warm. Safe. Home.

“Harry…” you whispered softly against his lips. He swallowed hard immediately. Your fingers brushed lightly against his cheek before you slowly lifted your left hand between you. The ring still sat there. His ring. Your eyes met his again. “I was thinking…” you murmured quietly. “I don’t think I ever want to take this off again.” Harry’s breath caught instantly. You smiled faintly through the emotion rising in your chest. “Pretending we were married again for Eloise, only made me realize something.” Your thumb brushed over the diamond carefully. “This was always mine anyway.” Your voice softened even more. “Whether I wore it or not.” Harry stared at you silently now, his arms tightening around your waist almost unconsciously. “And my heart…” you whispered shakily, “was always yours too.” “Baby,” Harry breathed, visibly overwhelmed now as his forehead pressed briefly against yours.

You closed your eyes for one second before continuing softly: “I think I spent so much time being afraid of losing everything again…” Your fingers curled slightly against his shoulder. “That I forgot losing you would hurt so much more.” Harry’s entire expression broke open at that. “So…” you whispered, finally meeting his eyes again, “if that offer still stands…” Harry sat up straighter so fast it almost made you laugh through your nerves. “…yeah?” he asked immediately, voice rough with hope. A watery smile touched your lips. “I’m ready to be your wife again.” Silence. For one breathtaking second, Harry just stared at you. Like he couldn’t believe this was real. Then his hands suddenly cupped your face and he kissed you hard. Desperately. Relieved. Happy. The force of it stole the breath from your lungs instantly as he pulled you closer against him, kissing you again and again like he physically couldn’t stop. “Baby,” he whispered breathlessly between kisses. “Jesus Christ—” Another kiss. Then another. His forehead rested against yours for half a second before he looked at you again, smiling so widely it almost looked boyish. “Do you have any idea what you just did to me?” You laughed softly through the emotion burning behind your eyes. Harry kissed you again before you could answer. Slow this time. Deep. Full of everything the two of you had survived to get back here. “I love you,” he whispered against your mouth. “So fucking much.” Your heart melted instantly. “I love you too, Harry.” He kissed the corner of your mouth again, smiling against your skin while his hands slid along your waist beneath the silk. “Now,” you murmured softly, brushing your nose against his, “considering we’re officially engaged again…” Harry’s eyes warmed immediately. “I think you should kiss me one more time.” “Only one?” Then he kissed you again— slowly pushing you back against the pillows while the rain continued falling softly outside the windows.

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[jisungandpedrolover]

woah this chapter was such a journey! like from beginning to end I was sitting there with my mouth hanging open as always. you seriously manage to surprise me every single time, you’re incredible angel 🤎

“Do you remember what I said the first time I asked you?” You didn’t even have to think. “‘I feel like I found something everyone spends their whole life looking for.’” Your voice broke halfway through repeating the words. The memory hit both of you instantly. Harry smiled softly. “When we... lost each other…” he admitted quietly, “I thought I lost that too.”

I cried in this part, oh my babies, love them so much 😭 

[missadangel]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love <3

love, Koko 🌻💖

Ahh Koko, I’m so sorry for the super late reply 😭 I finally found some time today and wanted to give this a proper answer 😌

As someone who usually writes long series, I don’t have that many fics, but if I had to pick my top 5 (in no particular order):

The Ex Education ➛ (Ex Husband!Harry Castillo x Ex Wife!Reader)➛ ongoing

probably the fic that got the most engagement, and one I had so much fun writing. It’s one of those stories I’m genuinely proud of, because you know how sometimes you think “what if this happened instead” or “I wish this character did that” while watching something? Writing this felt like bringing all those ideas to life. What really surprised and made me so happy was how much people loved the side characters too—especially Queen. Seeing readers embrace her like an OC meant everything to me. This fic will always have a special place in my heart.🙂‍↕️

Two Wrongs, One Right ➛ (Joel Miller x Immune F!Reader) ➛ ongoing

this one is incredibly special to me because it’s my first Joel fic. It’s actually a concept I’ve had in my head for so long, ever since playing tlou, I always imagined Joel falling in love with an immune woman. Another reason it means so much to me is Taxi, the reader’s dog. He’s inspired by my own dog who passed away years ago… I miss him so much, and in a way, I get to keep him alive through this story. He was also the father of my sweet Sirius. And honestly, trying to capture the game’s atmosphere in this fic has been one of my favorite parts. 🥹

Safety Off ➛ (Clint Flood x F!Reader) ➛ one shot

my first Clint fic! 80s vibes, a badass reader, gunplay kink and Clint… and those lips, I said what I said) I had way too much fun here 😌

Amor Meus Aeternus ➛ (Marcus Acacius x Ofc) ➛ completed

This story had been in my mind for a long time too—I’ve always loved time travel as a concept, and pairing it with a handsome Roman general just felt right. I’m so happy people enjoyed it as much as I did. I just know that when I visit Rome again and walk around the Colosseum, this story is going to be on my mind the entire time.🫠

Peccatum Dulce ➛ (Marcus Acacius x F!Reader) ➛ one shot/dark

my first dark fic and… listen. I didn’t plan this. Marcus did something to my brain and now we’re here..

Sorry I yapped too much lol, Thank you so much for tagging me in this, I love this idea, spreading the self-love right back, love you muaah 💋

[missadangel]

The Ex Education

Ex husband!Harry Castillo x Ex Wife!F!Reader

series masterlist . previous chapter. next chapter

Lesson 17

Summary: You wake up, and your life rewrites itself without asking. Motherhood wasn’t part of the plan—especially not now. There’s joy, yes. But also fear. And the unsettling feeling of losing control. Fortunately, Harry stays exactly where he belongs. Right beside you.

Warnings and WC: 9.8k 18+ MATURE CONTENT flirting, fluff, kissing, implied sexual content, dirty thoughts, second chance romance, ex husband&ex wife, upper east side drama, rich family problems, protective!Harry, possessive romance, society drama, corporate politics, past trauma mention, OBGYN visit, pregnancy reveal, twins, emotional intimacy, rom-com, comedy, mention about the asherman syndrome, high risk pregnancy, hospital scene, family dynamics, healing, Confirmed: Mikey and Ron very alike, slow burn payoff, fluff and angst, light humor, foreshadowing proposal, double date mention, future engagement, domestic undertones. OC Characters (Ron=Harry’s assistant, Emily=Reader's bestie, Chloe=Reader's elite friend, Mikey=Readers brother Scarlet&Richard=Reader's parents, Yuliana=Reader's maid, Vivienne=Harry's mother, Sienna=Harry's sister, Dana=Reader's EA (Executive Assistant))

authors note: I still can’t believe we made it to chapter 17. We’re getting really close to the finale now — I’m planning around 20 chapters and an epilogue, and there might be some small time jumps in the upcoming chapters 👀 Thank you for being here. happy reading 💋

The Song: Adore You by Harry Styles

Expect the Unexpected… Twice

Voices come first, but they don’t make sense yet. They sit somewhere at the edge of your awareness, layered on top of each other, low and distant like you’re listening from underwater. A murmur. Then something sharper cuts through it.

“Ms. Queen—” “Can you confirm—” “Over here—”

Reporters. Cameras. Flashes.

Even with your eyes closed, you feel them. Bright, invasive, pressing through your eyelids like they’re trying to force you awake. Your brow tightens faintly and your breath catches because you remember that feeling. Too many people. Too many questions. No space to think.

After the speech—the one that would be talked about for years—your heart was still pounding in your throat. As you stepped down from the podium, there was only one thing on your mind: getting out, getting somewhere safe.

But your steps weren’t steady anymore.

Your heels didn’t land right. The ground felt uneven, like it shifted beneath you with every step.

Everyone was watching you.

Their faces blurred together, but the expressions were the same—tense, fixed, waiting. Mikey. Dana. Gerard. Ron. All there.

And then Harry.

You had been walking toward him. You remember that clearly.

Security moved behind you, pushing the media back, trying to create space—but it was too late. Everything you had just held together—every word, every ounce of control, every bit of courage—it all came crashing back at once.

It hit all at once.

The pressure. The fear. The weight of what you had just done.

It was like the ground slipped out from under you.

Your breath caught. Your vision blurred at the edges, dark creeping inward. The noise around you warped, stretched, faded.

The world narrowed.

Until it was just him.

Harry.

Your eyes locked onto him like he was the only solid thing left in the room. Like if you could just reach him, everything would stop.

But you didn’t.

After that… nothing.

You knew you were falling.

But there was no panic.

It was like your body had simply… shut down. Turned everything off before it could overwhelm you.

You didn’t hit the ground.

Something stopped you.

Someone.

Your eyes closed for a brief second as if that might help you catch it, piece it back together. Your body felt wrong. Heavy in places, light in others, like you weren’t fully inside it yet. Like you hadn’t quite settled back in. That had been a weird dream.

Your lashes fluttered slowly, like even that took effort. Light seeped in, softer this time, controlled, pale. You blinked again and the ceiling came into focus. White. Too clean. Too still. It wasn’t something you were used to seeing every day.

You lay there for a second, not moving, just breathing, trying to catch up to your own body. Something felt wrong. Not pain exactly. Just… unfamiliar.

Your gaze drifted down.

And there it was.

A thin line running into your arm. Clear tubing. A needle. Your stomach tightened instantly and your nose wrinkled before you could stop it.

“…of.”

The sound slipped out under your breath, annoyed, instinctive.

You shifted slightly, uncomfortable already, and that was when the door opened. The sound was soft but it was enough. You flinched. Your body reacted before your mind did, trying to push yourself up too quickly. The room tilted for half a second and you grabbed at the sheets, steadying yourself.

“Hey. Easy.”

You froze.

His voice.

You didn’t even need to look yet. You knew it.

Still, your eyes lifted.

Harry was already in the room, already halfway to you. The moment he saw you awake, something in his expression changed. It was subtle, controlled like everything about him, but you saw it. That tight line at his jaw loosened just enough. Relief, but buried. He reached you in seconds and his hand closed over yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it had already been there the whole time.

“Hey,” he said again, softer now. “You’re awake.”

You stared at him, still catching up, still not entirely sure where you were or how you had gotten here. “…Harry?” Your voice came out quieter than you expected, a little rough. “How?”

Your other hand came up to your temple and you pressed lightly, trying to push through the fog.

And then it hit.

It hadn’t been a dream.

Harry catching you as you fell—that hadn’t been your mind filling in the gaps. It had actually happened.

Your breath sharpened. “Oh no.” Your eyes opened fully now, focus snapping into place. “The cameras,” you murmured, your voice tight with realization. “They must have gotten that. Why did I have to faint now of all times…”

Harry let out a quiet breath, something close to a soft huff, like he was holding back a smile. "They didn’t,” he said calmly. “Security blocked them. No one got a clear shot.”

You stared at him for a second, processing. Then your shoulders dropped slightly. “Oh…”

A soft exhale left you, relief settling in. “Okay… good.”

His hand lifted and he brushed your hair back from your face, slow, careful, like he was grounding both of you at once. “Do you feel better?” he asked.

You took a breath, then another, checking yourself. “Yeah. A little.”

Your gaze dropped to your arm again. The IV. You made a face.

“How long was I out?” You shifted slightly, already irritated. “I’m sure I’ve already made the evening news,” you muttered. “They’re probably writing headlines as we speak. Queen of Manhattan collapsed on live television… or wait—” you huffed lightly, “another scandal for Queen Financial.”

Harry pulled a chair closer with one hand and sat beside you, his attention fully on you.

“Baby,” he said quietly, “you just gave the speech of the year.”

You glanced at him, skeptical.

“That’s not what they’re going to be talking about.”

Your brows lifted slightly.

“Then what?”

The corner of his mouth lifted, just a fraction.

“You buried Lucas in front of the entire city,” he said calmly. “Tore him apart, piece by piece. That’s what they’re talking about. They’ll also be busy talking about him threatening a journalist.”

You blinked at him. “…you’re kidding.”

He shook his head once.“No.”

You stared at him, trying to catch up. “That happened after I—?”

“Yeah.”

“That was exactly something he would do.” Your eyes moved back to him, sharper now. "Harry… why were you here?” You glanced at the clock on the wall. “You had that meeting. London. It should have been in a few hours.”

“Dana called,” he said simply. “She told me everything,” he continued. “What you were planning. What he might have been using against you.” His gaze didn’t leave yours. “How was I supposed to stay there after hearing that?”

You sat up a little straighter. “You thought I was going to stand there and announce I’m marrying that manipulative piece of—”

“Hey,” he cut in gently, a faint smile pulling at his mouth. “I didn’t think that.”

You gave him a look. He shrugged, almost amused. “I didn’t have time to think at all.” Then, quieter, more serious, “I just knew… whatever he had on you, it had something to do with me.”

That stilled you.

For a second, you didn’t say anything.

You just looked at him.

Then your gaze dropped.

“…that meeting was important,” you said more softly. “For Castillo Capital.”

“It was,” he replied. “But you’re more important.”

A small smile tugged at your lips.

He took your hand, lifted it, and pressed a slow kiss to your knuckles, a faint smirk following right after. “And for the record,” he murmured, eyes still on yours, “watching you destroy him like that... was dangerously attractive.”

Your brow arched.

“I think I fell for you all over again,” he added softly

You tilted your head slightly.

“More than you already were? Wow… you’re completely gone.”

Harry exhaled dreamily. “Yeah,” he said, low and honest. “I am.”

The way he said it—no joke, no deflection—landed heavier than expected.

You held his gaze for a beat, then your lips curved just slightly.

“Well,” you murmured, softer now, “lucky for you…it’s mutual.”

Something shifted in his expression.

He leaned in without another word, his hand coming up to your jaw as his lips met yours—slow, warm, certain. When he pulled back, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against yours, breath still close, steadying.

“I love you, my queen.”

Your fingers lifted, brushing slowly along the line of his jaw, feeling the roughness of his stubble, a soft smile forming at the sensation beneath your fingertips.

“I love you too, Harry.”

You just looked at him for a second, then your attention shifted again. Back to your arm. You wrinkled your nose. “Did I really need this?” “The doctor said you were run down. You needed fluids.” You sighed. “I hate hospitals. And I hate needles.” You glanced pointedly at your arm.

Harry didn’t answer right away this time. He went quiet.

And that’s when you noticed it.

The shift.

It was small, but it was there. Something settled behind his eyes, something heavier. He took a slow breath, like he was choosing his words carefully.

“…the doctor said something else, too.”

Your attention snapped back to him. “What?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his hand moved. Slowly. It came to rest over your stomach. The touch was light. Careful. Like the moment itself was something fragile.

Your breath caught.

He looked at you then, really looked, and there was something in his eyes you couldn't name. “The test was right.”

For a second, the words didn’t register. They hovered there, disconnected.

Test.

Your mind caught up a beat too late.

And when it did, it hit hard.

Not gently. Not gradually. All at once.

Your chest tightened, your throat closing before you could even shape a response. Your eyes filled instantly and you didn’t even try to stop it.

This wasn’t simple happiness. It wasn’t relief.

It was something deeper than that. Something you had already started letting go of, something you had taught yourself not to expect.

And now it was back.

Real.

You swallowed, once, twice, trying to steady your voice.

“Harry… you…” You shook your head slightly, trying to find the words. “You mean… I…”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Yeah, baby. He said the symptoms make sense and also your levels are elevated… higher than expected. They’re consistent with early pregnancy.”

Everything inside you stilled. “I’m… p-pregnant?”

Your hand moved on its own, settling over your stomach. Harry’s hand covered yours immediately, warm, firm. “…yeah,” he said softly. “That’s what the blood test says.”

Your breath caught. Your other hand came up, covering your mouth. “Oh my God…” you whispered, barely audible.

Harry let out a quiet breath, something between disbelief and a soft laugh. "Yeah,” he murmured, a faint smile pulling at his lips. “That was pretty much my reaction too.”

He watched you for a second longer. “But…” he added carefully. Your eyes lifted to his instantly. “There’s something else.”

"What?"

And then—

“TWIIIIINS!”

The door burst open so suddenly you actually jumped.

Mikey.

Of course.

He stormed in like a one-man parade, grinning like he just won the lottery.

“Twins! I’m going to be an uncle, this is insane—”

Harry exhaled, rolling his eyes.

You froze. Completely. Your body went still, your mind lagging behind the words.

Behind him, Sienna rushed in. “Mikey, give them a second—”

Too late.

Scarlet. Emily. Chloe.

They moved in almost at the same time, voices overlapping, filling the room too quickly.

“Sweetheart—” Scarlet reached you first, her hand immediately finding your arm, grounding. “The doctor said it’s not definitive yet, alright? We don’t know for certain.”

“But you’re pregnant,” Emily blurted out, eyes wide, somewhere between shock and excitement. “I mean—oh my God, that’s—wow—”

“Are you okay?” Chloe cut in quickly, stepping closer, scanning your face. “You look pale. Do you feel dizzy? Should you be sitting up like that?”

Scarlet shot them both a look, sharp but controlled. “Give her a second.”

The room filled too fast, too many voices, too much movement.

But none of it really reached you.

Because there was only one word left in your head.

Twins.

Your lips parted slowly. “T-twins…” Your voice was barely there. “…two babies.”

Your heart started racing, uneven, too fast. “Not one… two…” You shook your head faintly, disbelief creeping in. “No. That can’t be right.” Your voice dropped, quieter, almost to yourself. “They need to check again. Maybe they got it wrong.”

The door opened again and this time it was the doctor and a nurse. The energy in the room shifted automatically, quieter, more controlled.

The nurse moved to your side and carefully removed the IV from your arm. You watched with mild suspicion, then relief when it was over.

The doctor gave you a reassuring smile.

“You’re doing well,” he said calmly. “Your mother informed me about your medical history,” he added. “Given that, we need to be cautious.” A brief pause. “We did pick up what might be two heart rhythms on the monitor, which can indicate a twin pregnancy.”

The room went very still.

“But—” he continued gently, “without a proper ultrasound, we can’t confirm that.” His gaze held yours, steady and reassuring. “At this stage, there’s still room for misinterpretation. Especially considering your history. That’s why it’s important you follow up with your OB-GYN as soon as possible. They’ll confirm everything with a detailed scan.”

“We’ll go,” Harry said immediately.

“Of course she will,” Scarlet added at the same time, her tone leaving no room for argument.

For a second, they both paused—then glanced at each other.

The nurse finished removing the IV, pressing a small piece of gauze to your arm.

“You’re stable,” the doctor continued. “But take it easy. No unnecessary stress. Eat regularly, stay hydrated.”

A small, reassuring nod.

“And we’ll let the specialist take it from here.”

“Thank you,” Harry said as the doctor stepped out.

The door closed behind them.

Scarlet moved closer instantly, her hand coming up to your hair, smoothing it back gently. “Sweetheart…” she murmured, her voice softer now. “Are you in shock?”

You let your head fall back against the pillows, eyes closing for a second as you exhaled slowly. “No. Not shock.” A small shake of your head. “It’s just… a lot.” Your voice dropped, quieter. “What if it’s true? What if they really are twins?” Your fingers tightened slightly over your stomach. “One baby would already be a lot right now,” you murmured. “What am I supposed to do with two?”

Harry reached for your hand without hesitation, his fingers threading through yours, squeezing gently.

“We’ll figure it out.”

You woke before you opened your eyes. A slow breath filled your lungs, deeper than usual, as if your body was trying to prepare you for something before your mind caught up. For a few seconds you stayed still beneath the covers, suspended in that quiet space between sleep and reality, where nothing had shape yet and nothing demanded anything from you. But even there, you knew. Today wasn’t ordinary. Not for New York. And not for you.

The realization settled in slowly, strangely calm for something that should have felt heavier. There was something almost unfamiliar about it, the awareness that the city was going to wake up differently because of you. It should have felt overwhelming. Instead, it felt… distant. Almost surreal.

You opened your eyes.

Soft light filtered through the edges of the room, muted, controlled. You reached up and slid the sleep mask off, pushing yourself upright against the pillows. The sheets fell slightly as you moved and without thinking, your gaze dropped. Your hands followed.

They settled over your stomach, fingers pressing lightly against the silk of your nightgown.

For a moment, you just stayed like that. Still. Trying to understand what you were looking at.

There was nothing visible yet. No change. No sign. And still— you knew.

Somewhere beneath that fabric, beneath your skin, there were two lives now. Well, not %100 confirmed yet, but... still.

And unexpectedly, it made you smile.

After everything. After years of careful distance, of calculated acceptance, of doctors speaking in measured tones about probabilities and limitations and things that “might not be possible”—you woke up to this. To something that was.

You stood.

The room was still early-morning quiet, the kind that belonged only to homes that ran on discipline and routine. You didn’t need an alarm. Your body woke you. Maybe from the exhaustion. Maybe from the adrenaline that still hadn’t fully left your system. Or maybe from something else entirely.

You stepped in front of the mirror.

For a second, you just looked at yourself.

Then your gaze dropped again.

Your hands followed, resting over your stomach once more, but this time the feeling was different. Not just curiosity. Not just disbelief. Uncertainty.

Your reflection looked the same. But nothing felt the same.

Everything in your life was already shifting—Lucas, the board, the company, the press—and now this. Something even bigger. Something completely outside your control.

That part sat differently.

You had never liked things you couldn’t control or handle.

And yet— this didn’t feel like a burden.

Before you could sit with it longer, there was a knock at the door.

You didn’t even turn immediately. “Come in.”

The door opened and Yuliana stepped inside, already carrying that quiet efficiency she always had, though there was something lighter in her expression this morning.

“Good morning, Ms. Queen.”

You met her gaze through the mirror and gave her a small smile.

“Morning.”

She moved to the windows, pulling the curtains open in one smooth motion. Sunlight spilled into the room and you blinked slightly against it, adjusting.

“Breakfast is ready,” she said, turning back toward you. Then, after a brief pause, something more deliberate in her tone, “Is there anything you would prefer this morning? Something… specific, perhaps?”

You caught the implication immediately. You slipped your robe over your shoulders, tying it loosely as you walked toward the dresser.

“Maybe just matcha. Something light.”

“Done.”

She moved to leave, but paused at the door just long enough to glance back at you again, softer this time, before stepping out.

You headed into the bathroom, letting the door fall half-closed behind you. The cold water against your skin helped. You moved through your routine automatically—cleanser, cream, small familiar motions that reminded you who you were, made you feel like yourself.

By the time you stepped back into the hallway, you were almost composed again.

Almost.

“Hey—there she is.”

Mikey was leaning against the wall like he had been waiting for you, phone already in hand, hair barely styled, completely at ease in a way that should have been illegal this early in the morning.

“My beautiful sister finally awake?” he added, already stepping in and throwing an arm around your shoulders.

You took exactly two steps before your balance shifted slightly.

“Careful,” you muttered, slipping out from under his arm. “I’d like to make it down the stairs without a concussion today.”

He grinned, completely unapologetic. “Please. You’ve handled boardrooms worse than this staircase.”

You gave him a look.

He ignored it. Instead, he turned his phone toward you as you both started heading down the stairs. “Okay, no, you need to see this. I’ve been laughing at this since I woke up.”

You leaned slightly closer despite yourself.

On the screen, a clip was playing—yesterday’s speech. Your speech. Clean, sharp, cut together with the precision of the internet doing what it does best.

But it wasn’t focused on you.

It was Lucas.

Zoomed in. Edited. Looping.

His expression flickered across the screen in exaggerated slow motion—confidence melting into confusion, then outright disbelief, frame by frame as you spoke.

And then it got worse.

Someone had layered absurd audio over it—dramatic violin screeches cutting into a distorted record scratch, followed by a perfectly timed, high-pitched “huh?” sound effect.

Each time his face shifted, the edit punched it harder.

At one point, they froze on the exact second his eyes widened— cut to a blinking cat. Back to Lucas. Back to the cat. Zoomed in even further. Another cut—his jaw tightening— then a meme overlay: “when you realize you messed with the wrong person.”

The video looped it. Again. And again. Each time slightly more ridiculous. Mikey let out a full laugh beside you, leaning closer to the screen.

“Look at his face,” he said, completely losing it. “Look at it—he goes from major stakeholder to confused housecat in three seconds.”

You exhaled through your nose, unimpressed, though your lips twitched just slightly. “Turn that off before Dad sees it, you tool,” you said. “He doesn’t know anything yet.”

Mikey hummed but swiped anyway, already pulling something else up.

“Yeah, well—too late for the rest of the world.”

He turned the screen again.

X.

Trending page.

Your name. Lucas. Queen Financial.

Multiple headlines stacked on top of each other.

He wasn’t wrong.

You were everywhere.

“So,” Mikey said lightly, “congratulations. You basically broke New York overnight.”

You didn’t answer immediately.

You just looked.

Then—

“Where are you two?”

Scarlet’s voice cut in from the bottom of the stairs.

You both looked up.

She was already walking toward you, composed as always but her eyes were softer the moment they landed on you. She reached you in seconds, her hand coming up to your cheek without hesitation. “Did you sleep well?” she asked quietly.

You nodded once. "Yeah."

Her gaze searched yours for a moment longer, then she exhaled. “Your father’s at the table,” she said. “Come.”

Mikey snorted under his breath, still looking at his phone. "Oh, he’s finished,” he said, grinning. “Every woman in this city hates him now. Like—collectively.” He scrolled, still laughing. “I’m pretty sure he just got banned from brunch culture permanently.”

“Michael,” Scarlet said sharply.

He lifted both hands. “Alright, alright.”

Her arm slipped around your waist as she guided you toward the dining room, protective without making a scene of it.

The table was already set.

He looked up when you entered, his expression softening immediately. There was still something tired in his eyes, but it wasn’t as heavy anymore. Not as distant. You leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek before taking the seat beside him.

“Good morning, honey,” he said quietly.

“Morning, dad,” you replied, softer.

For a moment, it almost felt normal.

Breakfast moved carefully. Not silent, but measured. Small things. Coffee. A comment about the weather. The way the toast was slightly too crisp. Safe topics. Familiar ground.

But it didn’t last. Richard realized something was off.

Scarlet handled it.

She didn’t overwhelm him. She didn’t dramatize anything. She simply introduced the situation in controlled pieces—mentioned Lucas, the board maneuvering, the press coverage. Enough for him to understand. Not enough to trigger unnecessary stress.

The truth, but edited.

There were things you didn’t say.

Not yet.

The pregnancy. The full extent of what had happened last night.

Those could wait.

Yuliana and Lara moved around the table with quiet efficiency, but this morning there was something else underneath it. Attention. Focus. Every plate that got closer to you stayed there a second longer. Every option was subtly redirected your way.

You noticed. Of course you did. You didn’t comment on it.

For a moment, though, you allowed yourself to think ahead.

If the company stabilized—when it stabilized—you could rebuild everything. The house. The staff. The life that used to feel effortless.

But first—

the company.

Everything came back to that.

Later, as you were getting dressed, Scarlet joined you again. You caught her watching you in the mirror, that same quiet concern still there, layered with something else you weren’t used to seeing from her so openly. “Make sure Dana schedules your appointment,” she said. “As soon as possible.”

You met her eyes in the reflection. “I will.”

She nodded, but didn’t look entirely satisfied.

Scarlet was watching you through the mirror. While Yuliana carefully shaped the ends of your hair, your mother sat at the edge of the chair, her phone in hand, quietly scrolling through something. But this wasn’t ordinary maternal concern. Scarlet Queen didn’t cry when she worried. She made lists.

“Last night changed something,” she said finally.

You met her eyes in the mirror. “The headlines?”

“The women.”

Your fingers stilled over the bracelet you were fastening.

Scarlet lifted her gaze from the screen. “Yesterday, they were watching you tear Lucas Whitmore apart. And this morning, every woman in New York with money, influence, or a husband who thought he controlled both, was talking about you.”

You turned slightly. “Mother.”

“No, listen.” Her voice softened, but only at the edges. “This was not charity. This was leverage dressed beautifully enough to get through any door.”

Yuliana’s hands paused for half a second in your hair.

Scarlet continued, calmer now, sharper. “The Foundation dinner was supposed to be symbolic. A polite room, polite checks, polite applause.” She tilted her head. “Now it could become a declaration.”

You watched her through the mirror.

“A declaration of what?”

“That Queen Financial was not isolated.” Scarlet stood, crossing the room with that quiet grace that had made men underestimate her for thirty years. “You gave them a reason to stand with you. Women like that didn’t always move out of kindness, darling. But they did move when they saw themselves in the story.”

You understood then.

Not a gala. A signal.

“Family offices,” you murmured.

Scarlet’s smile deepened.

“Private capital. Philanthropic boards. Museum trustees. Trust committees. Women who didn’t need board seats to make board members nervous.”

You let out a slow breath.

“You want to turn public support into investor confidence.”

“I want to turn your speech into armor.”

The room went quiet.

Scarlet reached for your coat, smoothing one invisible crease from the shoulder before handing it to you.

“Lucas gave the press a hero story. You gave the city something better.” Her eyes met yours, steady and bright. “A woman refusing to be purchased.”

Your throat tightened despite yourself.

Scarlet’s voice dropped lower.

“So yes. While New York slept, I made calls.”

Of course she had.

“To whom?”

“To women who understood that reputation was currency,” Scarlet said. “And that men like Lucas Whitmore became very expensive when no one respectable wanted to stand near them.”

A slow smile touched your mouth. “That’s brutal.”

“That’s finance.”

You slipped into your coat.

Scarlet stepped close and adjusted your collar, gentle now.

“Today you take the board. This week, we take the room. After that,” she said, brushing her thumb once over your cheek, “we remind this city that Queen Financial was never built to be inherited by weak men.”

You looked at her for a long second.

Then nodded.

“Send Dana the list.”

Scarlet smiled.

“I already did.”

Fifth Avenue had learned to wake quietly around money.

The avenue outside your building was polished even in winter, all pale stone, black awnings, doormen in dark coats, and town cars idling with the patient arrogance of people who were used to being waited for. But this morning, quiet had been replaced by camera shutters.

Reporters crowded beyond the polished brass line the building staff had created with professional calm. Security stood between the entrance and the sidewalk, not aggressive, not frantic, simply immovable. The kind of men who didn’t need to raise their voices because the building they worked for had been raising them for decades.

The second you stepped into the lobby, the noise outside swelled.

“Ms. Queen!”

“Are you going to Queen Financial today?”

“Do you have a statement on Lucas Whitmore?”

Mikey, already beside you, slid his sunglasses down from the top of his head and gave the glass doors a look of deep personal offense.

“Wow… curious crowd before 9 AM. Should I be concerned or flattered?”

The doorman opened the door before you reached it, and cold air rushed in with the sound of your name. Cameras lifted. Flashes sparked. The questions hit immediately, loud enough to turn the marble lobby behind you into an echo chamber.

You didn’t stop.

You didn’t lower your head either.

Mikey moved half a step ahead, just enough to create space without making it look like you needed protecting. One of the building security men cleared the path. Another held back a reporter who leaned too far over the invisible line.

“Ms. Queen, are you stepping down?”

“Will Lucas Whitmore remain with the company?”

“Are the allegations true?”

You reached the sidewalk with your expression perfectly still.

Then a man in a dark coat appeared from the edge of the crowd, sunglasses on despite the weak January sun, his collar turned up so high it almost swallowed his jaw. He held a folded newspaper in one hand like a man who had committed to a bit entirely too hard.

He leaned in just enough to be heard. “Ms. Queen. This way.”

You paused for half a second. Mikey stared at him.

“Ron?”

Ron’s face remained completely serious. “Keep walking.”

Mikey looked him up and down, taking in the sunglasses, the raised collar, and- “The newspaper is a little old-fashioned, buddy. Tell me you at least cut eyeholes in it.”

Ron didn’t miss a beat. “I considered it. But the purpose was camouflage, not surveillance.”

Mikey blinked, then grinned. “That’s actually worse.”

You walked between them, eyes forward, while cameras kept flashing around you. “You two are weirdly similar,” you murmured.

Ron, still scanning the crowd, said, “I’m choosing to take it as a compliment?”

“I wouldn’t,” Mikey said.

Your mouth almost curved, but then you saw it.

A black limousine waiting just ahead by the curb, sleek and quiet among the chaos. The rear window was lowered halfway.

Harry.

He was seated inside, one arm resting along the back of the seat, dark coat open, gaze fixed on you like the rest of Fifth Avenue didn’t exist. Morning light caught the sharp line of his cheekbone and the faint bruise near his brow, making him look more handsome somehow. His mouth tilted slightly when your eyes met his.

“Good morning, beautiful.”

You stopped beside the window, one brow lifting slightly.

“Morning, Mr. Castillo. At this hour… outside my building?” you tilted your head just slightly. “Did you see me in your dreams or something?”

“There isn’t a night I don’t.”

You felt the warmth rise to your face before you could stop it, letting out a quiet breath that turned into a soft laugh as you shook your head.

"Let me take you to the office.”

“That’s very kind of you,” you said smoothly, “but my car is already here.”

Harry didn’t even look at it. His eyes stayed on you. “I don’t think you’re going to refuse the man you love.”

“I knew you were going to use that against me.”

Harry tilted his head slightly. “Well…” he said lightly,

“you’re the one who said it. In front of cameras. You should’ve thought that through.”

You let out a small sigh, adjusting your hair again, but this time your lips curved faintly. “You really do have a talent for leveraging very specific advantages.”

His smile sharpened. “I do it well, don’t I?”

“Annoyingly well.”

Harry reached for the door, opening it without breaking eye contact.

“Get in.”

You hesitated for exactly half a second.

Then stepped forward. His hand found yours as you stepped closer, warm against your gloved fingers, and he helped you into the limousine

You slid inside, and Harry’s hand settled lightly at your back until you were seated. The door closed, sealing out the noise almost completely.

Outside, Ron stood by the curb, still holding the newspaper.

The limousine pulled away.

Mikey watched it go, then looked at Ron.

Ron stared after the car for a second. “My boss just abandoned me.”

Mikey snorted, already walking toward his own car. “First time?”

Ron folded the newspaper under his arm and followed. “Actually, yes.”

Mikey unlocked his phone as they moved. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride. Also, you need to see what TikTok did to Lucas’s face.”

“Is it useful?”

“It’s art.”

Ron glanced once more at the disappearing limousine, then smiled faintly. "You know... I prefer him like this.”

Mikey looked up. “Who?”

“Harry.” Ron adjusted his coat collar, the humor softening into something more genuine. “He didn’t even look back. I’ll take that. Means he’s exactly where he wants to be, with her. Better than to watch him go back to being heartbroken.” Then his face tightened. “Still. Being abandoned feels terrible.”

Mikey laughed. “Aw, look at you. Got ditched once and suddenly you’re a street cat. Get in, drama queen.”

Inside the limousine, the world was quiet.

The leather smelled faintly of cold air and Harry’s cologne. The city moved past in blurred gold and gray beyond the tinted glass, but inside, everything had narrowed to the warmth of his hand around yours.

Harry lifted your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles once.

Then again, slower.

“How are you today?”

You leaned back into the seat, watching him.

“I’m fine.”

“Did you eat?”

You sighed. “Harry.”

“Breakfast,” he clarified, as if you were the difficult one. “Did you eat breakfast?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start. My mother already did.”

“She was right.”

“Traitor.”

His thumb moved over your fingers, calm and absent, but his eyes stayed on your face.

“You can call me whatever you want. You’re not skipping meals.”

“I had matcha. Toast. Some fruit. Yuliana and Lara almost staged an intervention involving eggs.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yes.”

“Please don’t start sounding like my mother,” you said. “Try being my boyfriend instead.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” he said quietly. “I can’t help it.”

His gaze dropped, just briefly, to your stomach. Then back to your face.

“It’s all I can think about.”

“I told Dana to schedule the OB-GYN appointment for tomorrow.”

Harry’s brow lifted.

“I know.”

You turned your head slowly.

“Of course you do.”

His nose brushed your hair as he lowered his head, breathing you in with his eyes closed. You stilled for a second, then laughed quietly when his breath tickled your neck. “What are you doing?”

“Preparing for the day.”

“You’re smelling my hair.”

“I’m storing energy.”

“Energy?”

His eyes opened, dark and warm. “So I can survive until tomorrow.”

Something about the way he said it made your smile soften.

“That’s very sweet,” you murmured. “And a little needy.”

Harry’s gaze moved over your face, then down to where his hand rested near your stomach. When he looked back at you, the humor had softened into something heavier. “There’s never a moment I don’t need you.”

Your breath caught.

He leaned in slightly, voice lower now— “I wish you could see yourself the way I do. I wish you knew what it feels like… when I have you like this.”

Your breath hitched. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes. “It’s never enough.”

His mouth brushed yours once, barely there, more promise than kiss. 

Your eyes closed instantly, your hand finding his jacket, fingers curling into the fabric as you leaned into him without thinking.

The kiss deepened slowly.

His hand slid to your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer, like he needed to feel you there—real, solid, not something he could lose again.

Your breath hitched softly against his lips.

Outside, the city moved.

Inside—

nothing did.

The limousine slowed before it fully stopped. Queen Financial’s building rose in front of you, glass and steel catching the pale morning light. Before the car had even come to a complete halt, the security at the entrance had already noticed.

You leaned in, brushing a quick, soft kiss against Harry’s lips. “Later,” you murmured. “Later,” he echoed.

The door opened. Cool air rushed in as you stepped out, already composed. One of the security guards straightened the second you appeared.

“Good morning, Ms. Queen.”

You stepped onto the pavement, your coat settling perfectly over your shoulders, your expression already back in place. “Good morning.”

Another guard moved subtly closer, not intrusive—just present. Efficient. Discreet.

Behind you, the limousine door closed softly.

People near the entrance straightened slightly as you passed. Heads dipped. Brief nods. Silent acknowledgment.

Respect.

Right before the doors, you paused.

Turned.

The limousine window was already lowered.

Harry was still inside, one arm resting along the door, watching you like nothing else in the city mattered.

You held his gaze for a second.

Then a small smile touched your lips.

Just for him.

He returned it—slower, softer.

You turned back and walked inside.

Harry’s gaze dropped briefly to the seat where you had been sitting.

Something caught his attention.

He leaned forward, reaching inside.

You must have dropped one of your gloves.

He picked it up, turning it once in his hand before his eyes lifted again instinctively.

He stepped out of the car.

You were already halfway across the lobby.

Walking.

And for a moment—

he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Ron approached from the car behind. “Boss—”

Harry didn’t even look at him. Just lifted his hand slightly.

Wait.

Ron stopped instantly.

Mikey slowed too, following his line of sight. “…what exactly are we looking at?”

Then he saw you.

Walking across the marble floor, your reflection stretching beneath you, every step measured, controlled, effortless.

People moved out of your way without being asked. Heads dipped as you passed. Quiet greetings.

Respect that wasn’t performed.

It was earned.

Ron let out a slow breath. “…there it is.”

Mikey tilted his head, watching, a grin forming. “Yeah… I’m pretty sure he’s seeing this in slow motion right now.” He squinted slightly. “Probably with some dramatic music too. Like… only youuu in the background.”

Ron’s gaze shifted briefly ahead.

Dana had already reached you, greeting you quietly as the two of you disappeared further down the corridor.

He exhaled.

“It does that,” he said quietly.

Mikey glanced at him. “What?”

Ron’s voice softened. “When it’s her… everything else slows down.”

Mikey nodded absently, still staring. “Yeah… especially when she does that thing with her caramel hair and those hazel—”

Harry turned.

Ron turned.

Mikey froze.

Then immediately grinned.

“—I mean in general. Just… adapting to the tone here.”

He started backing toward the revolving doors. “I’m gonna go inside before one of you turns this into a staring contest. Also—cameras exist. Just saying.”

Harry stepped forward, handing him the glove. “Give this to her.”

Mikey took it. “And stay close,” Harry added, quieter now. “Keep an eye on her.”

Mikey straightened instantly, placing a hand over his chest. “Don’t worry, Romeo. I will personally deliver this to her highness.” He lifted the glove slightly. “Serving the queen is my greatest honor.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Just give it to her.”

He turned back toward the limousine.

Ron reached into his coat and pulled out a small bottle, handing it to Mikey. “Also, give this to Dana.”

Mikey turned it in his hand. “…what is this?”

“Her morning mix.”

Mikey squinted at the label. “Why does this look like something that tastes healthy and terrible?”

Ron exhaled. “It’s very specific.”

“I’m tempted.”

“Hey. It’s for my girlfriend.”

Mikey raised a brow. “Oh, so now it’s sacred.”

Harry was already getting back into the limousine. “Ron.”

Ron nodded and moved to follow.

Mikey sighed dramatically, looking between them. “What am I, your personal courier now?”

The limousine door closed.

The car pulled away.

Mikey watched it go for a second, then looked down at the bottle again, turning it in his hand.

“…what the hell even is yuzu?” He frowned. “Is that a fruit… or a personality?”

The doors closed behind you with a quiet finality.

Your office felt exactly as it should. Still. Controlled. Untouched.

You set your bag down as you walked in, already slipping your coat off your shoulders in one smooth motion. Before it even reached the chair, Dana was there, taking it from you without breaking her rhythm.

She was already speaking.

“Your eleven o’clock board meeting has been confirmed,” she said, placing a folder neatly on your desk. “Emergency session, as requested.”

You nodded faintly, moving behind your desk.

“At one, you have lunch with Mrs. Adler. I’ve moved it to a more private room at The Carlyle.”

“Good.”

Dana continued, already flipping a page on her tablet. “Three p.m., shareholder briefing. Mr. Smith will be joining remotely. Legal has sent over the updated documents; they’re in the blue file.” Your eyes flicked briefly to the stack waiting for you. “Also,” she added, “Investor Relations prepared a statement draft. I took the liberty of editing it.” A small pause. “It’s better now.”

A faint smile touched your lips. “I’m sure it is.”

She gave a quick smile. Professional, as always.

“The New York Women’s Financial Consortium has requested a private meeting,” she continued. “They’re not asking for press. They’re asking for access.”

Your gaze sharpened slightly. “Interesting.”

“Additionally,” Dana went on, “CNN has requested your presence for a live segment on their financial program this evening. I have not confirmed.”

You leaned back slightly in your chair. “Don’t.”

“Noted.”

No hesitation. Dana tapped once more on her tablet, then shifted.

“Tomorrow,” she said, tone just slightly quieter, “your OB-GYN appointment has been scheduled.”

You stilled for half a second.

“Midday,” she added. “Private entrance. Minimal visibility, given the current situation.”

You leaned back fully now, exhaling softly.

“Thank you, Dana. You’re excellent.”

She inclined her head just slightly. “I do my best for you."

That almost made you smile.

“Go get coffee,” you added, already reaching for the file. “We’ll need it for the eleven.”

“I’ll bring you a flat white,” she said smoothly. “Almond milk.”

“Perfect.”

She turned to leave—

—and the door opened at the exact same time.

Mikey. “This is for you,” he said to Dana, handing her the bottle. “Your boyfriend sent it.”

“Ah… that idiot,” she murmured softly. “I’m sure he woke up early just to get this. If only he put the same effort into understanding basic relationship responsibilities…”

“Sweetheart,” you said calmly, “men can usually focus on one thing at a time. He chose romance today. Let him have that.”

Dana giggled. “So I should lower my expectations?”

“No,” you said smoothly. “Just… pace them.”

"Noted it."

She stepped out.

Mikey huffed. “Wow. I feel like I just witnessed a masterclass.”

“Yeah. Take notes.”

Mikey leaned back in the chair across from you, arms loosely crossed, his expression caught somewhere between dramatic exhaustion and mild self-pity.

“I did take notes,” he said. “A lot of them. At this point I’ve gone through entire notebooks. Doesn’t seem to make a difference though.”

You didn’t look up immediately. You finished the line you were reading, set the paper down with quiet precision, and only then lifted your gaze to him.

“That’s because you’re studying the wrong thing.”

Mikey frowned. “What does that even mean?”

You tilted your head slightly, observing him like you would any flawed strategy. “It means,” you said calmly, “you’re trying to become someone else. You went to the gym at six in the morning. And got some sleep instead of reading books you don’t understand. That's not you. Be more like yourself. You’re assuming she doesn’t already like you.”

Mikey looked up. Actually looked. “…you think she does?”

You didn’t hesitate. “I know she does.”

He blinked, caught off guard by the certainty in your voice.

"You’d be a lot more interesting if you stopped trying so hard.”

Mikey huffed out a quiet breath, somewhere between a laugh and disbelief. “So your advice is… do nothing?”

“My advice,” you corrected smoothly, “is to be yourself.”

“Wow… thanks, Dr. Phil." You rolled your eyes. "Oh... and...this,” he said, pulling out your glove with a flourish, “is from your ex-husband, current boyfriend, Mr. Castillo.”

You looked up. A small smile. “Oh. Thank you, Mikey.”

“Okay fun update,” he added. “Lucas’ assistant can’t reach him.”

Your brows lifted slightly. “Really.”

“Really,” Mikey nodded. “Rumor is he got on his jet. Some say he already left the States.”

You leaned back slowly. A quiet breath leaving you. “Good.”

Mikey grinned. “You buried him. I thought for a second he had you cornered.”

You tilted your head slightly. “I let him think that. Today,” you continued calmly, “I finish it.” Your gaze dropped briefly to the files. “By the end of that meeting, he won’t exist in this company.”

Mikey sat up straighter. “That’s my sister.”

Then, immediately— “Also, for the record, I’m fully on your side.”

You glanced at him. “Just don’t spend the meeting drawing hearts with initials again.”

He looked offended. “That was one time.”

“It was not one time.”

“It was two times,” he corrected. “And Clarkson was talking like a dying tortoise. I needed stimulation.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Mikey.”

“I’m serious,” he continued. “If that man pauses one more time mid-sentence, I’m bringing a remote and fast-forwarding him.”

“Get out.”

He stood up immediately. “Yes, ma’am.”

The door closed.

The office fell quiet again.

You watched it for a second.

Then looked down.

Your phone lit up.

Harry.

A message.

HARRY: I assume you got your glove back. I’d rather not have your hands cold.

Your lips curved instantly.

YOU: I did. I’m surprised you didn’t keep it. You usually collect my things.

Especially my panties.

The reply came fast.

HARRY: Who says I didn’t? I still have the black ones.

You bit your lip, shaking your head slightly as you typed:

YOU: Don’t tell me you took them all the way to London with you.

No reply.

A few seconds passed.

Then—

YOU: Harry???

You let out a quiet laugh under your breath.

Before you could type again, another message came in:

HARRY: You told me not to say it.

You actually laughed this time.

YOU: I can’t believe you.

HARRY: I might have bought you something in London. Seems like the right way to make it up to you. You can try them on for me tomorrow night.

YOU: Hmm… You do make a convincing offer. I’ll think about it.

HARRY: You already know the answer. I’ll be waiting. Not very patiently.

You giggled.

YOU: Stop. I have work to do.

HARRY: Okay. Do your work. I’ll distract you later.

The next day.

1:12 p.m.

The elevator ride felt longer than it should have.

Your reflection in the mirrored walls looked composed, controlled—perfect, even. But your hands betrayed you. They trembled slightly at your sides, fingers curling in and out like you were trying to hold onto something that kept slipping.

Harry noticed.

He hadn’t slept much. Not after spending half the night reading about Asherman syndrome—about the risks, the complications, the quiet possibilities no one ever says out loud. It was why he understood the fear in your eyes before you even said a word. “Hey.”

You looked up.

His eyes held yours completely. “Whatever happens in there…” he said quietly, his voice low but certain, “you’re not doing it alone. I’m right here. And nothing they say changes that. We deal with it together.”

He leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to your forehead.

You closed your eyes for a second, letting yourself lean into him, your head resting lightly against his chest.

“I know. I’m glad you’re here.”

His arm wrapped around you, palm moving gently over your back in slow, grounding motions.

The elevator chimed.

You stepped out together.

The clinic was exactly as you remembered. Quiet. Cozy. Designed to soften the edges of something inherently clinical.

Warm lighting replaced harsh white. Soft beige tones. Clean, but not sterile. Even the scent was deliberate—something faintly herbal, calming without being noticeable.

A discreet coat stand stood near the entrance instead of a typical rack.

Harry helped you out of your coat without a word, his fingers brushing your shoulders briefly before placing it neatly alongside his.

The waiting area was empty. Completely. No other patients, no background noise, just the quiet hum of a place that had been intentionally paused. The assistant greeted you immediately, her smile warm but measured. “Ms. Queen. Mr. Castillo. Dr. Wright is expecting you.”

You and Harry exchanged a glance.

“I can wait out here if you want,” he said quietly.

You knew that look. He would wait. But he didn’t want to.

Your voice came softer this time. “Please come with me.”

He nodded immediately. “Sure.”

The door opened.

Dr. Eleanor Wright stood as you entered.

“Ms. Queen,” she said warmly, her expression genuine. “It’s good to see you again.”

Then her gaze shifted. “Mr. Castillo.”

Harry stepped forward slightly, offering his hand. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”

“Of course,” she said, shaking his hand. “Given the circumstances, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.” Her attention returned to you.

“I hope you’re holding up,” she added gently. “The entire city seems to be following your life at the moment.”

You gave a faint, controlled smile. “I’m managing.” A small breath left you.

“The reason I’m here…”

Dr. Wright’s expression softened just slightly. “Your mother called.”

You closed your eyes briefly. “Of course she did.”

“She was… persuasive,” the doctor admitted lightly. Then, more professional again, “but she also provided useful information. If you’re ready, we can begin.”

You nodded. “Yes. Please.”

The room dimmed slightly again.

Familiar. Too familiar.

You moved toward the examination table. Harry stayed close, his hand brushing yours once before helping you settle.

Dr. Wright pulled up your chart on the screen.

“I reviewed your results,” she said, eyes scanning carefully. “Your beta hCG levels are significantly elevated. Higher than what we typically expect for a single pregnancy.” Your chest tightened. “But given your medical history,” she continued calmly, “we confirm everything via ultrasound.”

You nodded. “Because early misinterpretation is possible.”

“Exactly. Given your case, I’ll perform a transvaginal ultrasound. It provides a clearer image at this stage.”

You swallowed. “Okay.”

The assistant stepped closer, her movements calm, practiced, gentle. The gel was cold. You flinched immediately, your body reacting before you could control it. Harry’s hand found yours again instantly. You squeezed it. Harder this time. The probe moved gently, carefully.

Still—your body remembered. That same tension. That same vulnerability. That same instinct to pull away.

“Try to relax,” Dr. Wright said softly. “I know this isn’t comfortable, I’ll go slowly.”

You nodded, eyes fixed upward. Your breathing uneven.

The pressure shifted slightly. A familiar sensation followed.

That strange, immediate urge—like you needed to move, adjust, react.

You knew it.

You had felt it before.

Still, it never got easier.

The machine hummed quietly.

Then—

the screen flickered to life.

All three of you looked at it.

Dr. Wright adjusted the angle, her focus sharpening.

Silence filled the room.

You could hear your own heartbeat.

Then she stilled. Just slightly. Her hand paused. She leaned closer. Adjusted again. Zoomed in. Your grip tightened on Harry’s hand.

“…Dr. Wright?” your voice came out quieter than you intended.

She didn’t answer immediately.

Instead—she spoke to the assistant, low and clinical, mentioning measurements, angles, something you barely processed.

Then—she stopped. “Alright,” she said softly. "I’m going to ask you something.”

Was that bad news?

Your chest tightened. “…o-okay.”

“Is there a history of twins in your family?”

You blinked. Harry looked at you. You answered quietly. “No.”

Dr. Wright smiled. That was the moment. You saw it. Before she said anything.

Your breath caught. “…you’re serious?” you whispered.

She turned the screen slightly toward you. “Yes.” She pointed. “There’s one gestational sac here.” Then moved slightly. “And another here.”

Your hand flew to your mouth. “Oh my God…”

Harry exhaled, stunned, eyes moving between the screen and you.

“…two,” he said quietly.

Dr. Wright nodded, her voice warmer now. “Two embryos.” A small breath left her. “In your case… that’s extraordinary.”

Your vision blurred. Tears. You hadn’t even noticed when they started.

Harry leaned down immediately, pressing a kiss into your hair, his own breath unsteady now. "...baby,” he murmured softly.

His eyes were glassy too, emotion breaking through despite himself. He glanced at the edge of the bed, then back at the doctor. “Can I—?”

Dr. Wright gave a small, understanding smile. “Of course. There's plenty of room.”

Harry didn’t hesitate. He sat beside you, closer now, his arm immediately finding its place around you. You leaned into him, your arms wrapping around him as you pressed your face into his chest, grounding yourself there. His hand came up instantly, holding you close, fingers threading gently into your hair.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Dr. Wright glanced briefly at her assistant, a soft, knowing look passing between them—something warm, almost fond. Then her gaze returned to you both, her expression touched, quietly admiring.

“Well,” she said gently, a small smile forming, “they’re still very small… But we should be able to hear the heartbeats.” She adjusted the monitor, then added lightly, with a hint of humor: “This is usually the part where most couples completely fall apart.” A soft exhale, almost a quiet laugh. “Fair warning.”

Harry let out a breath you felt more than heard, his arm tightening around you just slightly as he looked toward the screen. “…we can actually hear them?” he asked, his voice low, almost disbelieving.

Dr. Wright smiled. “Yes,” she said softly. “You can.”

A click.

Then—

sound.

Fast. Rhythmic. Strong.

Two distinct heartbeats. Filling the room. Everything else disappeared.

You clutched Harry’s arm, your entire body trembling now. “Oh my God…”

“God…do you hear that?” he whispered.

You nodded, crying openly now. “Yes…”

Dr. Wright smiled gently. “Both heartbeats are strong. Very strong.”

She continued taking measurements. “Given their positioning, these appear to be dichorionic twins—two separate sacs.” She glanced at the screen. “Approximately eight weeks.”

You wiped your eyes, trying to steady your breathing. “…eight…”

A memory flickered. November. Vermont. You and Harry both went still. The same moment. You didn’t say it. But you both knew.

You had been mourning something you thought was already lost, standing in the aftermath of a life that never got the chance to begin.

And somehow—in that same night, in the middle of that loss— you had already been carrying another.

Dr. Wright continued, more serious now. “Given your history, this is a high-risk pregnancy.” There it was. The other side of it. "We’ll monitor you closely,” she added. “Very closely,” Dr. Wright said, her tone measured, precise. “The first trimester is critical under normal circumstances. In your case, I’d like to extend that level of monitoring through the first twenty weeks.” She made a small note on the chart before continuing. “I’ll arrange a tailored nutrition plan for you—nothing extreme, just structured support to make sure your body is getting exactly what it needs.” A brief glance at you, reassuring. “I’ll also consult with Dr. Keller and review your full history together.” Then, gently but firmly: “I’d like to see you again in three weeks.” Her expression softened just slightly. “…however, what I’m seeing right now is good. Very good.”

You looked back at the screen. Still trying to process it. Two.

Not impossible. Not anymore.

Two.

And for the first time in a very long time—

you didn’t feel like something was being taken away from you.

You felt like something had finally been given back.

Dr. Wright walked out with you, her tone shifting naturally from clinical to gently instructive as you moved back into the quiet waiting area.

“As I said,” she continued, hands loosely folded in front of her, “you need to rest whenever you can. As much as you can.”

You nodded, still half inside the moment you had just lived.

“Small, frequent meals,” she added. “Healthy. Nothing extreme. And if you experience any bleeding, discomfort, anything unusual—”

“I call you,” you finished softly.

“Immediately,” she confirmed. “If it’s anything significant, go straight to the ER. Otherwise, call me or come in.”

Harry’s hand brushed your lower back, steady, present.

“We will,” he said.

Dr. Wright gave a small, approving nod. “And avoid stress as much as possible. No heavy lifting.”

Harry let out a quiet breath beside you. “Don’t worry. If necessary, I’ll carry her until she gives birth.”

A soft laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Dr. Wright smiled, amused, glancing briefly between you. “Well,” she said lightly, “you’re clearly in very good hands.”

She made a final note, then looked back at you, her tone returning to calm professionalism. “I’ll see you in three weeks, as planned. Until then—take care of yourself. Both of you.”

“Thank you, doctor,” you said.

“Thank you,” Harry echoed.

He reached for your coat before you even asked, holding it open for you. You slipped your arms in, still a little dazed, and he adjusted it over your shoulders, his hands lingering just a second too long.

You looked at him. A small, almost disbelieving smile. “I still can’t believe it,” you murmured. “I’m actually pregnant.”

Harry let out a soft breath, something warm breaking through his composure. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too, baby.” His arms came around you, pulling you into him. You wrapped yours around his waist, holding on just a little tighter than usual. He buried his face lightly against your hair, his voice lower now—almost like he was still processing it himself.

“I’m going to be a dad…” His grip tightened just slightly. “…I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

You closed your eyes for a second.

Then—

a sound.

Murmurs.

You opened your eyes.

Two women sat across the room, magazines lifted just a bit too high, shoulders slightly too tense.

They were trying.

Badly.

Your gaze dropped automatically.

Shoes first.

Of course.

Classic pointed stilettos in that unmistakable cut, the exact shade of ivory leather your mother had owned in three variations.

Then the bag. Same house. Same season.

You exhaled slowly. “You gotta be kidding me.”

Harry followed your gaze, turning slightly.

His brows drew together. “…are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

"Yeah."

And then—

you started walking.

On the couch—

“Are they coming this way?” Vivienne whispered behind her magazine.

“Keep reading,” Scarlet murmured without moving. “We are not here.”

“They’re definitely coming.”

“Then read faster.”

Too late.

Harry reached out first, lowering Vivienne’s magazine.

You followed, catching your mother’s before she could adjust it.

You glanced at the cover.

“Cord blood donation?” you read flatly.

Harry looked down at his mother’s.

“…stem cell therapies?”

They both stood up.

“Mom?” you said, arms crossing slightly. "You followed us?"

Harry narrowed his eyes at his mom. “I didn’t know you were in New York.”

Scarlet and Vivienne exchanged a look. A very quick one.

Then Scarlet lifted her chin. “We were not following you,” she said smoothly. “We had an appointment.”

“Right,” you snapped.

Vivienne sighed, lowering her magazine completely. “Oh, for God’s sake, Scarlet.”

Scarlet shot her a look. “Vivienne has been having… menopausal concerns,” she said.

Vivienne stared at her.

“Sweet Jesus,” she muttered. “I went through menopause ten years ago.”

Scarlet blinked once. “Dear God,” she replied coolly. “That's early.”

Vivienne gave her a look.

Harry exhaled slowly. “Alright. Can we try that again, but like adults? Why are you actually here?”

Vivienne’s expression softened first. She glanced at you, then at Harry.

“We were worried,” she admitted quietly. “And curious.”

Scarlet didn’t deny it this time. Her gaze moved to you. “…is everything alright?” You smiled at her instinctively. “Am I going to be a grandmother?”

You and Harry looked at each other. That same look. The one from inside the room.

You reached into your bag slowly. Pulled out the ultrasound images. And handed them over.

“Yes,” you said, your smile widening. "You both are.”

Scarlet’s eyes moved over the print.

Then stilled.

Vivienne leaned closer.

“Oh…”

“…oh my God.”

Scarlet’s fingers tightened slightly. She looked up at you, disbelief breaking through her composure. “Twins?”

You nodded. Harry’s hand found yours again. “Yes.”

Vivienne let out a soft, breathless laugh, already emotional.

“That’s… that’s marvelous.”

She pulled Harry into a hug first, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then turned to you, wrapping her arms around you carefully, one hand moving instinctively to your hair. “Congratulations,” she murmured, her voice thick. “I’m so happy for you.”

Scarlet opened her arms wide and wrapping them around you. “My baby...after everything,” she said quietly, her voice softer than you had ever heard it, “this is… more than a blessing. Well, double blessing."

That made you laugh through your tears.

Harry smiled. Vivienne wiped at her eyes, still smiling.

Scarlet glanced back down at the image again, shaking her head slightly. “Incredible.”

“They’re so tiny,” Vivienne said softly.

You sniffed lightly, smiling.

Harry smiled too, his gaze still on the image. “Yeah… like jellybeans.”

Vivienne sobbed and let out a soft laugh, glancing at Scarlet. “Our babies having babies, Scarlet.”

Scarlet shot her a look, though the emotion in her eyes gave her away.

“Oh, stop,” she muttered, brushing at her eyes. “You’re going to make me cry.” Then she exhaled, something warm settling into her expression as she looked back at you. “Well,” she said softly, “then we have two jellybeans to take care of. But first, their mother.”

You smiled at the word mother.

Harry’s arm came around you instantly, pulling you gently into his side.

“Don't worry,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “I’ll take good care of her.”

You giggled. “I’d expect nothing less.”

For a moment, no one moved.

Vivienne and Scarlet drifted into quiet conversation—soft laughter, shared memories, bits and pieces of their own pregnancies, small warnings and advice slipping into the air.

But you barely heard them.

You leaned into Harry instead, letting your head rest against him. You just stayed there, letting yourself feel it. This precious moment. Somewhere deep down, you knew—this would be one of the moments you’d never forget.

That evening. 

Harry’s office was quiet.

The kind of quiet that only came after hours—when the building had started to empty, when conversations faded into distant echoes and the city outside began to shift into something slower, softer.

Beyond the glass walls, New York was slipping into evening. Lights flickered on one by one, streets glowing gold and amber as the last of the daylight disappeared between the buildings.

Inside, everything felt… still.

Harry sat at his desk.

The ultrasound photo rested in one hand.

In the other—

the ring.

Its box lay open on the desk, forgotten for the moment.

He didn’t move.

He just looked at it.

The diamond caught the dim light—subtle, precise. Nothing excessive. Nothing careless.

Just right.

His fingers turned it slowly, the metal gliding against his skin as he exhaled under his breath.

A memory flickered.

The first time he had asked.

Different.

Everything had been different then.

His jaw tightened slightly.

Then his gaze dropped again—

back to the ultrasound.

Something in his expression shifted. Softer. Deeper.

Quieter.

A breath left him.

Then—

A knock.

Ron stepped in a second later, already adjusting his cuff as he spoke.

“Car’s ready, boss. We’re heading out in five.”

Harry didn’t look up right away.

Ron followed his line of sight.

Noticed.

A slow, knowing grin spread across his face.

“Well…” he said, tone shifting just slightly, amusement slipping in, “your table at The Vestry is all set. Private room, no interruptions. Menu’s handled.”

A small pause.

“Figured you’d want everything… perfect.”

Harry closed the ring box, calm, deliberate.

“Thanks, Ron.”

Ron leaned lightly against the doorframe now, watching him with a different kind of expression.

Softer.

“Tomorrow’s the night, huh?”

Harry glanced up.

A faint smile.

“About time.”

Ron let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“Man… I’ve been waiting for this since Ms. Queen walked into that company.” He huffed softly. “Crazy how much changed in such a short time.”

A beat.

“You two went through a lot.”

His tone shifted, more sincere now.

“You deserve some happines. Both of you.”

Harry held his gaze for a moment.

“Thank you Ron.”

Ron’s grin came back almost immediately.

“So…” he added, unable to help himself, “you think she’ll say yes?”

Harry didn’t answer right away.

He slipped the ring box into his pocket, rising to his feet as he reached for his jacket.

Smooth. Certain.

Done.

A brief pause.

Then, almost under his breath—

“I’m counting on it.”

Ron let out a laugh, shaking his head. “I mean… you’ve got a pretty strong advantage. Two actually."

“Ron. Don’t make twin jokes in front of her.” 

"Noted."

Harry adjusted his cuff once, then looked toward the door. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go get the girls.”

Ron beamed. “Yeah! We’ve got a double date. Ah, right—steak’s on you tonight, remember?”

Harry didn’t even look back. “Order whatever you want.”

Ron grinned. “Best boss in Manhattan.” He turned toward the door, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as he covered his mouth— “And, best soon-to-be daddy.”

Harry chuckled. “Hopefully.”

thanks for reading, likes, comments, reblogs are appreciated ❤️

AND PLEASE SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS WITH ME ❤️ IT'S SOOOO IMPORTANT TO MEEEE 🥰

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[jisungandpedrolover]

omg angel every chapter just hits me harder, like I love the angst and the sexy moments don’t get me wrong… but the softness in this one?! that was everything!

She continued taking measurements. “Given their positioning, these appear to be dichorionic twins—two separate sacs.” She glanced at the screen. “Approximately eight weeks.” You wiped your eyes, trying to steady your breathing. “…eight…” A memory flickered. November. Vermont. You and Harry both went still. The same moment. You didn’t say it. But you both knew. You had been mourning something you thought was already lost, standing in the aftermath of a life that never got the chance to begin. And somehow—in that same night, in the middle of that loss— you had already been carrying another.

I love them so much!!! 🥰

[orcasoul]

Unexpected Part 3

Summary: It's becoming more difficult to be around each other and keep an emotional distance at the same time...

Warnings: Swearing, angst, abandonment issues.

Word Count: 3,568

The Tipsy Bison is in full swing tonight, fairy lights and congratulations banners set the mood along with the upbeat tempo of the live band. From your seat you watch with a wan smile as your friend Carla is thrown around the dancefloor by her fiance Eddie, both the picture of happiness. And in this world, you don't take the good moments for granted. Which is why most of Jackson has turned out to celebrate the engagement of the happy couple. With the end of the current song, they both plop down in the seats at your table, breathless and deliriously happy. "How about a dance, Y/N?" Eddie chirped. "Sure, if you want me to throw up on you," you jest. A grimace spreads across his face. "On second thoughts, I'll keep the dances for my fiance," he says smittenly as he kisses Carla's cheek. They're so adorable, you can't help but think.

"I'm gonna grab another drink," Eddie says, downing his beer. 'You ladies want anything?" "I'll have another beer, honey," Carla smiles. "Orange juice for me, please," you add. Carla's smile softens as she turns back to you. "I'm so glad you came tonight. I wasn't sure if this would be too much for you." "Hey, we're not doing this," you dismiss her concern with a (forced) smile. "This is your night and I'm happy to celebrate it with you." She gives you a smile- one you're sure you saw a hint of pity in, something you really don't want. "So how's living with Eddie going?" You ask, wanting a subject change. Her face melted into a hallmark movie grin. "It's great. I don't know why I didn't do it sooner." You won't say it but you're glad she didn't move in sooner or someone else would have had her apartment and you'd still be looking for your own place.

"I'm really happy for you both," you tell her. Her grin widens. "This is all because of you, Y/N. You introduced us." Your friend looks so unbelievably happy an it's refreshing to be reminded that sometimes love can work out. You give her a smile but behind it, your heart cracks a little more. It wasn't long ago, you and Joel used to look at each other the way Carla and Eddie do. Now every time you look at Joel, it's just a painful reminder of what has been destroyed. And tonight is no exception. Sitting on the opposite side, nursing a whisky in his hand, Joel chats with Tommy and Maria. Countless times tonight your eyes have wandered over to him. He's wearing a black button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose his thick forearms, and dark navy jeans. The shirt is open at the top, revealing his collar bones and damn... he looks good!

But then again, it's not hard for Joel to look good. And that is evident by the many hungry eyes devouring him. You knew once word had gotten around of your breakup the vultures would descend, but the worst one of all has been hovering by Joel's table all evening like a fly around shit. Technically, you know you have no right to feel jealous or irate but of all the women, it had to be Angie. She and Joel had a thing before you came to Jackson, which apparently didn't last long but you'd got the feeling she'd never properly moved on and that's probably why she never liked to talk to you. And now, here she is, smoothing her long raven hair behind her ear and laughing way too hard to be genuine, her attention fixed soley on Joel as she purposely tilts her body so her cleavage is on display.

Wether or not Joel welcomes the attention is hard for you to discern, given the angle he's sitting at makes it impossible to see his face, but his body language doesn't exactly scream 'leave me alone'. Especially when her hand strokes his bicep and he doesn't even flinch. That one intimate gesture crushes your heart and forces a lump to your throat. Angie leans in to whisper something in Joel's ear and you can't bare to look anymore. Tearing your gaze back to Carla, you attempt to continue your conversation, relieved when Eddie returns with the drinks.

Joel is at the end of his fucking tether! He knew tonight would be difficult, being in the same room as you and having to keep his distance. He's not sure what feels more unnatural: Giving you just a cordial hello or not speaking to you at all. He's barely been able to focus on anything since he'd arrived, stealing discreet glances when Tommy and Maria were distracted. You look painfully beautiful in the sage green, floral sun dress he's always loved on you, and that warm smile you keep giving Carla and Eddie... He'd do anything to be on the receiving end of that smile right now. Instead, he finds himself on the receiving end of fucking Angie's calculated smile. How many times does he have to reject her not so subtle advances? Does the woman have no pride, no self respect? What the hell did he even see in her?

Even Tommy and Maria are getting fed up of her shameless flirting. Her probing fingers trail along Joel's arm and it's when she leans in to ask if he wants to 'get out of here' in a sultry tone that his patience finally snaps and it takes all of his self control to not recoil from her slimy touch. Plastering on a fake smile, Joel says, "Yeah, let's get outta here." Angie beamed at him like the cat who got the cream as she and Joel stood. Maria and Tommy both gave Joel disapproving looks but he just shook his head and gave them a quick wink. He notices the glances from some people as they head for the door and it fills him with disgust at what they must be assuming. He's just thankful you haven't noticed... or so he thought.

You're frozen, teary eyes glued to Joel's and Angie's backs as they exit through the main doors. It's like you've been punched in the gut! After the promises he'd made, the effort he's been putting in... he's just going to throw it all away to get laid! You're a fucking fool. Of course he'd move on, given the chance, it's what your dad did. The room suddenly feels like it's closing in on you and you're not sure you can keep the tears at bay. You desperately don't want to cause a scene on your friend's big night, so you make an excuse and head for an exit door beside the toilets. You need fresh air but you won't be able to handle watching Joel and Angie walking down the street together, so the back of the Bison will have to do.

Stepping outside, you're struck by the chilly air. It may be getting warmer in the days but the nights are a reminder it's still only spring. Pulling in a deep breath, you look up to the stars and blink away the tears. So lost you were in your anguish, you didn't immediately notice the voices coming from around the corner, which were now getting louder. "Oh come on, Joel..." At the mention of his name, your head whipped in the direction of the voices. "We used to have fun once upon a time," Angie purred but Joel's voice came sharp and clear. "That's all it was, fun. You agreed to it, so don't pretend there was ever anything real between us." "You really expect me to believe you didn't feel anything for me back then?!" Angie retorted, her flitrty mask long gone. "Believe what you want. I told you were I stand."

Getting closer to the corner of the building, you press yourself up against the wall, afraid to peek around the corner in case you're seen. It's rude to listen in on other people's conversations, you know that, but you just can't pull yourself away, especially when it concerns Joel. "So you're just gonna pine after someone who doesn't even want you anymore," she said, poison lacing her words and your first instinct is to protect Joel form this spiteful bitch and put her in her place. But you can't get involved now. You have no right. She gives a dark chuckle when Joel doesnt immediately respond. "I saw the way you kept looking at her tonight." "You have no idea what you're talking about!" snapped Joel.

Anger burned in the pit of your stomach. Who the hell does Angie think she is to comment on your relationship- or lack thereof? "What is it about her, Joel?" Angie asked with a scoff. "What does Y/N have that I don't?" "She's Y/N..." Joel said, plain and simple but those words caught you off guard, as if you being you was enough. "And she's everything to me you could never be!" You heard Angie give an indignant huff and Joel continued, "Now, I'm going to say this one more fucking time, Angie, so you'd better listen... I don't want you, so back. the. fuck. off!" "Fuck you, Joel!" Angie spat. "There's plenty of men here I could take home tonight-" "Then go hound them if you're so desperate!" Joel growled.

The crunch of boots on gravel signified Joel's retreat and the last thing you heard was a slew of expletives from Angie as she stormed off into the night. You hadn't realised your heart was thudding until this moment. Did that just happen? Had Joel really just turned her down? The ache you'd brought outside with you slowly loosened it's grip and the relief flooding you was palpable. His words still ring clearly in your head; "She's Y/N... and she's everything to me you could never be." You're not even sure what to do with that. No one has ever shown you such unwavering devotion (besides your own mother) in your entire life and you certainly didn't expect it from someone you'd broken up with. This is... something new and it settles somewhere deep in your chest with cautious optimism. With a clearer head, and a lighter heart you return to the party and take your seat beside Carla and Eddie. "Is everything okay?" Carla whispered, her hazel eyes searching yours. You glance over to Joel's table, the man now deep in conversation with his brother. A small involuntary smile tugged at your lips. "Yeah, everything's fine."

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Ellie asked as you both walked to your apartment after the school's parents evening. Even though you and Joel were no longer together that changed nothing between you and the girl you'd always considered a daughter. And since Joel's patrol shift doesn't end for a few more hours you'd arranged to be there for the meeting. "Why wouldn't it be? I always help out." Eliie chewed her lip. "Yeah, but you weren't pregnant the last time." You roll your eyes but not in a harsh way. "I'm pregnant, Ellie, not an invalid. You know it's safe out there, the kids wouldn't be allowed to go if it wasn't." Ellie hummed but didn't look convinced. "Joel won't like it," she muttered. "It doesn't matter what Joel thinks," you shake off her concern, but it's not so easy to shake off the irritation that comes every time Joel is brought up, as if you're still a couple.

Every spring/summer the children are taken outside Jackson's walls and taught basic survival skills one day a week- a necessity in this world, and you didn't even think twice about volunteering again. If anything, you were looking forward to getting out of the town for a bit, even if it's just to stand guard. "We all have to do our bit here," you said with finality. " "Good luck telling him that," Ellie quipped. Unwilling to concern yourself with Joel's reaction any longer, you change the subject. "What do you want for dinner? I've got some left over beef stew or I could do us some burgers." "Burgers, duh," Ellie replied as if it wasn't even a contest. An hour later the smell of cooked meat wafted through the apartment and your collection of 80's and 90's pop played quietly in the background as you and Ellie tucked into your meals.

You appreciate the dinners you have together now more than ever since everything changed. This apartment still doesn't feel much like home but Ellie bing here certainly makes it more bareable. "I love this song!" she exclaimed when A-ha's Take On Me came on. "Joel taught me how to play it on the guitar." "Good song choice," you smile. A moment of comfortable silence passed while you both continued to eat. "He misses you, you know...?" Ellie said cautiously, as if testing the waters about bringing Joel up again. You look up from your plate and give her a smile that doesn't reach your eyes. "How is he?" you ask, trying to sound casual. "He's been quieter lately, likes to keep himself busy," she shrugged. "If he's not out working, he's holed up in his 'workshop' for hours. Who knew wood carving could be so addictive," she gibed.

A pang of sadness jabbed at you, imagining Joel all alone in the evenings, especially since Ellie had finally worn him down and got him to agree to her living in the shed out the back garden. But then again, you're alone too. It's just something you'll both have to get used to. "It's good to have a hobby, I guess," you smile weakly. Maybe you should find one too? Ellie gives you a look you can't quite discern. "What...?" you raise a curious brow. "It's okay to admit you miss him too." A deep sigh leaves your chest. "Ellie, there's no point in going over this again. It is what it is." "God, you two are so stubborn," she groaned, leaning back in her seat. "Aaanywaaay," you sing songed, hoping to lighten the mood. "How's independent living treating you?" Ellie pshed, "Independent living. You make me sound like a fucking geriatric." You couldn't help but laugh at that.

She went on to gush about her 'new found freedom' as she put it, like it's the most important thing in the universe and you suppose to a teenager, it is. It was nice to just listen for a while and forget about everything else. After dinner, you both washed the dishes together and you walked her home just before Joel's shift ended. Back at your apartment you made yourself a cup of tea and turned on your TV/DVD combi player. DVD's were few and far between these days and you were fortunate enough, during a past patrol, to find one of your favourite films: Disney's The Little Mermaid. You'd watched it so much as a kid that you'd worn out two VHS Tapes. Watching it now as an adult allows you to escape this world to simpler times. Laying down, you pull your fleece blanket over yourself and rest your hand on your growing bump. The thought of future movie nights with your little one gives you a warm feeling inside and for the first time in a long time, you realise you have something positive to look forward to.

A series of sharp knocks jolt you awake. Blinking around in confusion, you noticed the film had ended and had returned to the main menu screen. Before another thought could register, more knocks rattled the front door. You didn't even get a chance to reach the door before a gruff voice called out, "Y/N, open the door. I need to talk to you." "What the hell...?" you groaned to yourself, sleep still lingering on the edges of your brain. Opening the door, you're graced with the scowling face of Joel. "Tell me you didn't sign up for wilderness training!" Joel demanded, the crease between his eyes cutting deeper than you've ever seen. "Uh, hello to you too, Joel," you reply dryly, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'm serious, Y/n. You can't go out there in your condition," he stressed. "First of all... I can go out there," you retort, annoyance flaring inside, "And second, you know it's perfectly safe. That's why your group was out there earlier, to sweep the area in advance."

Joel rubbed his hand over his face and groaned. "It's never 'perfectly safe'. Nothing is anymore, and it's even more dangerous for you now." Urrgh, you really didn't need this tonight. Joel has always been an over-thinker, a worrier and you suspected he might have an issue with this but you didn't think he'd turn up at your door, frazzled and unwilling to talk rationally. "Joel, I've done this like a dozen times already..." you try to reason with him. "I'll just be there to supervise and guard the kids. There'll be a group further out watching for potential danger and they'd be able to give us plenty of warning if it comes to that... which it never has," you emphasise. "This is reckless," Joel shook his head, as if he'd not heard a word you'd just said. "You can't do things like you used to anymore. It's not safe. Just... just tell them you can't go. I'll tell the headmistress right now if you want-" "Joel, please... just stop," you plead, rubbing your forehead.

"I know you're worried but you gotta trust me. I know what I'm capable of." Joel opened his mouth, ready to argue but you jumped in first. "Look, Joel, it's late and I'm tired... and, honestly, I haven't got the energy for this right now." Joel scoffed and crossed his arms, mirroring you. "You can't just expect me to just drop this." "Yes, I can. Maria kept patrolling when she was pregnant for fuck sake, and that was risky." Joel's arms dropped to his sides and he stepped into your doorway, his caramel eyes boring into yours. "Maria's not my concern..." he says, his tone softening, "You are. You and the baby." Without permission your treacherous heart give a little flip, Joel's proximity and scent making it hard to breathe. "You can't say things like that, Joel," you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. "Why not? It's true," he countered. "I love you and I know you still love me."

Fuck, why is he doing this?! You're both meant to be moving on but it feels like you're stuck in limbo. "Tell me I'm wrong," Joel challenged, his hand finding yours. You know you should pull it away but you don't. "Tell me you don't love me!" The intensity in his eyes threatens to dissolve any and all sense of self preservation and a little voice in the back of your mind screams 'Danger!'. With great difficulty, you take a step back and shake your head, not wanting to admit to him or yourself just how right he is. "You're smothering me, Joel. We're not even together any more but you fuss over me like a mother hen. They're counting on me and I'm going tomorrow. I need time away from Jackson." I need time away from you, is what you really want to say but that would sound too cruel, even thought it's true. Joel huffed in exasperation. "I'm not trying to smother you, sweetheart. I'm trying to look out for you. I just want you, both of you safe," he said, glancing down at your belly. "Maybe... maybe I could come with you."

"You can't," you cut in, quickly. "We all have our assignments and you know you can't change them last minute unless it's an emergency... and I don't think keeping an eye on your ex counts as an emergency." Something flickered across Joel's face when you said 'ex', something that looked like hurt and regret mixed together, but it disappeared as soon as it came. Now he just looked defeated. "Then promise me something..." His voice softened to an almost intimate level. "Promise me you'll be extra vigilant out there. Promise me if something even feels off, you'll come back straight away." The worry behind Joel's eyes made your chest squeeze and you find yourself agreeing, if only to ease his burden. "And..." he went on, "...promise me you'll let me know as soon as you get here safe." "Alright Joel, I promise," you say, gently.

At your assurance, Joel's face eased, frown lines smoothing out and he sighed, "Thank you." His arms moved, the action so infinitesimal you almost missed it and it seemed like he was holding himself back from reaching for you. Disappointment warred with relief inside you. You want him and you don't; want to feel the familiar warmth of his embrace and keep it far away at the same time. The sudden silence between you both is too heavy. Joel clears his throat and takes a few steps back, his cheeks pinking in the porch light. "I should uh, I should let you get some rest." With a small smile, you nod. "Goodnight, Joel." "Goodnight, Y/N," he replies, taking one more second longer than necessary to look at you before walking off into the fading evening light.

Part 4- Coming Soon

@txmel @missadangel @picketniffler @itsporcelain36 @fresh912 @madpanda75 @christinaaperea @enchantedreader @bardot49 @jeshomie @negrita2345 @kellyxo1 @bbyanarchist @imherefordeanandbones @dendulinka6 @missladym1981 @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi

[pedropascal27]

I miss you Joel 🥺❤️

[planetskye]

Force of Nature

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: The construction company your neighbors hire to do work on their house are loud, inconsiderate, and quickly get under your skin. One man in particular seems hellbent on driving you crazy until one day, all that tension comes to a head.

Warnings: language, smut (piv sex), dirty talk, praise kink, light spanking, reader being kind of pissy and Joel fucks it out of her (but he's not mean), Joel gets turned on by bossy women

Masterlist

It's your day off. You had a long month, working extra late to meet deadlines and skipping plans with friends and family to perform at your fullest and get the promotion you so badly deserved, and now that the project was done and you impressed all right people, you rewarded yourself with a singular day off. But your neighbors had other plans.

It started before eight in the morning. Power tools, yelling, laughing, car doors slamming. It ruined the peace and tranquility of the post-school bus and rush hour lull. At first, you turned over and tried to fall back asleep. When that didn't work, you grabbed your extra pillow and pressed it against your ear. But after thirty minutes of chasing sleep with the sounds outside only growing louder, you gave up, blood boiling.

Maybe you should have coffee first, but unfortunately, your rage wins out. It's way too early. They're being far too noisy. And it's your goddamn day off!

You're seeing red when you tighten your robe around your waist, not even bothering to tie it but instead you hold it closed with your fist as you storm towards the front door. Your pajamas are just a tank top and sleep shorts, it's not anything scandalous anyway, especially given how hot Texas gets in the summer, but the last thing you want is a whole construction crew gawking at you while you give them a piece of your mind.

Music had just been turned on somewhere amongst the site. Tom Petty, you think, as you make your way over. Your flip flops snap angrily against the blacktop as you cross your driveway into your neighbor's front yard to survey the scene.

There's at least eight workers getting set up. Their trucks are parked all up and down the street, taking up every open spot. None of them glance your way as they unload tools, coolers, and supplies from their flatbeds. Your arms cross tightly and your brows furrow but the noise only gets louder.

"Excuse me?" you call out to no one in particular, but they don't hear you. Your jaw tightens. "Hey! Excuse me?"

"Can I help you?"

You swivel around, taken off guard by the deep voice behind you.

"Yes! I—"

Your words falter when you lay eyes on the man who snuck up on you. He's setting a ladder down by his feet, giving you time to take in his strong arms and broad shoulders underneath the stretch of his black short sleeved shirt, which still allows you a generous view of his tanned forearms. His jeans look lived in in the best kind of way. He wears them like a man who doesn't care what they look like, so long as they're comfortable. You push down the heat crawling up your neck by the time he straightens up, but when you see his face, you lose your train of thought once again.

Deep brown eyes, sharp nose, a chiseled jawline dusted with a short, somewhat patchy beard. Then he offers a soft, crooked smile that knocks the wind out of you to the point where you nearly forget your earlier anger.

Focus, you scold yourself.

"I live right over there—" You point behind him and he slowly turns, eyes scanning your modest home. "And my bedroom window is right there," you add. His eyes flicker to your open window towards the back of the house before he gives you his full attention again, something that makes your stomach flip. "I'd appreciate it if you guys could keep it down this early in the morning. It's disruptive to the whole neighborhood."

His devastatingly dark eyes glimmer with humor and even though he's not smiling, you can sense he's not taking you seriously. He makes a show of checking his watch—a beat up old thing with a green fabric band—before looking back at you. "It's eight fifteen," he tells you, tone flat.

"Yeah, now," you say, rolling your eyes, "but this noise started earlier. It woke me up."

Now the corner of his mouth lifts and he slowly crosses his arms, which simultaneously irritates and excites the hell out of you.

"Sorry 'bout that, miss," he tells you, "but we're abidin' by city ordinance."

"I'm sure you are, but you have to admit it's disturbing the peace."

He regards you silently for a moment, his heavy gaze drifting up and down your frame. Suddenly, the thin robe you're wearing is too much and doesn't seem like enough all at once. An amused look flits across his face at one point before his eyes drop to the dirt.

"Could start at seven, technically," he finally says, "we're doin' you a favor by startin' at half past."

Your hackles raise at that. "Would you like me to thank you?"

He chuckles and shakes his head before meeting your gaze again. "Never said that. Just sayin' we're followin' the law, is all."

"I know you are," you huff, "all I'm suggesting is maybe keeping your voices a little lower."

He smirks and uncrosses his arms in favor of propping his hands on his hips, giving you a spectacular view of his wide chest.

"We could," he muses, pretending to think about your request while staring off at a fixed point somewhere over your shoulder, "if you ask real nice."

Your jaw drops at the same time your knees go weak. "Excuse me?"

He shrugs, still staring somewhere behind you in order to keep his shit eating grin from stretching across his face. "Just sayin', you came over here all hot under the collar. Had you asked nice, I mighta been able to help you out."

Your throat tightens. He's not trying to sound suggestive but your brain doesn't care. It's sending a wave of arousal right through you, causing your heart to slam against your ribs the more it builds.

"What's your name?" you demand with a clipped tone.

"Joel," he says without missing a beat.

"Joel," you repeat, "I'd like to speak with your boss."

"Ah, that'd be me."

He stretches out his hand with a grin. You ignore it and look back at the trucks until you spot a logo on the side and squint.

"Miller?" you guess. He nods. "Great. I'll be filing a complaint with the better business bureau."

You shoulder past him and try not to fixate on how good he smells, a mixture of motor oil, fresh soap, and coffee.

"Yeah? And what's your complaint gonna be for?" Joel calls after you. You ignore him and keep walking. You hear his deep chuckle before he picks up the ladder and it pisses you off even more, but you don't allow your rage to show until you're safely inside your house where you can seethe to yourself while making some coffee.

***

The rest of the week is uneventful. You have meetings downtown all week, a disruption to your usual remote work schedule, but a necessary evil you try your best to organize all at once every month. When you leave in the morning, the workers are just arriving. When you get home, they're already packed up or gone entirely. You nearly forget all about your intriguing run in with the mysterious Joel Miller until the following Monday, when you're back to working remotely.

You're an hour into emails and onto your second cup of coffee when you first hear the familiar ruckus next door. It starts with amused banter. Then truck doors slamming. Then the music kicks on. You shake your head, close your windows, and keep working.

With your television playing in the background, it's easier to block out some of the construction noise, but at around one in the afternoon you hear a repetitive, ear piercing beep, beep, beep during a work call that sets your teeth on edge.

Stones are pouring from the back of a metal flatbed. Shovels are scraping and banging loudly. And you do your best to stay focused, but when the call ends and you can't recall half the topics discussed, you can't hold back any more.

You spot Joel with his back to you, holding a shovel and shouting instructions to his crew while you approach. As if he can sense it, he turns when you're about ten feet away. His eyes sweep up and down your body and he grins before leaning on his shovel, amused by the anger currently forcing your feet forward.

"Don't tell me we woke you up again," he teases before you can even open your mouth. "It's after lunch. What's the matter now?"

You scowl at him, ignoring the way his crew sends you curious looks as they work.

"No," you snap, "I'm working. Or, at least, trying to! I have all my windows closed and I still can hardly hear myself think."

He looks at you like he's sizing you up, like he's trying to figure something out. "Thought you worked in an office somewhere."

You frown, slightly alarmed. "How would you know that?"

"Saw you couple times last week," he says hurriedly, as if he just realized how his comment sounded. "When I was gettin' here in the mornin', sometimes I'd see you gettin' in your car and drive off."

The silence that followed made Joel nervous. He shifted his weight and awkwardly scratched his beard while you tried to sort through what he just said without giving away your feelings. He noticed you? Was he looking for you, or did he just happen to see you?

"Uh, based on your spiffy clothes, just figured you worked somewhere fancy," he finished, rubbing the back of his neck before looking away.

You look down at the clothes you currently have on—denim shorts and an old, oversized shirt... far from spiffy today—before looking back up at him. To your surprise, you notice some red creeping up his neck and staining the apples of his cheeks. You have to bite your lower lip to keep yourself from smiling because despite how pleased it makes you to see the big, annoying, sexy construction guy next door all embarrassed because of you, you're here for a reason.

"Sometimes I work in an office, but most of the time I work at home," you explain, waving toward your house, "and right now, it's pretty much impossible to get anything done."

"Well, m'sorry 'bout that, but we gotta work, too."

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. "I know. How much longer is this going to take?"

Joel clicked his tongue, making you lift your chin to look back up at him. The way he looks at you like you're something worth studying makes your heart skip a beat. Traitor.

"I'm offended you wanna get rid of us." His tone is back to teasing, and that glint in his eye confirms it. He likes pushing your buttons.

"I just want my quiet back! My—your customers are elderly! They can't hear for shit, they keep to themselves, they're the perfect neighbors! They aren't bothered by all this noise, but everyone else is!" Your voice is getting louder than you thought. People are beginning to notice, but you don't care.

"Everyone?" Joel repeats, narrowing his eyes now. "Strange, 'cause you're the only one cryin' 'bout it."

"I am not crying about it, I'm attempting to come to some sort of agreement, but you're being too... too..." Your hands flail in the air as you struggle to think of the right word.

"Too what?" Joel presses, stepping closer. You catch a whiff of his sweat mixed with sawdust and it makes your head swim. Focus.

You glare at him, blood on fire in your veins the longer he stands there looking all cocky.

"Misogynistic!" you exclaim triumphantly. Joel just blinks at you.

"What?"

You roll your eyes. "Means if a man were out here asking you to keep it down, you probably would, but instead you're giving a woman a hard time."

That seems to piss him off. His jaw sets into a tight line and he leans forward, voice low and dangerous. "Now you listen here," he says, and the way his demeanor suddenly shifted makes your spine straighten. "I'll allow for alotta shit, but I ain't gonna stand here and let you spin some wild story when you don't even know me or my crew. That's disrespectful and untrue."

You swallow tightly, unable to tear your gaze away from his eyes. They're so dark and stormy when he's legitimately mad that it's hard to look away.

"Sorry," you mumble, "but you're not taking me seriously, what else am I gonna think?"

His gaze softens then. His shoulders loosen. And the clouds clear from his eyes. The playful glimmer returns and you swear you see a ghost of a smile tug at his lips before he casually says, "I'll prove it to you. Bring out your husband or boyfriend or whoever and I'll tell him the same things I've been tellin' you."

"I don't have a husband or boyfriend," you answer before you even realize the trap you stepped in. His face lights up but he plays it off with ease.

"That's a relief." Your eyes widen and he grins. "'Cause if you had some guy hidin' in there all this time, lettin' his woman handle all the dirty work, gripin' to me while wearin' short shorts or a see-through robe? That wouldn't be much of a man."

Then he turned on his heel to join his crew, leaving you to weave through the rollercoaster of emotions he just dumped on you for the rest of the afternoon.

***

Over the next few days, something slightly changed. You found yourself going outside more, lingering around your car or taking a while to get your mail just to catch a glimpse of Joel. Usually, he'd catch your eye and give you a small smile, but that was the extent of it. Nothing overtly friendly and nothing mean, either. He was very good at being polite and cordial, which infuriated you. It made it impossible to figure out exactly what he was thinking. You replayed so many looks and conversations in your head to the point where you were paralyzed trying to pick apart every inflection and glance.

Why do you care anyway? you kept asking yourself. You never provided an answer.

It's the combination of your frustration with yourself as well as Joel's confusing signals that cause you to find more things to complain about, although you never admit it. But every interaction with Joel leaves you more aggravated and pent up than the last.

"That's not the property line. This is the property line," you had argued with him on Tuesday.

"It's just four inches."

"That's nine inches, easy."

Joel had tsked sympathetically under his breath. "Oh, darlin', if someone out there's tellin' you that's nine inches, I'm so sorry."

On Thursday morning, he had parked his truck in your driveway.

"I need to have my driveway clear!"

"I know, I know, it was only for a minute til the concrete truck comes—"

"I don't care! Park on the street!" you had yelled, but the angrier you got, the more pleased Joel looked.

"No parkin' left on the street."

"Then park on the lawn," you said, crossing your arms and jutting out your hip. His eyes had drifted down, noting you chose to wear a shirt that showed a little more cleavage than usual.

"Careful, sweetheart. Keep yellin' at me like this and I'll fall in love with you."

Every time he said something flirty like that, it sent you back to your house to obsess over whether or not he was serious or just trying to get you off his back.

The cherry on the sundae was the incident on Friday when someone accidentally dug in the wrong spot and severed your internet cable, completely derailing the latest project you had been tasked with at work. Joel had anticipated your anger before you stormed out of the house, screen door smacking loudly against the siding as you stomped down the old wood stairs of your porch, making a beeline right for Joel next door.

"Tell me it wasn't your guys who did that."

He sighed before slowly turning around to face you. He looked tired, no doubt drained from the long, hot week, but he still managed to brighten up a little when he laid eyes on you.

"Sorry, darlin'. They're comin' to fix it."

"When?" you snapped. Joel narrowed his eyes as if to silently warn you about your tone. Who the hell does he think he is?

"An hour," he said flatly.

"An hour?" you exclaimed, clearly devastated.

"Yeah. An hour. Ain't you got a lunch break or somethin' you can take til it's fixed?"

You snorted and tossed your hair over your shoulder. "I haven't taken a lunch break that didn't involve a client in more than five years."

"Well, today's the day you break that streak," he told you before turning back to the hole in the ground. "Damn inspector didn't flag the property right. Ain't our fault, it's the town's."

You bury your face in your hands with a groan. "I can't believe this," you mutter to yourself.

"If it helps, I ain't happy 'bout it either," Joel says, crouching down to inspect the spot closer. "This just set me back a couple days."

"Days?!" you exclaim, letting your hands fall back to your sides in disbelief. Joel nods, still not looking at you.

"Yeah. Gotta redo the plans now. Old plans were built 'round the cables bein' two feet west—"

"So this insanity is going to last even longer?" you ask, cutting him off. Joel sighs and drops his head between his shoulders briefly before standing with a grunt. He's tall—his shadow blocks the sun when he towers over you, a fact that never went unnoticed.

"What's the matter, sweetheart? Thought you'd be happy to know you ain't gettin' rid of me just yet." The smirk he gives you is devastating. Your gaze falls to his throat, where beads of sweat have been trickling down and soaking his collar. It's not fair this man is so fucking handsome yet so irritating.

"I'll survive," you mutter, crossing your arms tightly and looking away to clear your head.

"Yeah? Who you gonna yell at when I'm gone, hm?"

"Believe it or not, I'm actually not a yeller," you shoot back with a glare. "Guess you just bring it out of me."

His gaze darkened for a moment like he was considering how to reply. You could almost see the silent back and forth behind his eyes, the words locked and loaded on the tip of his tongue but a small sliver of logic fought to hold onto them and pull them back down.

He says it anyway.

"That right?" His voice dips lower than you've heard it before, but not out of anger. Something else. Something far more heated and dangerous. "Wonder what else I could bring outta you."

The implication falls between you like an anvil. The weight of it keeps you both still, oblivious to what's going on around you entirely. Somehow, you manage to hold his gaze, but you're swallowing hard and breathing even harder and he can see it. He tracks the movement with those dark eyes, waiting for you to come up with a retort or storm off.

Normally, you'd do the latter, but today, you're fired up. It's always Joel who gets the last flirty word in. It's always Joel who leaves you spinning while he happily carries on with his day. So this time, you close the distance between you and crane your neck up. He doesn't break eye contact but you can tell he didn't expect this. He didn't expect you to get inches away and hold the silence like a knife to his throat. His lip curls into a smile, breathlessly anticipating some flustered, snappy comeback paired with an angry look. Instead, what you say shocks him.

"You couldn't handle it, Miller."

The confidence in your voice is what makes him falter. You clock it and grin, very satisfied with yourself, before turning and heading back to your house. The world begins to wake up around him again. Sounds begin to crescendo slowly in the air: power tools, his crew's voices, cars rumbling down the street. But his eyes are fixed on you. On the way you carry yourself back up your porch and into your house without the courtesy of a single glance back.

When your screen door snaps shut, he blinks. Clears his throat. Then forces his feet to move.

After that, Joel spends the rest of the afternoon praying he doesn't get distracted enough to lose a finger.

***

The weekend is thankfully quiet, but long. You pace around trying to keep busy, but you miss it. You hate it, but you miss peeking out your window to see what Joel is up to. You miss whatever has been brewing between you over the last two weeks. You miss the excitement and electricity that crackles between you when you stomp over there for one reason or another.

By Sunday night, you decide it isn't healthy to be so fixated on this. You're not even sure what's gotten into you. Usually, your life is mundane and quiet, yet this man has burrowed his way in and found a piece of you to bring to life you didn't know existed.

He pisses you off, you remind yourself. It's not good. He's not good. Let this go, the sooner the better.

So on Monday, you force yourself to stay in your house all day. It's hard, but you know it's the right thing to do. You need to focus on work and Joel is just a distraction. A big, annoying, sexy distraction.

On Tuesday, you do the same thing. It's a littler easier this time. You get a decent amount of work done with your earbuds solidly in place. You only look up from your computer to check your window a handful of times. Once or twice you swear you catch Joel glancing expectantly towards your house, but you push down the butterflies in your belly and focus back on the project in front of you.

Wednesday is more difficult because on that day, there's a legitimate reason to be annoyed. Joel's crew is using a portion of your lawn to toss old pieces of wood from the porch next door. When you first notice, you find yourself rising to your feet, propelled by anger. But then you catch yourself and slowly sit back down.

It's fine. They'll clean it up. Don't worry about it.

You finish your workday without stepping foot outside, although you had to close your curtains so you'd stop looking at the mess.

Thursday is loud. Drills pierce the air earlier than usual. You assume it has to do with the rain clouds forming on the horizon, but it still grates your every nerve to hear metal grinding into solid wood first thing in the morning. You pop your earbuds in and turn the volume up. It works, until the rain starts. The water streaking suddenly down your windowpane catches your attention, so you pull your earbuds out and look up.

Across your driveway, Joel's crew is packing up early. They're running, getting absolutely soaked in the rain while trying to get everything valuable back into their trucks as quickly as possible.

Good, you think. Peace and quiet a little earlier today.

Then you see him. Joel. With his dark curls plastered against his forehead and his white shirt sticking to his torso like he had just jumped into a pool. Your brain buffers and your lips part at the sight. You could tell before he's strong, but now his shirt is leaving very little to the imagination.

"Shit," you whisper as you watch, unblinking, while Joel packs up his truck and then turns to help his crew. His muscles flex under his rain soaked skin, water drips furiously down the sides of his head, and you forget how to breathe.

Fuck him for being so irritating and goddamn good looking at the same time.

The image is seared into your brain for the rest of the night. It has you tossing and turning in bed until you can't stand it anymore and you give in, sliding one hand down the front of your shorts in search of relief. It's fleeting and not as good as you hoped, but at least you're able to fall asleep.

Friday is when everything comes to a head.

You're tired from a restless nights sleep and on your third cup of coffee when you notice the end of your driveway is blocked. Your jaw clenches as you push a curtain aside to get a better view and of course, it's Joel's truck.

"Son of a bitch," you mutter, narrowing your eyes like you could destroy the car with your mind if you tried hard enough.

It's fine. He'll move it. He's probably waiting on some delivery, like last time.

But this time, his truck remains parked haphazardly at the end of your driveway all day. When you manage to spot him working next door, he's all smiles, completely unbothered. At last around three you see him walk to his truck, but it's just to get something from the console. The way he strolls back to his crew like he had every right in the world to encroach on your property makes your blood boil.

That's it. You've had enough. You've kept to yourself all week long, it's almost the weekend, you did pretty good. And this isn't unreasonable. He's in your fucking driveway! He's had multiple chances to move and he didn't!

Before you could stop yourself, you reach forward, lift open your window, and lean out.

"Joel Miller!"

He stops dead in his tracks, along with half his crew, to track your voice from your office window. When he spots you, he lifts his hand to his eyes to shield himself from the sun and he grins.

"Yeah?"

"Move your goddamn truck out of my driveway or else I'm havin' it towed!"

His crew chuckles and goes back to wrapping things up for the day. Joel tilts his head at you like he's amused.

"Thought you moved," he says, "haven't heard that smart mouth all week."

"Unfortunately for me, I'm still here," you snap, "now move that hunk of junk right now!"

"She ain't no hunk of junk," Joel says with mock offense. "She's the only lady in my life that never let me down, don't talk 'bout her like that."

"Stop talking about your car like it's a woman, that's gross."

Joel whistles low and comes closer so he doesn't have to shout. "Jealous?"

"Of a car? Give me a break," you snort.

He tsks and inches closer. By now, he's halfway across your driveway. "Why don't you try askin' me real nice, then maybe I'll move it."

"Why don't you get a little closer and I'll make you do it."

The deep groan that rumbled from his chest made your thighs clench.

"Don't tease a fella now," he warns with a playful look, "'cause if you talk like that I'm gonna make you follow through."

You roll your eyes, grateful you have an entire wall between you to hide the way you're practically squirming in place.

"Will you please shut up and move the truck?"

"Don't love the shut up part, but y'did say please, so I will."

"Thank you," you reply, overly sweet with a fake smile. Still, Joel stifles a laugh, entirely enthralled with how riled up he manages to make you.

"No problem. I'll be done in an hour, then I'll get outta your hair."

The smile falls from your face to be replaced with a scowl. "An hour?"

"Yeah. An hour," he confirms, turning back to his job site. "Don't worry. Won't get in the way of your Friday night plans."

"Joel—"

"It'll be longer if you keep flirtin' with me," he says loudly over his shoulder so his entire crew can hear. Your cheeks instantly heat up but you slam your window shut before you can give him the satisfaction of witnessing your embarrassment.

You sit back down and try to focus on work, but it's impossible. Why does this man get under your skin so easily? And why do you find him so irresistible at the same time? It must be because it's been a while since the last time you've been with someone. You've been so focused on work the last several months, you can't even remember the last time you went on a date, let alone took a man home.

Your gaze drifts up against your will. Most of Joel's crew has cleared out next door. There's two guys left plus Joel, cleaning up the rest of the lawn before the weekend. You can see the relaxed smiles on their faces as they chat, probably discussing weekend plans. It makes you wonder what Joel does on the weekends. You have a feeling he's single based on his earlier comment about his truck. So what does a single man do with their spare time?

Probably pick up girls. The thought makes your stomach twist into a knot. You shake your head and focus back on your computer. That's none of your business. Who cares if he's getting laid? It doesn't matter.

Your lips press together when your eyes lift to find Joel through the window again, but now you realize the yard is empty. The remaining trucks are gone. The supplies are picked up. It's quiet.

For some reason, you're relieved when you stand and hurry to your window to find Joel's truck still idle in your driveway. You stand there staring at it while you weigh your options in your head.

It's a bad idea, you think. Joel isn't good for you. He drives you crazy. Yet you have to admit, you can't remember the last time you've felt such a spark with someone before. He's certainly not boring, you'll give him that. And he's funny, in his own way. Would it really be so bad?

Fuck it. You rush to your bedroom to change your shirt for a simple light dress and freshen up as fast as you can, all the while straining to hear for the telltale sound of his motor turning over, then you slow down.

You decide to leave it up to fate. If he's still there by the time you're ready, then you'll go for it. If he's gone, then he's gone, no big deal.

After tapping on some subtle, fruity flavored lip balm and spritzing just a tiny bit of perfume in your hair, you step out of your bedroom, mustering up as much confidence as possible as you walk to your front door. You decide not to practice what to say, that you'll just let it happen organically if it feels right. But when you swing your door open only to be met face to face with Joel, who has one fist raised in the air as if he were about to knock, all that confidence goes straight out the window.

Shit.

"Hey," he says with a crooked grin. His arm lowers to his side and your heart kicks in your chest when you notice his eyes sweep up and down your body before meeting your gaze.

"What can I do for you?" you ask, leaning against the doorframe with a small smile. His grin widens and you feel like you've stepped into yet another trap.

"That's a loaded question, sweetheart," he says, voice low. You suppress a shudder. "Wanted to tell you I'm headin' out. Looks like I got good timin', too." He gestures to your appearance and you look down.

"I'm not going anywhere."

He quirks up an eyebrow. "You got someone comin' over?"

You shake your head and try to bite back the smile that threatens to stretch across your face.

Joel makes a soft noise and casually lifts his arm to rest against the frame, right above your head. He's towering over you like this and you think it's on purpose.

"Just gettin' all dolled up to sit home alone?" he asks. You shrug and cross your arms, hoping your breasts lift when you do. His gaze flickers down quickly, confirming you're successful.

"You think this is dolled up?"

Slowly, he lets himself take in your appearance again, this time making sure you saw.

"Just used to seein' you in shorts or that little robe of yours."

"You don't like my shorts or robe?"

"Never said that."

You have to stifle a laugh and his eyes practically glitter with amusement.

"Do you have any big plans this weekend?" you ask, hoping to come across casual.

"Nothin' too crazy," he tells you, leaning in a little further. "Watch the game. Mow the lawn. Come up with new ways to get you yellin' at me."

You laugh and shake your head. "You've been doing a great job so far."

"Not so sure 'bout that," he says, swiping his palm over his chin. "Been tryin' all week. Didn't get your attention til I parked in your driveway."

The expression on your face instantly melts into one of annoyance. "You did all of that on purpose?"

His enjoyment couldn't be contained. With a huge grin, he replies, "Yes, ma'am."

"The mess on my lawn? The extra early noise?" You could feel your anger rising, flooding your chest with heat.

"That's right," Joel replies. "Parkin' in your driveway was a last resort."

Your jaw tenses as you stare him down in disbelief. "What is your goddamn problem?" you seethe. Your earlier plans to ask if he wanted to come in for a drink vanish. Screw this guy.

"Thought you were dead or somethin'. Consider it my version of a wellness check."

"I don't need you to do a wellness check on me!" you yell, throwing your hands in the air to stop yourself from pushing him. "I've put in the shittiest work this week because of you! Why are you hellbent on bothering me so much?"

"'Cause it's fun and you're cute when you're all pissed off."

"I'm cu—"

The words die in your throat as your brain formally processes what he just said. You're still angry and red in the face, your chest is still heaving from adrenaline, and yet you're frozen solid, blinking up at him like an idiot. A slow smile spreads across his face, revealing that dreadfully adorable dimple.

"Probably the only woman on earth who looks prettier when she's readin' me the riot act," he adds just to watch your mouth open and shut like a fish.

"You—"

You're at a loss for words. The emotional whiplash has you reeling. He's into you, but he's showing it like an elementary school boy. It's kind of endearing but mostly immature, so you stand your ground.

"How old are you? Because you act like you're no older than twelve."

"I'm definitely older than twelve," he chuckles without missing a beat. "But listen... I really am sorry if your work suffered 'cause of me. Lemme make it up to you."

"How could you possibly—"

"Lemme take you out to dinner tonight."

The floor practically gives out from under you. What the hell is going on? The last ten minutes has your brain scrambling and your heart racing faster than any workout. How does this man manage to drive you to the brink of insanity only to pull you back at the last second with something sweet?

"You can yell at me the whole time, if you want," he says once too much time has passed without an answer. If you could see through your rage, you'd be able to pick up on his nervousness: his hand flexes at his side and his weight shifts from foot to foot with anxious energy.

"How about I just yell at you right here?" you snap. Joel laughs.

"If that's what you want, darlin', then sure."

Frustration bubbles up with a growl. You push away from the door to pace up and down your small hallway, raking your fingers through your hair while you attempt to calm down. All the while, Joel remains where he is, planted just outside your door, watching you spiral.

"You seem tense."

"I am tense! Because of you!"

"I can help with that."

You freeze and stare at him, long and hard. All those thoughts you've had about him, those images of him working in the rain, his way of turning a phrase to just barely imply he could ruin you... all of those moments crash down over you like a tidal wave and you decide that maybe he could help, after all.

In the blink of an eye, you close the distance keeping you apart. Your hand fists his sweaty, dirty shirt and you yank him forward. He stumbles a few feet into your house with surprised huff. You see the way his eyes widen right before your mouth crashes over his and finally, for a few blissful minutes, you get your coveted silence.

Joel only needs a moment before he catches up. His lips soften against yours as you pull him deeper into your house. He kicks back one foot and it collides with your door, slamming it closed behind him, then his hands are on you, pushing you gently against the wall so he can take control.

His teeth greedily graze your lower lip and your mouth parts for him with a soft moan. Driven by the sound, his tongue eagerly slips past your lips and his hands drop to cup the backs of your thighs. He hauls you up and your legs circle his waist while your tongues tangle together, hot and angry. It's desperate and messy and exactly what you need. The broad heft of his body pressed up against yours, the heady scent of the outdoors and sweat and him invading your senses, the faint taste of coffee on his tongue... it's utterly perfect.

"Where'd this come from, hm?" he asks, voice low and rough as his lips skim the edge of your jaw. Your head tilts back and your eyelids remain closed, offering your throat up to him without a fight.

"You said you could help," you murmur, craning your neck to give him better access. He finds a spot below your ear and sucks, leaving the beginnings of a mark that will take days to disappear.

"I did," he mumbles against your skin. "Meant a drink or somethin', but I ain't complainin'."

Your chin drops, hunting for his mouth, but then his hand is there tipping your head back, cupping your cheek with his thumb pressed on the underside of your jaw.

"Ain't done," he grumbles before continuing his assault on your throat. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and let him move your head this way and that, enjoying the way he's taken control. You get the sense he's wanted this as badly as you because he seems determined to taste every inch of your skin. When his mouth travels lower to ghost over your shoulder, you shrug, allowing the strap of your dress to fall and expose more skin. Joel makes a pleased grunt before his lips explore the newly revealed territory.

"Christ, you're soft." It almost sounds like he's talking to himself, the way his voice is full of quiet wonder. A shiver rolls down your spine and you tug impatiently at his hair.

"Joel," you whine, but your thought is cut off with a gasp when he presses himself firmly against the cradle of your hips. You can feel him there, hot and hard behind his zipper. One of your hands drops to his belt and you slip your fingers past his waistband, but just as you're about to reach your target, his body jolts and he swats your hand away with a chuckle.

"Eager thing," he grins before sealing his lips over yours again.

"Bedroom," you manage to mumble when he takes half a second to breathe. "Behind you."

"Bossy," he scolds. His mouth covers yours with a deep groan before he tightens his grip around your legs. He pulls you from the wall and swings around to carry you in the general direction of your bedroom, all while never breaking the kiss.

It's kind of comical the way you stumble into your room. The door swings open too fast and knocks back against Joel's shoulder but it doesn't slow him down. He refuses to pull away to look where he's going, but when his boot collides with a half empty laundry basket on the floor, he curses under his breath and finally tears himself away.

You take the opportunity to squirm out of his grip. When your feet hit the floor, you instantly rise to your tiptoes, lips seeking out the warm skin of his throat. You moan a little when your tongue drags over his pebbled skin, tasting salt and sun that remains there. It's addicting to taste the product of his day's hard work, so you do it again and relish in the way he shudders from your attention.

"Shoulda just told me from the start what you wanted." His fingers fumble with his belt buckle after he hears the quiet sound of your zipper coming undone. "Would've saved us both alotta time, darlin'."

"Shut up," you grumble before your teeth pinch a spot next to his Adam's apple. Your dress falls into a pool at your feet, hands free to help him lift his shirt over his head.

"I need a shower," Joel says after his shirt is discarded. You just shake your head and press your mouth over his collarbone, then his sternum, mapping his body while he works on kicking off his boots and jeans.

"I like you like this," you whisper. He smirks, stepping out of his clothes as best he can with your mostly naked body pressed against his own. "You smell good," you add after a minute, and he seems pleased with that.

"Get on the bed, sweetheart. Lemme see you."

You pull away from the faint red marks you left littering his chest and look up at him through your lashes. "You first."

Joel frowns. "Wha—"

With a grin, you give him a gentle push. His back hits the bedding and he barely has a chance to register it until you're climbing on top of him, legs bracketing his hips with a giggle. He smiles so big that his eyes squint, revealing those damn dimples again beneath his beard. Then his gaze drops to your bare breasts and his eyes darken.

"Fuck, you're pretty," he mumbles, palming them greedily. When his rough thumb grazes your nipple, you lunge down and capture his mouth with a searing kiss.

"You want me like this?" he asks, words tumbling against your swollen lips. "Wanna ride me, baby?"

"Yes," you whine while tugging down his boxers with one hand. His palms glide over your thighs, squeezing and pulling you back and forth so your hips begin to grind down on his lap.

"Take these off 'fore I ruin 'em," he warns you, fingers hooking into the band of your panties. You suppress the shiver of arousal at his tone before you do exactly as he says.

When your bare cunt comes in contact with the underside of his cock, you suck in a deep breath. He's so hot and throbbing against your soaked folds, making every slide of your hips steal your breath away.

Joel watches you move with heavy lidded eyes, seemingly just as lost in the feeling as you. His chest rises and falls a little faster when the tip of his cock presses against your clit and your whole body shudders with a moan he will end up dreaming about for weeks.

Reality hits when a streak of his arousal leaks and smears across your skin, bringing him back down to earth for one second.

"Wait, my wallet—"

He extends one hand towards the floor and your eyes follow, connecting the dots and sliding off him to grab his pants. You find it tucked into his back pocket and toss it his way. He catches it and fishes out a little foil packet from its depths while you resume your spot in his lap, lips parted and heart racing with anticipation as he rolls the condom on with care.

"Alright honey, I'm all yours," he announces, smirking as he folds his arms behind his head. You roll your eyes but still shimmy forward and raise your hips, using one hand against his chest to prop yourself up and the other to guide him to your entrance. The moment you sink down, however, his lips melt into a soft circle and his eyelids flutter shut, filling your chest with pride before caving into the pleasure yourself.

You sigh and tilt your head back when you finally take all of him. The stretch is exquisite, or maybe it's just been a while, but it doesn't matter. All the static that's been electrifying your brain lately, all that stress from work, from pushing yourself too far every single day dissolves away.

"Oh, shit," he whispers, voice cracking. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips. "Feel so goddamn good."

You drop your head forward to look at him, chest and neck all flushed underneath you. Your eyes trace his body as you begin to move, just slow rolls of your hips while you take in every detail: strong arms built from work, not weights. Skin slightly sweaty and a shade lighter where his shirts protect him from the sun. Broad shoulders and a firm stomach, but not too lean. One of your hands drifts over the planes of his chest and the curves of his muscles, humming with admiration as you continue to slowly ride him. His eyes light up and you swear you can see the pleasure in his expression when he clocks your appreciation for him.

"Make yourself feel good, honey," he says, voice low. Your gaze flickers up to his and you share a smile. "Wanna see what you like. Wanna watch you fall apart on it."

Your hips lift and drop a little faster, skin slapping against skin. "Should've known you never stop talking, even when you're getting laid," you tease, and Joel chuckles.

"Bark and bite, I like that."

"Yeah, I figured that out." You gasp when he thrusts upwards, hitting a spot deep inside you can't reach on your own. He notices and files it away for later.

"Takin' notes on me?" he asks, ghosting his palms over your ribs before landing on your breasts, watching in a daze while they bounce in his hands.

"You wish," you pant. He tsks, eyes still fixed on your chest.

"I got a few things figured out 'bout you, too."

You stop moving to glare down at him and catch your breath. His dark eyes dance with amusement at your annoyed look.

"Like what?"

He shrugs but the smile still tugs at the corners of his mouth. "You work hard but don't ever blow off any steam. Don't know yet if it's cause you're too tired or you feel like you don't deserve it."

That stuns you. Even though you're naked and he's currently buried inside you, you suddenly feel very exposed. He sees he might have overstepped, so he backtracks with a joke.

"You can call me anytime and I'll be happy to help you unwind."

You snort and begin moving again, shaking off the unexpected flash of vulnerability. "Why don't you focus on making this memorable enough for me to call you again?"

Joel laughed then, loud. And despite yourself, you giggle.

"Baby, when you're done playin' cowgirl, I'm gonna flip you over and fuck you so hard, you'll feel it on Monday when you're watchin' me through that office window of yours."

Your pussy clenches involuntarily and you begin working faster, fucking yourself on his lap now like you mean it.

"That's a-a lot of big talk, Miller," you reply, breathless from the exertion. You circle your hips and moan loudly when you find an angle you like.

"Ain't just talk," he says, big hands back on your hips, helping you move. His gaze is fixed on where you're connected, on the slick smearing between your bodies, and his stomach tightens. "Been thinkin' 'bout fuckin' you every which way to Sunday, got a head full'a ideas."

"You've been thinking about fucking me?" you repeat almost shyly.

"Don't be coy, now," he tells you, grunting softly when you plant both hands on his chest for leverage. "You know you came over there that first day with these perfect fucking tits pokin' through that little robe on purpose."

"Did not," you breathe, but all the fight has left your body. You're getting close and it's all you can focus on now.

"Uh-huh," Joel says, clearly not believing you. He swallows hard and his cock twitches impatiently inside you. He could come like this, with you riding him, getting yourself off, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want it to be over just yet, especially if you expect this to be a one time thing.

Shit, he hopes it's not just a one time thing.

"C'mon, baby, let go," he says before mouthing at your breasts. His tongue glides over one nipple then grazes it with his teeth before moving to the other one. You jolt and whine and push your chest even closer to his face.

"Joel..." you whisper. Your muscles are tired, you're slowing down. Sweat dots your forehead, collects behind your knees, and you're gasping for air.

He sits up suddenly, understanding right away what you need, and wraps one arm around your waist while the other braces himself against the mattress. He's able to fuck up into you like this and instantly your legs relax and your body slumps forward, causing him to relinquish the attention to your chest.

"That's it," he coos, "lemme help you."

You rarely accept help. The thought flickers across your mind for a moment before you push it away. This is different. This is just sex.

"M'close," you mumble shakily, fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders, forehead pressed intimately against his.

"I know," he breathes, "give it to me, darlin'."

A few more harsh snaps of his hips has you falling, whimpering his name as white hot heat rolls through your limbs and soaking your brain with a drunken haze. He's murmuring to you the whole time: how tight you feel, how beautiful you look, what a good job you did, how perfectly you fit on his cock. The praise goes straight to your head and fills a much needed void somewhere inside you. Some piece of you that is always pushing you to do more, try harder, work faster... efforts that rarely give you desired results. Or, at least, the results you're after. But this—this man—he's giving you something you desperately crave without even realizing it.

Your breath stutters like you've been knocked off kilter, and maybe you have. Joel thinks it's an aftershock of your orgasm and doesn't think anything of it.

He lifts you off his lap and you gasp, eyes flying open in shock. You have about half a second before you're tossed face down onto the bed next to him, then he's climbing behind you, rough hands gentle on your hips as they pull you back up to your hands and knees.

"That's it," he grunts when you obediently spread your legs and arch your back. He smirks to himself before pushing back inside you with a heavy sigh. "Goddamn, you're warm," he says after sliding slowly all the way in, giving you a chance to adjust to the new position. You bite your lip and breathe through it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how deep he feels like this. How good he feels.

"Fuck me, Joel," you moan, pushing your ass back, encouraging him to move. He rolls his hips forward, slow and deep.

"I know," he pants, "I know what you need."

He moves a little faster. Your ass bounces with every push. He grabs it with one big hand and squeezes before giving you a playful smack and doing it again.

"No, you don't. You barely—barely know me," you remind him. Your words stumble over each other as you feel yourself losing focus again. He feels so good, it's impossible not to.

"Know you better than you think," he shoots back. He smoothes over the spot on your ass he had spanked, soothing the area before sliding his palm up and over your spine. He can feel every knot and twist, every stress point you keep locked away deep inside. His fingers seek them out with ease, like maybe he really can see more than you think.

Still, you're stubborn.

"You only know what I want you to know." Your jaw is clenched, the words escape through your teeth but your point is made. You swallow down a moan and close your eyes, giving in to the way he expertly takes you apart.

"I knew you needed this from the first time we met," he tells you, "could've fucked this out of you back then and saved us both the trouble."

"You like it," you hiss over your shoulder. His pace is relentless now, hips swinging roughly against your ass, burying his thick cock as deep as it'll go. He wants to split you open and make you scream his name. He wants your mind blank and your body satiated. "You like—ohh... f-fuck—"

"What's that?" he goads. Joel drops forward so both his arms bracket yours. His chest presses against your spine and his breath is hot in your ear. You shiver and your jaw falls open.

"You..." Your throat is dry. Heat is building behind your navel and your legs are starting to shake. You swallow and keep talking. "You like trouble. You like it... when I yell at you. Whe—when I—"

"Yeah, I know," he admits, "somethin' real sexy 'bout you when you get all pissed off."

"—Like when I tell you... tell you what to do."

He's silent for a moment but his pace never falters. The wet sound of skin on skin is deafening, addicting. Your face warms as he punches the air from your lungs with every devastating thrust.

"Yeah. Maybe I do."

You hum and breathe deep through your nose. Fuck, he's right. You're going to be sore. You can already feel it.

"So tell me what to do now," he adds. It takes you a second to process it, but when you do, you force your eyes open.

What does he want to hear?

Don't overthink it.

"Touch me," you demand, firm and clear despite how your heart is racing.

Joel doesn't hesitate.

He leans back, leaving your sweaty back exposed to the cool air, and he reaches around to play with your clit. Instantly, you gasp and buck under him.

"Like that?"

If you had any clarity at all you would have shot him back some sarcastic remark because of course the answer is yes. Your entire body is shaking, you can barely speak and he knows it.

"Mhm," you manage, "ye—yeah, just like that. Fuck, keep going—"

"Jesus Christ," he mutters when your body begins to work in tandem with his, meeting him thrust for thrust. "Shit honey, you're gonna make me come like this."

You whine and throw your head back. His fingers don't stop circling your clit. Sweat coats your skin now. Gasping breaths and the sound of his hips meeting your ass over and over are filling the room, punctuated by Joel's deep grunts and your breathy moans.

"Joel—" you whisper as your body locks up. Your muscles ache, your cunt aches even more, but you continue to take it all. Your hand feverishly finds his between your legs and you leave it there, loving the way his fingers feel while they play you like a guitar.

"Sweetheart, I'm gonna—"

But you cut him off before he could finish his thought with a sharp cry. Your orgasm washes over you, harsh and unforgiving. A moment later Joel follows you over the edge with a loud curse, then a rough, deep grunt you can feel in your bones as he empties himself into the condom.

"Oh, holy fuck," he gasps, removing his hand from between your legs. He still thrusts weakly into you as the last of his orgasm streaks through his veins. It's cut short when he feels your body shaking violently under him and just like that, his focus is back on you.

"You okay?"

"I'm—" You're out of breath. Your vision is spotty and your muscles are weak. You swallow hard and try again. "I'm good, just need to—"

You fall onto your elbows and Joel takes the hint. He eases out of you, ignoring the way his chest pangs at the loss of your body, before he collapses into bed and hauls you down next to him.

Now you can rest. You close your eyes and breathe, deep and heavy. He does the same while the sweat cools on both your bodies and slowly, your brain begins to come back online. When it does, you realize his body is loosely curled around yours, keeping you warm and grounding you. It's strangely intimate but you don't pull away. Not yet.

"How 'bout I take you for that dinner now?" he mumbles before carefully pressing a soft kiss against your neck. His sweaty chest is pressed against your back, sealing you together.

"Let's just order something instead," you sigh with your eyes closed.

"Did I tire you out, darlin'?"

"Didn't sleep well," you say, unwilling to give him any credit just yet, "the damn construction crew next door woke me up way too early."

"Uh-huh," he teases before tightening his arm around your middle. It feels nice, so you lean into him just a bit. And for a while it's quiet and peaceful. Your breath steadies, your head clears, but your muscles stay soft and relaxed. Joel doesn't say anything. His thumb rubs idly over your stomach, lips occasionally graze over your back or shoulder, and it feels good until that defensive part of your brain wakes up, right on schedule.

This isn't serious. This didn't mean anything. It was just stress relief. Don't get attached.

"So," you say, voice a little hoarse when you gently slip out of his grip. He rolls onto his back with a soft, reluctant noise and he watches you stand to pick up your clothes. "This is what it takes to finally shut you up, huh?"

You grin at your joke as you press your clothes to your front, hiding your bare body from him like he hadn't just touched every inch of it minutes ago. When he doesn't answer right away with some smart remark, you pause and meet his eye.

He's stretched out on your bed, looking at you like he's seeing something not meant for him. You swallow nervously and try not to let yourself enjoy how good he looks in your space, amongst your things, in your life.

"Yeah," he finally says, "guess that'll do it."

His voice sounds flat and you begin to feel bad, so you clear your throat and inch towards your bathroom. "Let's order something to eat before you go."

Before you go. Joel heard it and got the message. He didn't know what to expect but for some reason, it stings.

"Yeah, what are you thinkin'?" He sits up and reaches for his jeans, where his phone is still tucked into his pocket.

"I don't care. Whatever you like." Then the door to the bathroom quietly snaps shut. Joel sighs once's he's alone and rubs his face before looking around your room. It's neat and organized, nothing like his own. He chews the inside of his cheek while he thinks, but before he lets himself get too lost, he snaps out of it and looks at his phone.

Chinese is a safe bet, so he orders that before standing to rid himself of the condom and get dressed. Suddenly he feels out of place. He's rough and dirty and you're... not. And that's fine. This was fun, it doesn't have to be anything more. Yet when he wanders into your kitchen for water, he can't help but feel an empty pull in his chest at the thought of leaving.

Unknown to him, hidden inside your bathroom, you're struggling with the very same thing.

[pascalland]

I Finally finished archiving my Pedro Pascal magazine collection!

Here some magazines I have in pdf on my blog for download [x] I have some digital scans ready on my Tumblr. If there’s a specific shoot or article you’ve been looking for, let me know! The problem is, I can't find a few magazines probably because they're too old, no longer available, or don't have digital issues. I’ve had to use all my design skills to recreate some of them! Since I’ve been archiving these lately, I know there are still some rare gems out there that I'm missing. If you have any old or hard-to-find editions and want to help me expand the collection for the fandom, please get in touch! Let’s keep the archive growing for everyone. DM me or reblog!

xoxo