Joel's Simp

A Brazilian Gal who loves zombie shit, and like to write stuff about it.

[joelssimp]

MASTERLIST

REAL PERSON - PEDRO PASCAL STILL

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x female reader.

Summary: In stillness, truth shows its face. Where others see scenes, she sees soul. Where others capture light, she captures presence.

No one on set knows her real name — not the directors, not the PAs, not even the actors. She signs her work simply as Still. Clean. Final. Like the last moment before cut.

A year in the set of such a big production like the Last of Us can change everything.

Tags: age gap (reader is 29, Pedro is 46), fluff, mentions of alcohol, mental health issues, pandemic times, no use of y/n, eventual smut MDNI. slow burn. Based on the production of the first season of the show, but it's a fanfic after all, so some stuff won't be 100% accurate. Translation of an on-going fanfic (English is not my first language, let me know if there's something to fix)

THE WALKING DEAD TROUBLE

Pairing: Rick Grimes x Original Character x Daryl Dixon eventually.

Summary: Trouble… Sam Walsh don't know her life without that word. It was always one trouble, after another, after another. And her only certainty and security was that her brother would always do everything for her.

Even if "everything" meant more trouble.

Tags: Parental neglect, eventual smut MDNI. slow burn. Dad with alcohol problems, maternal abandonment, the first part takes place before the outbreak, small town, drug use, violence due to alcohol use, cheating (if this is not something you like, just dont read it?), small age gap (Sam is 23, Rick is 29), Brother's Best-Friend. I'll tag each chapter if there's more stuff. This will be a two part of multiple chapters. Starts around a year before the outbreak, and the second part will hopefully cover seasons 1 and 2 of the show. This is a Translation of an on-going fanfic (English is not my first language, let me know if there's something to fix)

PEAKY BLINDERS A WHISKEY AND A SMOKE

A WHISKEY AND A SMOKE Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Original Female Character

Summary: Margaret Allen has already lived through more than most people twice her age.

A nurse who served on the front lines of the Great War, she returns to England with steady hands and a fractured heart. Her fiancé never made it home. The trenches did. The silence did. The memories did. When London begins to feel too small for her grief, Margaret accepts a position at a reputable hospital in Birmingham—hoping distance might quiet what the war left behind.

It doesn’t.

Birmingham is smoke, steel, and secrets. And at the center of it stands Thomas Shelby.

She smokes when her hands start to shake. He lights cigarettes when the ghosts get too loud.

Tags: War, PTSD, Grief, loss, anxiety attacks, violence, eventual smut MDNI. slow-ish burn? It takes place around 1921, Age gap (Margaret is 23, Tommy is 31). I'll tag each chapter if there's more warnings. (English is not my first language, let me know if there's something to fix).

[joelssimp]

A WHISKEY AND A SMOKE | CHAPTER 04

W: I’M A SUCKER FOR SLOW BURN, SO WE’RE BURNING SLOW. BUT IT’S BURNING. CONSUMPTION OF ALCOHOL, SMOKE (IT’S PEAKY YALL). MENTIONS OF WAR, PTSD AND DEATH.

7.5K WORDS

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CHAPTER 04 - DANCE WITH ME

MARGARET'S POV

Peter asked me on a Tuesday. That was my first mistake, perhaps. Trusting anything that happened on a Tuesday to remain simple.

I had just finished a twelve-hour shift with two burns, one miscarriage, a man with a nail through his palm, and Mrs. Barlow loudly informing a junior doctor that he had “the bedside manner of a damp sock.” My apron had been replaced twice. My feet had gone past pain into a dull, faraway sort of hatred. I was standing in the staff corridor, rolling my shoulders beneath my coat, when Peter appeared with a mop bucket in one hand and an expression too carefully casual to be believed.

“Margaret.”

I glanced at him. “That tone is worrying.”

“What tone?” He asks nervously, twisting the handle of the bucket.

“The one men use before asking for something foolish.”

He grinned, though the tips of his ears had coloured. “I was going to ask if you wanted to come out Friday.”

I paused with one glove halfway on.

Mary, at the end of the corridor, turned so quickly she nearly walked into Harrison.

Peter saw it too and winced. “The two of us, I mean.”

Mary’s eyebrows went high enough to vanish beneath her fringe. And I hear Harrison muttering, “Brave.”

Peter shot him a look. “Helpful, that.”

I pulled the glove over my fingers slowly.

“Out where?” I ask.

Peter straightens his body a little, encouraged by the absence of immediate refusal. “A pub?”

"Can I choose?"

Just me asking it made Mary roll her eyes.

"If you're thinking The Garrison, think again." She says, almost annoyed.

I give a small shrug “It has drinks, tables, floor, piano. That’s a pub.”

“It has Shelbys. We’ve been surrounded by them lately.”

Her answer should be a little funny, if it was not a truth going around us.

For nearly two weeks, Thomas Shelby had existed around me more than in front of me. A man’s cap near the hospital gates. Jake’s scar beside a lamppost. A cigarette ember outside Mrs. Hodge’s after midnight. A quiet pressure on streets that had felt less mine the moment I learned whose men watched them.

Protection, as Mary said. But in my mind that attitude felt like arrogance of a man that has everything and everyone at his feet.

I remember telling the poor peaky guy to pass a message to Tom that if he wanted to know whether I slept with a lamp on, he could ask me himself. No answer had come since then, not a single word. He didn’t make an appearance at the hospital doors either. There’s only the men, still there, still careful and pretending Birmingham had placed them in my path by coincidence.

My mind in the past week has circled back to Thomas Shelby in the Garrison, his pale eyes on mine while I drank whiskey from the glass he had carried over.

Then I thought of my small room, my journal, Charles’s photograph, my mother’s latest letter folded beneath a book because she had asked again if I was sleeping and I had not yet found a lie kind enough to send her.

I looked back at Peter with a small smile.

“One drink,” I said.

Mary closed her eyes.

Peter smiled. “One drink, then.”

“You said that last time,” Mary muttered. “And then she told Arthur Shelby to stop speaking.”

I glanced at her. “He started it.”

“That will be lovely on your headstone.”

***

I told myself I wasn't excited for this, that it should be a normal day, but Friday came down, as wet and cold as any other day in this city, but with a different promise.

Birmingham spent the whole afternoon coughing smoke and rain against the windows.

I worked steadily, though my attention snagged more than once on the thought of evening. It irritated me. I had gone to the Garrison before. I had drunk, danced, insulted powerful men, lived to complain about it. There was no reason for my pulse to behave as if I were preparing for surgery with blunt instruments.

By six, I had washed my hands three times and still smelled blood where there was none.

Mary found me in the changing room, staring into my open locker.

“Oh,” she said.

I looked over. “What?”

She leaned against the doorframe. “You’re going to make a point.”

“I’m getting dressed.”

“No. You are choosing artillery.”

I looked down at the dress folded over my arm.

It was dark blue. Almost black in poor light, though the fabric caught a little softness when moved near a lamp. Plain enough for respectability, fitted enough to make plainness a lie. My mother had insisted I pack it. I had argued I would have nowhere to wear it.

I was thankful to her right now.

“It’s only a dress,” I said.

Mary came closer and touched the sleeve between two fingers. “It is absolutely not only a dress.”

“I’m going to a pub. I refuse to attend in mourning grey forever.”

“Margaret.”

My name coming out of her mouth sounded as if she was a big sister warning me of some danger.

I busied myself with unpinning my cap. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was about to say you look lovely.”

My hands paused.

Praise still felt strange when it had no patient attached to it. No use. No necessity.

“Thank you,” I said, too stiffly.

Mary smiled a little. “And if Thomas Shelby happens to notice, I’m sure that will be a complete accident.”

I looked at her in the mirror.

She lifted both hands. “I’m only saying.”

“I am going with Peter.”

“Yes.”

“Peter asked me.”

“I know.” Mary smiled smugly.

“And Thomas Shelby does not own every room I enter.”

Mary’s face changed then, humour easing away. “No. He doesn’t.”

I held her gaze through the mirror.

“Just be sure,” she said quietly, “you know which room you’re choosing.”

That stayed with me while I dressed.

I pinned my hair more carefully than usual, leaving a few pieces softer near my face because the rain would do it anyway, and I preferred to claim intention before weather stole it. I wore my better stockings, my clean gloves, the small pearl earrings Charles had given me the month before he left. I held one of them in my palm for longer than needed.

Charles had loved that dress.

Or perhaps he had loved me inside it, which grief often made into the same thing.

“You look expensive,” Mary said when I stepped out.

“I’m not.”

“That’s usually what expensive women say.”

“I own three dresses and owe Mrs. Hodge for extra hot water.”

“Still.” She shrugged “Hot.”

Peter was waiting near the hospital gate with Harrison beside him, because apparently courage needed witnesses. When he saw me, his expression opened so honestly I nearly felt cruel.

“Margaret,” he said.

Harrison glanced between us and gave a low whistle.

Mary walked beside me until she stopped beside them.

Peter removed his cap. “You look…”

“Choose carefully,” Mary said.

Peter swallowed. “Beautiful.”

The word was simple enough to be tolerable.

“Thank you.”

Mary leaned close to me. “Have a drink. Dance if you like. Come back with your pride and pulse intact.”

“Always the romantic.” I rolled my eyes, but appreciated her care.

“I know the streets better than romance, Miss Allen.” Mary winked already dragging Harrison away.

Peter offered his arm as we began walking. I looked at it, considered refusing out of habit, then took it because I had already decided to be foolish once that evening and saw little point in rationing.

The rain had stopped for the evening, leaving the streets black and slick beneath the lamps. Men moved away from their work place toward warmth and drink.

And as we were walking together, I felt the presence. Two men with caps across the road. Different from the hospital watchers, though the same breed of mannerisms moving with them. One glanced at Peter, then at me, then away quickly.

Peter noticed my attention. “Everything all right?”

“Yes.”

That was a lie, though not a large one.

The Garrison glowed ahead, gold through wet glass, loud enough that laughter reached us before the door opened. Peter looked nervous as we approached, sweetly so. I wondered whether he knew he was walking me into Shelby territory while pretending he had my undivided attention.

Men enjoyed bravery in themselves even when it borrowed a woman’s dress for the occasion.

Inside, the pub smelled of beer, tobacco, wet coats, and skin heat. The room was crowded but not yet wild. Early enough for men to still care whether they spilled ale on themselves, but late enough for voices to rise, for shoulders to loosen, for women to laugh with their heads tilted back and danger waiting under the tables like a dog.

Harry saw me at the bar and smiled. “Irish and strong for the nurse?”

I smile and nodded as Peter reached for my coat with respectful fingers.

Harry reached for the bottle as Peter ordered beer, then seemed to reconsider and asked for whiskey as well. That made the barman glance at me, amused. I did not rescue either of them.

“To Friday,” Peter said when we had our glasses.

“To surviving it,” I answered taking a sip of mine.

The liquid burned bright on its way down my throat. A pleasant burn for me, not so pleasant for Peter who coughed a lot after taking his sip.

I did not laugh, because I had manners when properly motivated.

“That is foul,” he said, voice rough.

“It’s whiskey.”

“It tastes like burning furniture.” His face scrunched.

“That may be why I like it.”

He looked at me with open admiration and a little fear. “You are a strange woman.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

We found a place near the side wall where the crowd thinned enough to breathe. Peter tried very hard to be charming. He told me stories about Harrison ruining a surgeon’s polished shoes with a bucket of dirty water. He mimicked Matron Hawthorne’s walk so accurately I had to turn toward the wall to hide my laughter. He told me his sister worked at a laundry and his father had lost two fingers in a press before the war, then gone back to work the same week because hunger had little sympathy for healing.

I liked him more when he forgot to impress me.

He asked about London once, and I gave him little to none information. He must have felt the door close because he did not knock again.

A song started near the piano, rough and familiar to everyone but me. Peter lifted his brows.

“One dance?”

“You ask that as if you have recovered from the last one.”

“I’ve been practicing.” He answered still with a smile and that brow lifted.

I arched one of my eyebrows “With whom?”

“Harrison.” He joked.

A laugh escaped me without warning, “That explains your confidence.”

Peter grinned and held out his hand.

I took it.

The dance was easier this time because I knew the room, or thought I did. Peter led with more care too, so I followed with more freedom. The whiskey made my blood warmer and the lamps kinder. I let myself smile when he turned me, let myself laugh when he nearly stepped on my foot and apologized to my shoe with solemn dignity.

For a handful of minutes, I was only a woman in a blue dress dancing in a pub.

Then the shift of the room happened so naturally, I didn’t have time to register.

The Garrison never went silent for anyone entirely. It was too proud, too drunk, too alive for that. But the noise changed shape when they arrived. Conversations lowered at the edges. A laugh cut short. The piano continued, though softer, as if the player had felt a hand near his collar without being touched.

Peter’s hand tightened around mine as I turned to see what happened.

Thomas Shelby stood near the private room door with his brothers behind him.

Arthur saw me first and frowned as if my presence personally insulted the evening. John, beside him, broke into a grin bright enough to be seen through smoke. But I saw that Tommy did not smile.

His blue eyes looked at me, and only at me.

The dress had been a mistake, I thought.

Then I felt the small, wicked satisfaction beneath that thought and knew it had been nothing of the sort.

Tommy wore a dark suit, the cut severe, the cap low enough to shadow his eyes until he lifted his head slightly. He had a cigarette between two fingers. His face held the same stillness I remembered, that unsettling calm that made every movement around him seem excessive. He looked imposing without even trying.

Masculine in a way the hospital men were not.

Handsome too, though handsome felt almost too clean a word for him. There was damage in his beauty. Discipline as well. Something cold enough to warn and warm enough, somehow, to make warning useless.

Peter swallowed beside me. “Margaret.”

“I see him.”

“That’s…”

“Yes.”

John leaned toward Tommy and said something.

Tommy’s eyes did not leave mine, warming my body from the inside out.

Then he spoke to Arthur without turning his head.

Arthur looked at Peter. That’s when the skin of his hand went cold and his face went pale.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered.

“What?”

Before he could answer, John crossed the room with his easy stride while Arthur came from the other side, closing the distance with the grace of a door being kicked open.

John reached us first. “Peter.”

Peter attempted a smile. “John.”

“Arthur needs a word.”

Peter looked at Arthur, who had stopped close enough to make the statement unnecessary.

Arthur’s hand was still bandaged from where I had stitched it, though he had clearly ignored at least half my instructions. He looked at Peter as if deciding where to bruise him first.

“I do?” Arthur asked.

John clapped a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “You do.”

Arthur caught on slowly, then looked at Tommy and gave a low, irritated laugh. “Right. I do.”

I looked between them. “Is this theatre common in Small Heath?”

John grinned. “Only when Tommy’s in a mood.”

“I’ll be back.” Peter said, very quietly.

I doubted that.

Arthur put an arm around Peter’s shoulders with false warmth. “Come on, lad.”

Peter allowed himself to be guided away with the tragic dignity of a man walking toward execution while hoping it might only be a lecture.

John lingered for a few seconds.

I looked at him. “Subtle.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.” He gave me a small shrug.

“Poor Peter.”

“He’ll live.” John said, having his fun.

“Will he?”

“Arthur’s fond of you now. That gives Peter some protection by association.”

“How comforting.” I gave him my fake smile.

John’s smile softened. “Careful, Margaret.”

“With your brother?”

“With yourself.”

Then he left too.

I stood alone on the edge of the dance floor while the music limped on.

Tommy approached slowly, or perhaps time misbehaved around him. His gaze moved over me at last, not crudely, not briefly enough to be polite. He took in the dress, the gloves, the pearl earrings, the loose hair near my cheek, and by the time his eyes returned to mine I felt more seen than I cared to admit.

“Nurse Allen.” He tipped his cap.

“Mr. Shelby.” I looked right into his eyes.

“You came back.”

“You own the only pub with whiskey in Birmingham?”

“No.”

“Then don’t flatter yourself.”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “Too late.”

There it was. That low voice. Quiet enough to make me lean inward if I wished to catch every word, which was surely the point.

His eyes dropped to my glass on the nearby table. “Irish again.”

“I’m loyal to my vices.”

“How many do you have?” He asked.

“Enough to stay interesting.”

“Good.”

My pulse had become a nuisance.

He took a step closer. The space between us narrowed to something almost indecent in a room full of people. Men and women moved around us, yet the air seemed to hold still.

“Where’s your cleaner?” he asked smugly.

“You sent your brothers to abduct him.” I replied the obvious.

“Borrow him.” Corrected Tommy.

“For what?”

“Arthur needed conversation.” He explained, dismissive.

“Arthur needs a nurse more often than conversation.”

“I’ll tell him.”

I watched him dragging one of his cigarettes across his mouth, and settling it to light up the tip.

“Please do. His hand is healing badly.” My eyes had to move away from his lips, but not fast enough that he didn't notice.

“He says it’s fine.”

“Every man says that.”

Tommy’s eyes warmed with something like amusement. The corner of his mouth shifted, not quite a smile, but enough to change the shape of his face. “You told Jake something.”

I stilled.

He noticed. Of course he did.

The awareness of him seemed to sharpen all at once. The smoke between us. The heat of the crowded pub. The weight of his gaze resting on me with infuriating steadiness.

I took a careful sip of whiskey, more for something to do with my hands than from any thirst. “Your men talk too much.”

“They talk exactly enough.”

“Jake said Tom by accident. He looked as if I’d murdered him.”

“That was unwise of him.”

“To call me Tom?”

“To tell you I’d sent him.”

I studied him. Up close, I could see the faint shadow of stubble beneath the clean line of his jaw, the cigarette balanced loosely between his fingers now. He looked entirely at ease.

I was beginning to resent how aware I was of the space between us.

“You admit it, then.” He said with that low voice.

“Yes.”

“No apology?”

“None.” His eyes moved through my face.

“How refreshing. Most women pretend to be sorry before continuing to do what they like.” The words left his mouth slowly.

“I find it wastes time.”

His gaze lingered on my face for a second longer than necessary. Not enough to be improper. Long enough that I became conscious of every loose strand of hair near my cheek.

“You put men outside my boarding house.” I stated the fact that both of us knew.

“Yes.” He admitted after a puff of smoke into the opposite direction.

“Outside the hospital.”

“Also yes.”

“Do you know what that is called?” I asked, watching his posture.

“Protection.” He said, arrogant as ever.

“Spying.”

“Both.” Thomas replied instantly.

The bluntness of it startled a laugh out of me.

I shook my head, looking briefly down at my glass. “You are impossible.”

“I’ve been told.”

“I imagine often.” I feel my body drifting closer without noticing it.

“By women, mostly.” Tommy’s voice dropped a little. Charming.

“How tragic for them.”

His smile deepened just enough to change his face. The room felt hotter, or it was just me, I felt hotter just by being this close to him.

The song ended. Another began, slower this time, pulled from the piano with more care. Couples shifted around us, bodies drawing closer now that the evening had decided to become honest.

Tommy held out his hand.

“Dance with me.”

It was not quite a question.

I looked at his hand.

Clean nails. Scarred knuckles. Long an thick fingers. A hand built for ledgers, guns, cigarettes, and orders carried out before sunset.

I thought of Peter somewhere with Arthur and John, likely being frightened for the sin of asking me out.

I thought of Mary telling me to be sure which room I was choosing.

I placed my gloved hand in his.

“Only because your brothers stole my partner.”

“They’ll return him.”

“In pieces?”

“That depends on Arthur’s mood.” He said, guiding my body closer to his.

“Then I should be worried.”

“Are you?”

He led me into the dance before I answered.

The first touch of his other hand at my waist sent awareness through me so sharply I almost missed the step. He was careful, surprising me. Firm, yes, guiding with quiet certainty, but careful in a way that made me feel the strength held back more than the strength itself.

“I’m rarely worried for men who make poor choices,” I said.

“Peter made a poor choice?” Thomas asked while guiding me into the dance.

“He asked me out.”

“That was brave of him.”

“Are you insulting me or him?”

“That depends.” I could feel the joke inside of him.

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

Tommy heard it. His eyes changed, and I had the strange sensation that I had given him something he intended to keep.

We moved slowly, not because the music required it exactly, but because he chose to make the room wait around us. My hand rested on his shoulder. Beneath his jacket, he was solid, warmer than expected. He smelled of tobacco, whiskey, soap, and the cold air he must have brought in from outside. Each time he turned us, the lamplight caught on the edge of his cheekbone, the shadow beneath his cap, the blue of his eyes when he looked down at me.

“You told Jake to tell me if I wanted to ask whether you sleep with a lamp on, I should ask you myself.”

My breath caught in a way I despised.

I kept my eyes on his tie for one step, then lifted them. “Did he survive delivering the message?”

“Barely.” His voice got rough in the last syllable. 

“Good.”

He moved us with firm hands, strong and gentle at the same time.

“Do you?” His voice was low now.

“Do I what?”

“Sleep with a lamp on.”

His hand at my waist remained steady. Mine tightened on his shoulder.

“That’s a personal question.” I answered deflective.

Thomas nodded, and his voice rasped, “Yes.”

“You often ask personal questions while dancing?”

“When the music’s allows it.” His shoulders gave me a little shrug with the answer.

I almost smiled, but managed not to. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes what?”

“Sometimes I sleep with a lamp on.” Even with the place full, this whole exchange felt private enough.

His gaze held mine with unsettling patience.

“After France?” he asked.

There was no mockery in it, no pity. The recognition made the question harder to avoid.

“Yes.” I said simply.

The word sat between us for two steps.

Then he nodded once. No surprise for someone who probably had the same demons I have during night. It’s infuriating how France turned us into something we can’t avoid.

“You?” I asked before sense could stop me.

His eyes flicked over my face. “Sometimes I don’t sleep at all.”

The answer moved through me carefully, opening some inner door I had nailed shut and then painted over to avoid it.

The piano stumbled over a couple of notes, someone laughed too loudly near the bar. Arthur’s voice rose somewhere to our left, then John’s answered with amusement. The room continued, shameless.

“What were you?” I asked.

His mouth barely moved. “Cavalry first. Then tunnels.”

I think I had known it from his eyes. But his steady voice was the thing that gave him away from the start.

My fingers softened slightly on his shoulder. “Tunneller.”

“Yes.”

“There were men brought to us from tunneling.” I swallowed and continued, “They were often very quiet.”

“So were the dead.”

I looked at him.

His face gave nothing away, but the words had come from somewhere beneath the suit, the cap, and the authority. Somewhere damp and buried. Trying to be long forgotten.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“For what?”

“That you came back with it.”

His eyes sharpened.

A different man might have thanked me. A gentler one might have looked away. Tommy only watched me as if I had crossed a line he had not realized he’d drawn.

Then he said, “You came back with yours.”

“Yes.”

“Charles.”

My feet nearly stopped.

Tommy kept us moving, though his hold changed, anchoring me through the falter without making it obvious to the room.

I looked up at him. “You know his name.”

“Yes.”

Anger rose first. It was easier than grief and far more useful in public.

“Did your men gather that too?” My voice turned into cold stone.

“No.” He sounded guilty now.

“Then who?”

“Hospital records list next of kin sometimes. War records list more.”

“You looked into my private information.”

Thomas gave me a small nod. “Yes.”

“How dare you?”

The words were quiet, though they cut.

For once, something in his face shifted enough to be called regret, if one were generous.

“I wanted to know what made you flinch.”

“I flinch because men like you think everything is theirs to know.” My hold on him tightened slightly with each word.

“That may be part of it.”

I should have pulled away. But something made me keep going.

His thumb moved once at my back, a small pressure through fabric. It steadied me before I could decide whether to resent him.

“I won’t speak of him if you don’t want me to,” Tommy said.

“You already have.”

“I know.”

The honesty again. Damn him.

The dance carried us past the bar. I saw Harry watching, then looking away. Saw John with Peter near a table, Peter alive and drinking something Arthur had likely forced into his hand. Saw Arthur leaning back with his bandaged hand raised, eyes on me and Tommy with an expression I could not read.

The whole pub had noticed by now.

Of course it had.

Thomas Shelby dancing with a London nurse in a dark blue dress was apparently worthy of public study.

“You’re making people stare,” I said.

“They were staring before.”

“At you.”

“At us.” His grip sent pressure to my skin.

“There is no us.”

“Yet.” He said it very close to my ear.

The word landed low, making my mouth dry as sand.

He looked down at me, calm as ever, as if he had not just placed a match to the edge of the room.

“You are very sure of yourself,” I said.

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m very sure of what I want.”

My pulse beat hard enough to feel in my throat.

“And what do you want, Mr. Shelby?”

His eyes dropped to my mouth, long enough to watch my tongue sweep along my lower lip.

“Tonight?” he asked.

The room seemed to lean closer.

I should have made a joke. I had several ready, sharp and efficient. Something about whiskey. Something about my stolen dance partner. Something about the arrogance of men in expensive suits.

None came.

“Yes,” I said.

He looked back into my eyes. “To talk to you where Arthur isn’t considering murder.”

I laughed then, because breath had to become something.

“Ambitious.”

“Come with me.” His breath crashed into my face, making me lean a little more.

“To your private room?”

“Corner,” he said. “Door open. Public enough for your reputation, private enough for mine.”

“You care for my reputation?” I tilted my head slight, trying to read him, if there was such a thing.

“No.”

His response surprised me. Thomas seemed to have that effect, hard to read him and also hard to know his next move.

“At least pretend.” I watched his face.

“I care who thinks they can touch it.”

That was worse. Better answer than I thought he could give. Dangerous in a way only Thomas Shelby could be.

All the words I did not want.

The song ended before I answered. Tommy released my waist slowly, as if the absence of his hand had been considered in advance. I should have stepped back farther. I stepped back only enough to breathe again.

Mary would have dragged me outside by the ear if she had been there. But she was nowhere near.

I followed Thomas Shelby to the private corner of the Garrison.

It was not the room from which I had seen the brothers emerge before, though it belonged to the same shadowed side of the pub. A table set slightly apart, half-hidden by the angle of the wall and the smoke above the lamp. Close enough to see the bar, but far enough that words could be lowered without being lost.

Tommy pulled out a chair.

I looked at it. “That is very gentlemanly.”

He made a face as this was a normal thing.“My aunt insisted we learn something.”

“Did it take?”

“Depends who you ask.”

I sat down either way.

He sat across from me first, then changed his mind and took the chair beside the table’s corner, close enough that our knees almost met beneath it. He signalled Harry without raising his voice. The barman came over with a bottle of Irish whiskey and two glasses as if summoned by thought.

“Put it on my tab,” Tommy said.

Harry’s expression said everything about how unnecessary that instruction was.

When he left, I reached for my purse.

Tommy looked at me. “No.”

“I pay for my own drinks.”

“Not in my pub.” He said with that strong Birmingham accent.

“You do enjoy possessive nouns.”

His smile came slow this time, small and real enough to be a problem.

I let him pour because arguing would have only pleased him, and I was trying to be strategic. Poorly, perhaps, but trying all the same.

He offered me his cigarette case.

I hesitated, then took one.

The case was silver, smooth at the edges from use. His fingers brushed mine this time because I was careless or because I wanted it. The contact was brief. Nothing improper. Barely anything at all.

Heat climbed my wrist anyway.

He struck a match and held it for me.

The flame lit his face from below, carving shadow under his cheekbones, catching the blue of his eyes. I leaned in and drew the cigarette to life, watching him over the small flame. His gaze did not waver. The match burned close to his fingers before he shook it out.

“Thank you,” I said, smoke leaving my mouth with the words.

“You’re welcome.”

We drank.

The whiskey burned less this time. Or my body had learned to expect it.

Tommy leaned back, cigarette between his fingers. “Your mother writes every week.”

I stared at him.

He exhaled smoke. “That was not from my men.”

“No?”

“Mrs. Hodge complains about post.”

Against my will, I smiled. “Of course she does.”

“She worries?”

“Mrs. Hodge?” I drew smoke inside my lungs again, watching his gorgeous face.

“Your mother.”

I dropped my eyes to my glass this time. The whiskey caught the lamp and turned amber.

“Yes,” I said. “She is gifted at it.”

“You’re her only daughter.”

My eyes lifted.

He gave the slightest shrug. “John talks.”

“John knows surprisingly much.”

“John asks because people answer him before they know better.”

“And you?” I shifted a little in my sit, taking a drag of my cigarette.

“I ask after they know better.”

I studied him. “That sounds like a confession.”

“It’s a method.”

“It must be exhausting to make every conversation a business.”

“This isn’t business.” He countered quickly, and closed his lips around his own cigarette.

“No?”

“No.”

The word was soft enough to disturb me.

Outside our corner, the Garrison roared and sang. In here, the smoke moved slower. Tommy’s knee nearly touched mine beneath the table. I could feel the closeness of him like weather.

“What is it, then?” I asked.

His eyes held mine. “Interest.”

My laugh came out quieter than intended. “You say things too plainly for a man who hides so much.”

“Plain things are useful. Hiding is useful. Depends on the need.”

“And what do you need from me?”

“Nothing tonight.”

Tonight.

A dangerous word, that.

I took another drag from the cigarette. “I don’t believe you.”

“You shouldn’t believe most men.”

“Do you include yourself?”

“Especially me.”

That should have cooled whatever had been building between us.

Well, it did not. Perhaps I was more foolish than I had given myself credit for. Perhaps danger, when it wore a tailored suit and spoke with a voice low enough to feel private in a crowded pub, became harder to name honestly.

He watched me smoke.

“Arthur is starting to like you more now.”

My chest tightened.

One image came to my mind: Arthur Shelby with blood on his hand, asking what I had seen. Arthur looking away when I told him terror and bravery could live in the same dying boy.

“He’s difficult,” I said.

“He’s my brother.”

“That is not a defense.”

“No. It’s a fact.” Thomas smiled a little.

“You collect facts.”

“Yes.”

“Facts about me.”

“Yes.”

That confirmation should've make me hate him a little more for that nigh. Part of me did. The rest of me leaned toward the warmth of being studied by a man who seemed incapable of wasting attention.

I tapped ash into the tray. “What have you learned?”

His eyes moved over my face, slowly enough to make me shiver under my dress.

“You work too long. Sleep badly." He started naming each fact "Write letters you don’t post for two days because you don’t like lying to your mother. You hate being followed, but you choose streets where you know my men can see you when the night’s rough.”

My throat went tight.

“That’s not—”

“It’s what I’ve seen.”

“You watch me too?”

“When you walk into my pub wearing that dress, yes.” He eyed me with clear want crossing his face.

There it was again, the heat between us.

I looked down at the cigarette between my fingers because his gaze had become too much to meet without giving something away.

“My mother packed it,” I said, for no reason except the truth had slipped loose.

“Smart woman.”

“She’d disagree if she knew where I wore it.”

“Would she?”

I tilt the corner of my mouth “She thinks I’m avoiding gangs and public houses.”

“You’re doing poorly.”

“I’ve had a difficult month.”

Tommy’s mouth curved.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

The silence did not feel empty. That was the trouble. It felt occupied by everything neither of us had sense enough to say. The table between us. The whiskey. The smoke. His hand resting near his glass. My knee, only inches from his. The awareness that if I shifted forward, even slightly, the evening would change.

But I thought of Charles.

It came suddenly, as guilt often did. A hand reaching from another room. Charles with his nervous smile, his too-large ears, his letters about toast with too much butter. Charles, who had died before I could become whatever woman Birmingham was beginning to uncover.

My cigarette trembled and Thomas noticed.

Of course he did.

I drew in smoke until the shaking settled a little. “Sometimes I think grief makes a widow of you before marriage has the decency to happen.”

Tommy’s eyes softened by one shade.

“Fiancé, then,” he said.

“Yes.”

He did not apologize this time. He had learned quickly.

“I had a woman that left me without dying,” he said.

I looked at him.

It felt like the same grief, someone leaving your heart broken by not existing in the same reality anymore.

“What’s her name?” I asked.

“Grace.”

“Did you deserve it?”

Something like amusement moved through his eyes. “Probably.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because being left is ugly whether deserved or not.”

He looked away then, toward the pub, jaw tightening slightly. For a moment, Thomas Shelby was only a man with a wound he did not intend to show fully. I knew that look. I had seen it in mirrors.

When he looked back, the mask had returned, though not completely.

“You’re dangerous, Margaret Allen,” he said.

I laughed under my breath. “That is rich, coming from you.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”

His fingers tapped ash from the cigarette. “You say things people remember.”

“Only to men who ask irritating questions.”

“I’ll ask better ones then.”

“I doubt it.”

“What did you want when you came to Birmingham?”

The question caught me where his others had circled.

I stared into my glass.

No one had asked me that plainly. My mother had asked why. Matron had asked what experience. Mary had asked whether I slept good. John had asked whether I was lost. Tommy asked what I wanted, as if wanting had survived the train journey with me.

“I wanted quiet,” I said.

His gaze remained steady.

I laughed once, without humor in it. “Absurd, yes. Coming here for quiet.”

He only looked at me, so I kept going.

“I wanted a room where the walls didn’t know Charles and the grief I carry. A hospital where nobody looked at me and remembered who I was before. Work that would tire me enough to sleep.” My voice lowered. “I want to stop feeling twenty-three and already haunted.”

Tommy did not move.

The pub around us blurred at the edges.

“And?” he asked.

“And Birmingham is loud.”

“Yes.”

“And I still don’t sleep.”

“No.”

“And somehow I’m sitting in a Shelby pub, smoking your cigarette and telling you things I haven’t written to my own mother.”

His mouth shifted. “You can stop.”

“I know.”

“You won’t?”

“I haven’t decided.”

He leaned in slightly and my pulse picked up speed.

“Take your time.”

The space between us thinned even more now. My breath moved differently.

I became aware of his mouth, which was unfortunate. Aware of the shadow of his lashes when he looked down briefly, the line of his throat above his collar, the way his voice seemed to reach me first in the skin and only afterward in the ear. It had been years since attraction had entered me without permission. Or perhaps months. Time had behaved strangely since Charles died. Desire had become something I associated with before. Before war. Before letters edged in black. Before I knew the sound a man made when he understood his legs were gone.

Tommy Shelby sat close enough to touch, and my body remembered itself without asking my grief for permission.

“Mr. Shelby,” a voice said from the edge of the corner.

The spell broke so abruptly I nearly flinched.

Tommy turned his head.

A Peaky man stood there, cap in hand, face tight with the knowledge that interrupting had cost him courage. He glanced at me once, then looked only at Tommy.

“What?” Tommy asked roughly.

“Word from London.”

The air changed are those words, but Tommy’s face did not, which was how I knew the change mattered.

The man lowered his voice. “Freddie Thorne’s taken bad. Proper sick, they said. Ada’s sent word through. Needs family told.”

Ada.

Freddie.

I knew those names from Mary in fragments. Sister in London, married to Freddie Thorne, the communist, and Thomas' best friend from growing up and the war.

Tommy’s cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers.

For the first time that evening, his attention left me completely.

I felt the loss of it like cold.

“How bad?” he asked.

“Don’t know. Fever. Chest, maybe. The message came fast.”

Tommy stood.

No wasted motion. No curse. No display. He became action between one breath and the next.

John appeared before anyone called him. Arthur too, face sharpened, drink set aside. The Garrison sensed business and made space for it.

Tommy looked down at me.

For one suspended second, the corner returned inside his eyes. The whiskey and smoke, accompanied by those unfinished question between us.

“I have to go,” he said.

“I gathered.”

His eyes moved over my face as if memorising where he had left the conversation. “Peter will take you home.”

“I can take myself home.”

“Peter will take you home.”

My chin lifted. “Is that an order?”

“Yes.” He declared. The authority pulsing in his tone.

Anger flared. So did something else, maddeningly close to pleasure.

Arthur called, “Tommy.”

Tommy did not look away from me. “My men will keep distance.”

“How generous.”

“Enough that you’ll see them if you look.”

“That sounds exactly like not keeping distance.”

His mouth twitched, though his eyes had gone elsewhere already. His mind was on London now, with Ada and Freddie. With Business and blood.

“Good night, Margaret.”

I wanted to say something sharp enough to make him stay one more second.

Instead, I said, “Good night, Thomas”

The loss of last names was felt by everyone. It sparkled a warmth inside my chest, but another second came through and he was gone, his brothers moving with him. John glanced back once, gave me an apologetic sort of smile, but Arthur did not look back at all. The Peaky men near the doors went out after them, and the pub exhaled in nervous pieces once the Shelbys had left.

The corner felt suddenly too large.

My cigarette had burned down almost to the filter. I crushed it in the ashtray and drank what remained of my whiskey.

It did not burn as much now.

Peter appeared two minutes later with all his limbs attached, a drink in one hand and an expression of careful relief.

“There you are,” he said.

“I did not leave.”

“No.” He looked at the empty chair beside me. “No, suppose you didn’t.”

“Did Arthur threaten you?”

Peter sat across from me. “He explained things.”

“That means yes, then”

“He was very educational.”

I almost smiled. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He looked at me, then down at his glass. “Could’ve told me, though.”

“Told you what?”

“That Thomas Shelby had his eye on you.”

I stared at him.

Peter flushed. “Everyone saw it.”

“There is nothing to see.”

“That may be true.” He gave a small, rueful smile. “Doesn’t change what people saw.”

I had no answer for that.

Harry came by with a cloth over his shoulder. Peter reached for his coins. “What’s owed?”

Harry shook his head. “Paid.”

Peter paused. “By who?”

Harry looked at me, then at the door Tommy had left through. He did not need to say his name.

Peter’s mouth tightened, pride pricked. I almost felt sorry for him.

“I can pay my share,” I said.

Harry had already walked away.

Peter gave a quiet laugh. “Course he did.”

“Peter—”

“It’s all right.” He looked at me then, gentler than I deserved. “I asked you out. You came. That was kind.”

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“You didn’t.” He finished his drink. “The Shelbys did, but that’s practically a local tax.”

That made me laugh despite everything.

He stood and offered his arm. “Come on. Before your Mr. Shelby sends a carriage.”

“He is not my Mr. Shelby.”

Peter raised an eyebrow.

“Do not start.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

He walked me home through wet streets and a night that had gone colder while we were inside. He kept conversation light, out of mercy, of course. Harrison’s mop disasters. Mary’s temper. Mrs. Barlow’s latest insult. I listened and answered where I could, grateful for the ordinary shape of his voice.

Halfway to the boarding house, I saw two men behind us. Far enough to deny it, but close enough to be useful. One crossed the road when we did. The other stayed back near the edge of the lamps.

Peter saw them too.

“They always do that?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“Does it frighten you?”

I watched the reflection of a lamp tremble in a puddle.

“Yes,” I said. Then, because the night had already taken too much honesty from me, I added, “And no.”

Peter nodded as if that made perfect sense.

At Mrs. Hodge’s door, he removed his cap. “Good night, Margaret.”

“Good night, Peter.”

He hesitated. “I won’t ask again.”

Guilt touched me, small and deserved. “Peter.”

He smiled before I could offer him something useless. “I’m not wounded. Bruised, maybe.”

“You’re a good man.”

“That’s usually what women say before not kissing you.”

I laughed softly. “I’m afraid so.”

“Worth a try.”

I leaned in and kissed his cheek. His eyes widened, then warmed.

“There,” I said. “For courage.”

He touched his cheek like a boy and grinned. “Good night, then.”

I watched him walk away until one of Tommy’s men shifted from the shadows and settled around the corner where they could still keep the watch, but not be at sight.

Upstairs, my room was cold enough that my breath almost showed.

I lit the candle with hands that had begun to tremble only after the night was done. That felt typical of them. Late to the obvious things. I removed the pearl earrings first and placed them on the desk beside Charles’s photograph.

His face looked the same as always.

Mine, in the little mirror, did not.

My cheeks held colour from whiskey and dancing. My hair had loosened around my face. My mouth looked touched by thoughts I had not written down yet.

I sat slowly and opened the journal.

April, 1921.

Peter asked me to the Garrison. I wore the blue dress. Mother would faint if she knew. Charles would have remembered it.

I stopped. Looking at the words and deciding how much I would put on a piece of paper.

Thomas Shelby asked me to dance.

The words sat there, absurdly small for the way my body still remembered his hand at my waist.

He knows too much. He admits what other men would deny and denies nothing that might make me hate him a little more. He asked about the lamp. He knows Charles’s name. I was angry. I am still angry.

Another pause.

Outside, a footstep sounded below, then moved on.

I dipped the pen again.

He told me Grace went to New York. I do not know why he told me that. Perhaps because I told him about wanting quiet, or just because grief recognizes itself even when dressed well and smoking in public.

My fingers tightened around the pen. The last part took longer.

I wanted him to keep talking. Or do something else with his mouth.

There.

The ink shone wet on the page.

I stared at it until it dried.

Then I shut the journal and lit a cigarette with the window open to the Birmingham night.

Somewhere in London, Freddie Thorne was sick. Here in Small Heath, Thomas Shelby was already moving toward whatever that meant. Somewhere below, one of his men stood where I could see him if I looked hard enough.

That night I smoked until the shaking stopped and told myself the danger had passed for now.

TAGLIST.: @outlanderuniverse, @ourtiger04 , @mydearestlovexoxo,

[joelssimp]

TROUBLE | CHAPTER 11

CW: A calm after a big storm. Healing after a big trauma. Broken arm, broken ribs. Farm life. Mutual pinning?

5.6K words

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11 - Henrietta

KING’S COUNTY FARMS SIDE, January/2010

Three weeks after Christmas Eve, and I learned that quiet could hurt too.

At first, I thought it would feel like relief. No trailer walls sweating yellow with old smoke. No television screaming static into the middle of the night because some old drunk slept midway through late night news. There was no heavy snoring from that old recliner, not a single hand curled around an empty bottle like it was the only thing in this world that had ever loved his drunk ass back.

The Grimes' farm was nothing like that.

It sat a little ways out from town, tucked behind a stretch of fence line and bare winter trees, with a gravel driveway that popped under tires and a white farmhouse that looked like it had been standing there long enough to know everybody’s secrets, or just long enough to know mine.

The porch wrapped around the front, wide and worn, smooth in places by years of boots, weather, and someone sweeping it clean every morning whether it needed it or not.

Even in January, that place felt too warm inside. Not warm like summer with its unbearable heat. Georgia winter still had teeth, especially in the mornings when frost silvered the grass and the air made my ribs protest with every breath. This was a different warmth. Woodsmoke coming out of the chimney. Coffee always hot sitting in the pot. Quilts folded over the back of chairs. Louise humming old hymns in the kitchen while flour dusted her hands. Thomas’ boots coming in from outside, bringing cold air and the smell of hay, leather, and earth with him.

All of that should’ve calmed me. Should've make my shoulders drop from the tension I carry. Somedays it did, I could feel my lungs breathing a little easier.

Other days, the quiet left too much space for remembering.

I’d wake up in the downstairs guest room before dawn, staring at the pale ceiling, listening to the house settle around me. My left arm rested in its brace over pillows, still heavy and useless, the healing bones held together by metal I tried not to think about too long. My ribs were better than they had been, which meant I could breathe without wanting to cuss out God every single time. Laughing still hurt, though, and coughing made me see stars.

Getting out of bed was a whole private war that took patience, planning, and sometimes a very unladylike amount of sweating.

The incision low on my belly pulled when I moved wrong. A pain that felt different from all the others my father caused me.

It sat deeper than it should have.

Both...

The bruises on my face had gone through all the ugly colors. Purple to green to yellow, fading slow under my eye and along my cheekbone. The cut over my eyebrow had stitches at first, then little strips, then just a raised line I could feel if I forgot myself and touched it. Louise told me it would soften with time.

People said that about a lot of things when you're trying to keep yourself from falling apart. I wasn’t sure I believed what was said.

That morning, I was sitting on the porch in one of Thomas’s old jackets, the sleeves too long and the shoulders too wide, watching mist lift from the far pasture. The world looked washed in gray and pale gold, like someone had watered down the sun before pouring it over the fields.

A rooster kept screaming from somewhere behind the barn. Annoying little sound.

“Somebody oughta arrest that thing,” I muttered grumpily.

Thomas chuckled from the other rocking chair.

He sat with a mug of coffee balanced on his knee, hat tipped low over his forehead, one boot resting against the porch rail. Thomas Grimes had the kind of face that seemed carved by weather and patience. Deep lines around his eyes. Hands rough enough to look like they belonged to the land itself. His hair had gone mostly white, though he still moved around the farm like age was a rumor he didn’t care to confirm.

“That rooster’s got a job,” he said.

“He’s terrible at it.”

He shrugs with a smile on his face “Wakes everybody up.”

“So does a gunshot.” I smile too, with an I-got-you tone.

Thomas keeps his smiled into his coffee. “You got a point there.”

I pulled the jacket tighter around myself with my good hand. The angel wing necklace Shane had given me rested under my sweatshirt, cool against my skin whenever I shifted. I wore it every day now. Didn’t know how to take it off without feeling like I was betraying my big brother.

Thomas looked out toward the fields for a while. He didn’t rush our silence. That was one of the first things I noticed about him when I arrived and could spend more time together. Most people got nervous around my quiet, like they had to fill it before I sank inside myself and disappeared inside the bad memories that lived in me. Thomas just sat in it as if he’d brought his own chair.

“You sleep any?” he asked after a while.

I nodded “Some.”

“That means no.” He took a peek from the side of his eyes.

“That means some.”

He nodded once, accepting the lie and not buying it at all.

Before I got to argue a little more to protect my lie, a truck turned onto the gravel drive. A sound I knew too well by now, which was annoying.

Rick’s sheriff’s cruiser rolled toward the house, slow enough not to kick up much dust, though there wasn’t a whole lot to kick up in this damp winter air. He parked near the fence and sat inside for a second with both hands on the wheel.

Thomas took a sip of his coffee. “Reckon my boy found another real urgent reason to stop by.”

I looked straight ahead. “Maybe there’s a crime wave in your chicken coop.”

“Could be. Henrietta’s been lookin’ shifty.”

“Henrietta?”

“Mean red hen. You’ll know her when you meet her.”

Rick stepped out, closing the cruiser door quietly. He wore his uniform jacket, his hat tucked under one arm, boots dark with mud near the soles. He looked tired in the way he’d looked tired for weeks now, though he tried to smooth it over when he saw me.

He came up the porch steps with a paper bag in one hand.

“Mornin'.”

“Sheriff,” Thomas said, voice dry.

“Dad.” Rick tipped his head forward.

I looked at the bag. “Please tell me that’s evidence.”

Rick’s mouth lifted a little. “Biscuits from Louise’s favorite place in town.”

“She's been making breakfast for an hour now,” Thomas said.

Rick glanced toward the front door, then back at me. “These are for later, then.”

“Later,” Thomas repeated.

Rick ignored him beautifully. “How you feeling?”

There it was the question everyone asked as if I had a new answer stored somewhere.

I shrugged with my good shoulder. “Like a mule kicked me down some stairs.”

Thomas made a thoughtful noise. “Progress. Last week it was a truck.”

Rick’s eyes moved over my face, my arm, the way I was sitting stiff because the porch chair had betrayed my ribs ten minutes ago and I was too proud to adjust while anyone could see.

“You take your meds?”

“Yes, Deputy Mom.”

Thomas coughed into his mug.

Rick gives me a look. “I’m asking because you skip them when you decide you’re fine.”

“I skipped once.”

“And you turned gray.” Rick's blue eyes shine with amusement.

“I was making a point.” I shoot back.

“You made it badly.”

I stare at him, and he stares back.

Thomas rocked once, twice, then stood with the slow satisfaction of a man escaping a room before lightning hit. “I’m gonna see about that busted gate.”

“I can help,” I said immediately.

Both Grimes men looked at me with a warning and care.

I hated when they did that.

Thomas raised one white eyebrow. “You can sit right there and help by not makin’ Louise skin me alive for lettin’ you overdo it.”

“I’m losing my mind on this porch.” I replied as a spoiled kid.

“You still got some mind left to lose. Good sign.” Thomas says, raising his coffee.

“Thomas.”

He pointed a finger at me, gentle but firm. “Three weeks, girl. Doctor said light walking. Breathing exercises. No lifting. No bendin’ like you’re tryin’ to prove the laws of healing wrong.”

“I can hold a screwdriver.” I offer.

“With one arm?” 

“I have teeth.”

Rick made a sound behind his hand, enjoying my exchange with his father.

Thomas’s eyes warmed. “I don’t doubt that one bit. You wanna be useful, you can help me with feed labels later. I got bags in the shed need markin’. You can write, can’t you?”

“With my right hand.”

“Then there we go. Farm work.” He offers me a smile as if this is all too simple.

“That’s barely work.” I muttered

“That’s how work starts after you get knocked flat.” His voice softened there, just enough to make me comfortable while being confronted. “Starts small. Then one day you look back and realize small carried you farther than sulkin’ ever did.”

I looked away first while the pasture blurred for a second.

Thomas didn’t call attention to it. He only patted the porch rail once and headed down the steps, leaving me alone with his son and a bag of biscuits neither of us needed.

Rick leaned against the porch post.

“He likes you.”

“Your dad likes everybody.”

Rick shook his head. “No, he’s polite to everybody. There’s a difference.”

I glanced at him. “He calls me girl.”

“That’s practically adoption paperwork for him.” Rick gives me a crooked smile.

I tried not to smile back because of my ribs. Failed a little, and paid for it.

Rick noticed, of course.

His whole face shifted. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just don’t look at me like I’m bleeding out every time I breathe funny.”

His jaw worked after my words, searching for something to say back.

“I watched you bleed out once,” he said quietly.

The porch seemed to still around that truth.

I looked down at my lap, at my good hand curled in the oversized sleeve of Thomas’s jacket. My fingers looked thinner than they had before. Or maybe I just felt less like myself and started seeing it everywhere.

“I’m sorry,” My voice comes out quietly.

Rick’s head lifts with that. “For what?”

“Making you see that.” The words came out before I could dress them up in sarcasm.

He stared at me for a hard second, then pushed away from the post, coming closer. He didn’t sit in Thomas’s chair. Didn’t take over that space. He crouched in front of me instead, one knee on the porch boards, close enough that I could see the cold making the tips of his ears red.

“You didn’t make me see anything.”

I looked right at him.

His voice stayed low. “It was Simon’s fault.”

Hearing his name still had a way of cutting through my mind, giving me chills I didn’t want.

Simon had been in county lockup since the morning after Christmas. There were big charges now. Words people had said around me carefully at first, then more plainly when they realized I wasn’t going to break from hearing them. Aggravated assault. Domestic violence. Something about the severity of bodily injury. Sheriff Thompson had come to the hospital himself and stood by my bed with his hat in his hands while he asked questions I answered in pieces.

Simon had asked for bail.

Louise had been the one to tell me the judge denied it immediately. She said it while stirring soup on the stove, calm as you please, like she was telling me the weather would hold through the weekend.

I cried into a bowl of chicken and rice until my ribs hurt, which by that time it wasn’t that long.

Rick’s hand rested on the arm of my chair. He didn’t touch me right away. Something he grew around doing more frequently. That line was still something we both could see clear as day, and he wasn’t crossing it anytime soon.

“I hate that everyone knows,” I said.

His face tightened. “I know.”

“I went into town yesterday with Louise for my follow-up. Mrs. Dawley from the pharmacy looked at me like I was a sad commercial.”

Rick sighed through his nose. “She does that to everybody, though.”

“She touched my shoulder while making those puppy eyes.”

“Want me to arrest her?”

“Yes.”

His mouth twitched, and so did mine.

We keep staring at each other while the silence settles around.

“You shouldn’t be here every day,” I said after that moment..

His eyes are still holding mine.

There. I said it.

He looked toward the yard, then the barn, then his boots. “I’m not here every day.”

“Rick.”

“Some days I’m here twice.”

I let some air out through my nose. “That’s worse.”

“I bring things.” He says letting that southern draw settle.

“Biscuits aren’t a legal excuse.”

“They are in Georgia.”

I gave him a tired look.

He leans back on his heel, the joking fading like light behind clouds. “I tell Lori I’m checking on my folks.”

“And me.”

“And you.” He agrees, nodding his head.

The answer sat between us, too honest and too simple.

I looked away again because the farm made honesty easier somehow, and that was dangerous. Out here, the world didn’t have enough noise to hide behind. I didn't have a bar crowd, no trailer, or hospital machines. Here I had wind dragging through the bare trees and cows lowing somewhere past the fence.

“How is she?” I asked.

Rick knew who I meant.

He stood slowly and leaned against the post again, putting a little space back between us. “Lori?”

I nodded.

He rubbed his thumb along the brim of his hat. “Tired of me.”

I let out a breath. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one I got.”

“Rick.”

He looked toward the house. Through the kitchen window, Louise moved past in a pale blue sweater, carrying something from the stove to the table. She glanced out and saw us, then pretended she hadn’t.

Rick’s voice dropped. “Things ain’t good.”

My stomach sank in a familiar, guilty way. I didn’t want to be the reason to all of that. But I also knew I wasn’t the beginning of whatever was broken in his house.

Before I could say anything stupid, Louise opened the front door.

“You two want to freeze out here or come in before the biscuits get cold?”

Rick lifted the bag. “I brought some.”

“I know what you brought, Richard. I also know you’ll stand outside talkin’ till both of you need thawin’.”

Thomas’s voice came from the yard. “Don’t argue with your mama. She’s meaner than Henrietta.”

Louise didn’t even look at him. “Thomas Grimes, I heard that.”

“I intended you to.” He replied full of love for that woman.

Rick offered me his hand to stand up.

I stared at it, and he just waited.

Getting up was humiliating. There was no graceful way to do it. My left arm couldn’t help, my ribs hated all movement, and my abdomen pulled if I leaned too far forward. For the first week at the farm, I needed Louise or Thomas to help me out of chairs, and I hated that so much I’d once stayed in the same armchair for four hours just to avoid asking.

Thomas found me there and said, “Pride’s a fine horse, but she’ll throw you if you ride her tired.”

Then he helped me up without another word.

I put my good hand in Rick’s this time. His grip was warm and steady. He did most of the work without making it feel that way, which was a skill I resented and appreciated in equal measure.

Inside, the farmhouse wrapped around me with heat and smells. Butter. Coffee. Wood polish. Some kind of stew already starting for lunch because Louise cooked like the world might end if nobody had seconds.

The kitchen was the heart of that house. Big table in the middle, curtains over the sink window, a row of chipped mugs hanging from hooks. There were pictures on the fridge. Rick as a teenager, all knees and serious eyes. Rick and Shane in uniforms, younger and smug. Carl as a baby with mashed peas on his face. A photo of Thomas and Louise at some county fair years ago, Louise laughing while Thomas held a blue ribbon beside a jar of peaches.

I looked at those pictures a lot.

Maybe too much with a kind of jealousy that shouldn't be inside my eyes.

Louise set a plate in front of the chair I’d started thinking of as mine. “Sit.”

I obeyed already saying, “I can get my own plate—”

“You can also get pneumonia standin’ on the porch actin’ tough. We’re all makin’ choices.” Louise shush me off.

Rick hid a smile behind his coffee.

Louise turned on him. “And you. Wash your hands.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The sound of him saying that in his grown-man sheriff voice did something strange to my chest. Louise still mothered him like he was twelve. He let her. He went to the sink, rolled his sleeves, and washed his hands while she fussed around the stove.

I watched them, quietly.

Louise noticed it, and she came to my side touching my hair softly, smoothing one piece away from the healing cut over my brow. I froze for half a second. She always gave me a chance to pull away, and I never did, though my body still didn’t know what to do with tenderness that didn’t want payment.

“You’re pale today,” she said.

“I’m always pale lately.”

“You take your iron pills?” Her warm mother hands were making very hard not to cry over my biscuits.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Eat more eggs.” She demanded.

“I’m gonna become an egg.” I said, already cutting my eggs.

“Would make breakfast easier.”

Rick laughed at that, and I smiled before remembering pain existed.

Louise’s hand lingered on my hair a second longer, then dropped. On my plate there was biscuits, eggs, and a little bowl of stewed apples. Small portions. She’d learned not to fill my plate too much. Big plates made me feel watched.

“There,” she said. “Try what you can.”

The first time she said that, I cried after she left the room.

Try what you can.

Not a single lecture about someone who worked hard to put food on this table. No you’re too skinny or ungrateful or difficult.

Just try.

I picked up the fork.

Rick sat across from me instead of beside me. Thomas came in with cold on his jacket and hay stuck to one sleeve, kissed Louise on the cheek like it was muscle memory, and took the chair at the head of the table. He bowed his head for a quick prayer, and I didn’t know what to do, so I looked at the apples until everyone said amen.

We ate mostly in silence, and after breakfast, Rick found his excuse, like he always did.

This time, it was the back step. Apparently it had a loose board that needed looking at, and it was very important that Sheriff Rick Grimes personally inspect it in the middle of his day, while his mother handed him a toolbox and gave him a look that said she knew exactly what he was doing.

I sat near the kitchen window with a blanket over my lap, pretending not to watch him crouch outside with a hammer.

Louise dried dishes at the sink.

“You know,” she said, “that step’s been loose since August.”

I kept my eyes on the window. “Sounds dangerous.”

“Mmhm.”

“He’s just being helpful.”

I bit my lips, not able to turn my eyes from him, and his muscles.

“Richard has many fine qualities. Subtlety ain’t one.”

I pressed my lips together.

Louise glanced at me, warmth and concern sitting together in her face. “You don’t have to answer anything I don’t ask, baby.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I confessed.

She folded the dish towel slowly. “About Rick?”

“About anything.”

Louise came to the table and sat across from me, the same way Rick had earlier. She was smaller than Thomas, softer in shape, with gray threaded through her brown hair and hands that always smelled faintly of soap and onion. Her eyes reminded me of Rick’s when he was trying very hard to be kind and failing to hide fear.

“You’re healing,” she said.

“I’m sitting around while everyone does things for me.”

“That’s healing sometimes.” She said, folding both hands on top off the table.

“It feels pathetic.”

Her face changed instantly.

“Sam.”

I looked down.

“If Carl broke his leg tomorrow, would you call him pathetic for needing help up the stairs?”

“No—”

“If Shane took a bullet on duty and couldn’t dress himself for a while, would that make him weak?”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

I hated wise people.

Louise reached across the table and laid her hand over my good one. “You were hurt bad. Your body is working every minute, even when you’re sitting still. You can’t see all of it, so you think nothing’s happening.”

I stared at her hand.

Her thumb moved once, soft over my knuckles.

“My mama died when I was twenty-one,” she said after a moment. “I had Rick two years later, and I remember sitting in my kitchen with that baby screamin’ in my arms, thinking I had no idea how to be a mother without one to call. People brought casseroles. Everybody likes to bring food when life gets mean. But what I needed was someone to sit down and tell me I was allowed to learn slow.”

I swallowed hard.

Louise’s eyes glistened a little, though her voice stayed steady.

“So I’m telling you today: You’re allowed to learn slow. How to walk around in that body again. How to take help without thinking it makes you less. How to be angry and grateful in the same morning.”

I looked toward the window again.

Rick had stopped hammering. He was looking at us through the glass, though he turned away fast when he got caught.

Louise smiled faintly. “That boy.”

“He’s married,” I whispered.

“I know.”

Louise didn’t sigh. Didn’t scold. Didn’t give me any speech about right and wrong when I already had enough guilt to chew through my own bones.

She only squeezed my hand.

“Life gets tangled when people don’t speak truth early enough,” she said. “That doesn’t mean you’re wicked for feeling something. It means you mind what you do with it.”

I nodded once.

The days passed like that.

Slow and peaceful. Measured in pill bottles and follow-up appointments, in the distance I could make it down the hallway without needing to sit, in the first morning I washed my own face at the sink with Louise standing outside the bathroom door pretending she wasn’t listening in case I fell.

The farm became a clock I could trust.

Thomas rose before sunrise. Louise started coffee soon after. Rick came when he could, sometimes in uniform, sometimes in jeans and an old jacket, always with a reason. A stuck latch. Papers for Thomas to sign. A bag of groceries Louise hadn’t asked for. Carl’s drawing for me, once, folded carefully in his jacket pocket.

It was a crooked horse with wings.

“He said it’s you,” Rick told me, leaning in the doorway while I sat on the couch with my arm propped up.

I studied the drawing. “I look more horse than wing.”

“He’s eight, Sam.”

“I’m just saying, my hair’s better than that.” I teased him with a smirk.

Rick smiled, soft and tired. “I’ll pass along the criticism.”

“You do that.”

I put the drawing on the side table and looked at it every day after.

Shane came too, though he was worse at quiet care than everyone else. He brought too much stuff. Magazines I wasn't interested in reading anytime soon. Candy I couldn’t stomach. A giant sweatshirt from the sheriff’s department that smelled like him and laundry soap. He hovered until I threatened to throw a pillow at him, then sat down and watched football at the lowest volume known to mankind.

He was trying.

We both were.

By the end of that week, I started doing small jobs around the farm.

It began with feed labels like Thomas promised. He set me up in the tack room with a marker, a stool, and strict instructions that if I lifted anything heavier than the marker, he’d tell Louise.

“You’re a snitch,” I told him.

“I’m alive, and planning to stay that way.”

The tack room smelled like leather, dust, grain, and cold wood. Rain ticked against the roof that afternoon, soft and steady. I wrote dates on bags while Thomas measured feed and talked about the farm like every animal had a criminal record.

“Henrietta bit Rick when he was nine,” he said, pointing toward the chicken coop through the open door.

“She has taste.”

“Made him cry.”

I looked up. “Really?”

“Don’t you tell him I said that.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely telling him.”

Thomas grinned. “Good. He’s been too dignified lately.”

The next day, Louise gave me a bowl of green beans to snap at the kitchen table. I did it one-handed, slow as sin, lining the pieces up in a bowl while she rolled dough for dumplings.

“You’re giving me toddler chores,” I said.

“I gave Carl this chore once. He ate two raw beans and hid the rest in his sock drawer.” She explained with that grandma smile plastered on her face.

“Smart kid.”

“He thought so.”

My fingers cramped halfway through. I tried to hide it. Louise slid the bowl away without a word and replaced it with tea.

“I wasn’t done.”

“You are for now.”

I wanted to argue, but I learned since arriving here that you do not argue with Louise Grimes.

A few days later, Thomas let me help brush one of the older horses, a sweet brown mare named June who moved slow and looked at me with the deep boredom of who had survived worse people than me. Thomas put the brush in my good hand and stood close enough to help if I wobbled.

“Long strokes,” he said. “She likes the shoulder.”

“I know how to brush a horse.”

He glanced at me.

“I watched movies.” I added while June snorted. “See? She believes me.”

Thomas chuckled and leaned against the stall door. “That mare knows a lie quicker than a preacher’s wife.”

I brushed carefully. The motion pulled at my ribs at first, so I shortened it. June’s coat was warm under my hand. Living warm. Steady warm. She didn’t ask me how I felt, didn’t look sorry for me. Just stood there and let me do a small useful thing.

After a while, my throat tightened.

Thomas didn’t say anything.

That was another thing about him. He knew when words would ruin something.

I kept brushing until my arm got tired, then stepped back, breathing a little hard from almost nothing.

Thomas handed me a peppermint from his pocket.

“For me or the horse?”

“Whichever one behaves.”

I gave it to June.

He nodded approvingly. “Wise.”

Rick showed up while I was still in the barn. Of course he did.

The cruiser pulled in near the fence, and a minute later he appeared in the doorway, hat in hand, cheeks pink from the cold. His eyes landed on me with the same worried sweep he always tried to pretend wasn’t happening.

“I’m standing,” I said before he could ask.

“That’s good.” He gives a warm smile.

“Don’t get emotional.”

Thomas coughed into his fist, which was his way of laughing without admitting it.

Rick leaned against the doorway. “Dad called about a fence post.”

Thomas’s eyebrows lifted. “Did I?”

Rick looked at him.

Thomas looked back, innocent as Sunday.

I glanced between them. “You two are terrible liars.”

Thomas shrugged. “Was a post somewhere, I reckon.”

Rick’s face colored slightly.

That made my stomach flutter in a way I didn’t appreciate. My body was still healing, still sore, still stitched and bruised. Apparently it had enough energy to betray me by wanting that married man.

June nudged my shoulder, making me wince.

Rick took one step forward.

“I’m fine,” I said.

He stopped.

Yeah, he stops now. He's respecting boundaries. Making sure he's not stepping ahead of anything.

A month ago, maybe he would’ve come straight to me, hands out, voice low, all that fear carrying him across whatever space I had left. Now he stopped and waited, even though every line in his body wanted to close the distance.

I looked at him, and there was too much between us.

The barn went quiet except for June chewing her peppermint and Thomas pretending to inspect a perfectly fine saddle.

“You wanna walk back to the house?” Rick asked.

“I can walk myself.” I answered quickly.

“I know.”

There it was again.

I hated how much his soft and careful voice warmed me.

Thomas took the brush from my hand. “I’ll finish up here.”

“I can—”

“You’re done.”

Rick walked beside me back to the house.

The ground was uneven, so I had to move slower than I wanted. My boots sank slightly into damp patches of dirt. The sky hung low and gray, but somewhere behind the clouds, the sun was working hard enough to silver the edges.

Halfway to the porch, my ribs tightened enough to make my breath hitch.

Rick paused with me.

He didn’t say anything.

I breathed through it, shallow at first, then a little deeper. Cold air slid into my lungs. Pain answered. I waited until it eased.

“This is annoying,” I muttered.

“Yeah.”

“I used to work ten-hour shifts. Now I brush one horse and need a parade.”

“I can arrange that. Dad’s rooster can lead.”

I looked at him, watching his mouth curving.

I laughed before I could stop myself, and pain hit instantly, sharp along my side, making me groan, hand pressing carefully over my ribs.

Rick’s smile vanished on the spot. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t.” I squeezed my eyes shut, still half-laughing despite the pain. “The rooster leading a parade is worth it.”

He looked relieved enough to make my chest ache.

We stood there in the yard for a moment, a few feet apart, both of us breathing winter air like it had answers.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

My throat closed.

“At the farm,” he added, as if that helped.

I looked toward the house. Louise stood at the kitchen window, watching us with a dish towel in her hand and absolutely no shame.

“She is terrible at pretending not to stare.”

Rick followed my gaze and sighed. “She’s never been good at subtle.”

“Runs in the family.” I muttered under my breath.

His eyes came back to me.

For a second, the whole farm seemed to quiet around us. Not a single noise reached the place we're standing, Rick looking at me with that same expression he’d had in the hospital sometimes, like there was something inside him pressing against his ribs, asking to be let out.

Then Louise knocked on the window and pointed toward the porch.

I exhaled.

Rick looked down, smiling faintly. “Guess we’re being summoned.”

“Saved by your mother.”

“She’d love hearing that.”

We climbed the porch steps slowly.

I had to let him help on the last one.

His hand touched my elbow, careful and warm through Thomas’s jacket, and I let it stay there until both my feet were steady on the boards.

Inside, Louise had soup ready and a heating pad waiting in my chair. Thomas came in ten minutes later with mud on his boots and a story about Henrietta trying to murder him near the coop. Rick stayed for lunch because the fence post apparently required soup before any further investigation.

Nobody said anything about it.

That evening, after Rick left and Thomas went to shut the barn, Louise helped me settle in the living room. She tucked the quilt around my legs and placed my pain pills on the side table with a glass of water. The fire cracked low in the hearth, throwing amber light over the walls. Outside, winter pressed against the windows, dark and quiet.

Louise sat beside me for a while, knitting something pale yellow I suspected might be for Carl.

I touched the angel wings through my sweatshirt.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“'Course.”

“Does it ever stop feeling weird?”

She glanced at me over her glasses. “Being cared for?”

I nodded.

Her needles paused.

“For some folks, maybe.” She looked back at her knitting. “For the stubborn ones, it gets less itchy.”

I smiled faintly.

Less itchy.

I could live with that.

The fire popped with that house breathing around me. Somewhere outside, Thomas called a gentle goodnight to an animal in the barn, his voice carrying through the cold. Louise’s needles clicked softly again. My body ached from a full day moving my alive body, living one more day inside all the damage.

I was tired.

Bone deep tired.But I was alive enough to complain about being tired. That felt like a victory somehow.

I have a taglist for this one, and if you want to be tagged, just let me know? taglist: @staley83 , @ravensare , @talknerdytome5391

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[joelssimp]

A WHISKEY AND A SMOKE | CHAPTER 03

W: 1920'S WORLD AND HOW MEN TREATS WOMEN BACK THEN, FRESH WOUND, BLOOD, STITCHES, MENTION OF WAR AND PTSD.

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CHAPTER 03 - WHAT DID YOU SEE?

MARGARET'S POV

The first time I noticed the man across the street from Mrs. Hodge’s boarding house, I told myself he was waiting for someone.

Men waited on streets all the time in Birmingham. They waited for work, for bookmakers, for women, for trouble to find them before they had to go looking. This one leaned near the corner beneath a shop sign whose paint had long since surrendered to soot, cap low, cigarette between his fingers. He had the patient posture of a man pretending patience came naturally.

I saw him in the morning when I left for the hospital.

Then again the next morning.

Then the one after that.

By the fourth day, I stopped pretending.

He never spoke to me. Never tipped his cap, or followed close enough to be accused of following. He stood, smoked, watched the lane with a laziness too practiced to be true, and when I turned toward the hospital, he began walking some distance behind as if Birmingham had simply required us to share a direction.

At first, I thought of Mary’s warning.

Then I thought of Thomas Shelby standing in the smoke of the Garrison, holding my whiskey as if patience were another weapon he had learned to carry.

It became so obvious to anyone close to me, and yet I mentioned it to no one for two days.

Pride was partly to blame. Stupidity too, perhaps. I had lived long enough around men to know that naming a thing often gave it more power than it deserved. A man watching a house was a man watching a house. A man sent by Thomas Shelby was something else entirely, and I did not want to give the thought the satisfaction of becoming real.

So I watched back.

I watched the way the man crossed the street only after I passed the butcher’s corner. I watched the way he slowed near the hospital gates, never entering, never lingering long enough for a porter to ask his business. Another man takes his place on rainy days, broader, with a scar near one ear. Then a third at dusk, young enough to think the lamppost hid more of him than it did.

Hospital people watched as well.

That was the thing about hospitals. Everyone looked tired enough to miss things, but very few did. Nurses knew when a husband lied about how a wife fell. Porters knew which doctors drank in supply cupboards. Cleaners heard quarrels behind doors because men considered a woman with a mop part of the furniture.

By the end of the week, Mary knew I knew.

She waited until we were folding sheets in the linen room, the one place where steam and the smell of soap made speech feel almost private.

“You’ve seen them, then,” she said.

I pulled a sheet straight along its seam. “Who?”

“The men trying very badly to look casual outside the hospital.”

I folded my end. “Perhaps they enjoy architecture.”

“Margaret.”

I met her eyes across the sheet.

Mary did not smile. That was how I knew she was properly worried.

“Yes,” I admitted. “I’ve seen them.”

She glanced toward the door before lowering her voice. “Did you speak to anyone?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“I thought I might ask one if he intended to follow me all the way to chapel next Sunday.”

“Don’t.” She warned, legitimately concerned.

“I don’t go to chapel.” I said as if it was obvious I was joking.

“Still don’t.”

I smoothed a crease from the sheet. “They’re Shelby men?”

Mary’s silence was answer enough.

The room seemed warmer suddenly. Too warm.

I placed the folded sheet on the stack. “How flattering.”

“It isn’t flattery.”

“No. It feels more like arrogance.”

“It’s protection.” Her voice came low enough to mistake it by fear of something bigger.

“I didn’t ask for protection.”

“People rarely do when Tommy Shelby decides they need it.”

There it was, his name. Quietly spoken, as usual. Birmingham treated Thomas Shelby’s name like a lit match near gas.

My fingers tightened in the clean linen.

“I don’t belong to him.”

Mary’s face softened in a way I did not care for. “Nobody said you did.”

“Good.”

“But if he’s put men near you, there’s a reason.”

I looked toward the high window. Rain had started again, tapping at the glass with thin fingers. Beyond the hospital walls, the city carried on in its damp, blackened fashion. Somewhere, one of those men would be waiting with his cap low, thinking himself invisible.

“I can look after myself,” I said.

Mary sighed. “I know.”

“I hate when people say that as if it changes nothing.”

“It doesn’t always.”

I stared at her.

She came around the table, picked up another sheet, and shook it open. The fabric snapped between us.

“You’re good at looking after yourself,” she said. “You’re also new here. Those two truths can live in the same room if you let them.”

“I’ve survived worse than Small Heath.”

“I know.” She folded her corner. “I also believe Small Heath doesn’t care what you’ve survived before it decides what to do with you.”

That settled between us, irritating because it was sensible.

I worked the rest of the afternoon with that sentence tucked beneath my ribs.

Small Heath doesn’t care.

Neither had France and grief. Neither had the landlord in London when rent rose after the war and widows still had to pay on time. The world was rather consistent in its indifference. One learned to respect it or be crushed beneath its boot.

Still, that evening, when I left the hospital and saw the broad man with the scar near his ear step away from a wall two buildings down, I stopped.

Mary stopped beside me. “Margaret.”

I did not answer.

The man noticed, of course he noticed. His eyes moved to me, then away, as if the sudden fascination of a passing cart required his full attention.

I crossed the street determined.

Mary hissed something under her breath and followed because she was loyal and annoyed by it.

The man straightened only when I stood in front of him.

He was taller up close. Older than I first thought. A scar dragged from the edge of his ear toward his jaw, pale against weathered skin. His cigarette paused halfway to his mouth.

“Evening,” he said.

“Are you lost?”

His eyes flicked past me to Mary, then back. “No, miss.”

“Are you ill?”

“No.”

“Then why are you standing outside my workplace three evenings in a row?”

He looked uncomfortable in a way that gave me no small satisfaction. “Waiting on a friend.”

“What’s his name?”

“Whose?”

“Your friend.”

His mouth tightened.

Mary touched my sleeve. “Margaret, leave it.”

I ignored her. “You’ll want to invent one quickly. Pauses give away lies.”

The man looked at me properly then, and I saw the calculation shift behind his eyes. Not threatening, no, he was assessing, like men always do when a woman spoke in full sentences.

“Tom said you were sharp,” he muttered.

Mary closed her eyes, already regretting being friends with me.

My heart gave one hard beat. I hated that too.

“Tom,” I repeated.

His regret was instant.

I smiled without any warmth. “How careless of you.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You did. Very little, but enough.”

Mary dragged me by the arm before I could finish enjoying myself. “Good evening, Jake.”

“Evening, Mary,” he said, looking deeply miserable.

Once we were half a street away, Mary let go of me.

I looked at her. “Jake.”

“Don’t start.”

“You know him?”

“I know plenty of people.” She kept on walking beside me, not looking at me.

“And he knows Tommy.”

“Everyone knows Tommy.”

“That’s becoming less impressive each time someone says it.”

Mary glanced over her shoulder. “You’re going to get him in trouble.”

“Jake?”

“Yes.”

“With Mr. Shelby?”

Mary only gave me a hard look that said enough.

“Good.”

“Margaret.”

“He’s poor at espionage.”

She made a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Espionage?”

“What would you call it?”

“Keeping eyes.”

“How poetic.”

“Safer than saying spying.”

“Only if one cares about safety.”

She gave me a look.

I pulled my coat tighter around myself and kept walking.

The city glistened with rain. Gas lamps trembled in puddles. Somewhere near Watery Lane, a man shouted and another answered with laughter. Birmingham’s evenings had become familiar enough for my body to catalogue the danger instead of drowning in it. That was progress of a kind, though not the kind my mother would have prayed for.

Speaking of my mother, another letter waited for me when I arrived at Mrs. Hodge’s.

Mrs. Hodge held it out between two fingers as though it contained a bill.

“London again.”

“My mother writes often.”

“She worries?”

“Deeply.”

Mrs. Hodge considered that, then gave a short nod.

I took the letter upstairs.

My room had grown into me by degrees. The wardrobe still stuck when opened, the desk still bore its old burn mark, and the bed still creaked if I turned too quickly. But my books now stood along the wall. My gloves had a place. Charles’s photograph spent more time upright than hidden in the drawer, though some nights I still turned him away because guilt had a face and it was young.

I sat at the desk and opened my mother’s letter with a hairpin.

Her handwriting was strict and elegant, as though even ink ought to mind its manners.

My dearest Margaret,

I received your last letter and was relieved to hear the hospital is respectable, though you say very little of your lodging and nothing at all of whether the city is treating you kindly. I know you dislike being fussed over, but you are my only daughter, and I reserve the right to fuss where distance prevents any useful action.

Mrs. Bell asked after you at church. She says her cousin’s son lives near Birmingham and has heard troubling things about gangs there. I told her my daughter is a trained nurse and does not spend her evenings courting danger in public houses.

I paused with the letter in my hand.

“Well,” I murmured. “That was uncharitable timing.”

Charles stared from his photograph with the same old nervous pride.

I continued reading.

Are you eating? Are you sleeping? Do you need money? Do not be proud with me, Margaret. Pride is a cold supper.

I have packed the blue shawl you forgot and will send it when I can afford the postage. The city looks wrong without you. I do not say that to make you guilty. I only mean that some absences are loud.

Write soon.

Your loving Mother.

I read it twice.

Then a third time, because the line about absences had gone into me more cleanly than expected.

The city looks wrong without you.

I wondered if my mother walked past my old flat and hated me for leaving it empty.

I took out my journal and wrote before I could decide against it.

March, 1921 Mother writes as if worry can travel cheaper than postage. She asks if I am sleeping. I am not. She asks if the city is treating me kindly. It is not, though I suspect kindness was never Birmingham’s chief industry.

Then, after a pause:

Tommy Shelby has placed men near the hospital and boarding house. I should be angrier than I am. I am angry enough. I am also aware enough to know I sleep a little easier when the street outside goes quiet and someone is still there.

I stared at that last line until shame pricked hot under my skin.

Then I shut the journal.

***

Days began to pass in a strange, uneven rhythm.

At the hospital, I worked until my feet forgot they belonged to me. Frank’s arm healed well enough for him to boast about the scar all around the city. Mrs. Barlow grew fond of insulting me before tea and once called me “London” in an almost affectionate tone. Clara Evans went home pale but upright, holding my hand a moment too long before she left.

In the streets, the faces changed and repeated themselves.

Jake with the scar, a young man with a cap too large for his head who pretended to read the same newspaper upside down near the hospital gates, I almost laughed at that one. Then, another peaky blinder with a limp who took shelter beneath the awning across from Mrs. Hodge’s when it rained. Once, I saw Jeremiah Jesus near the corner talking to a boy and looking at the boarding house as if houses could answer questions.

He tipped his hat when he saw me.

Mary kept saying this was unwise. She was afraid for me, but I told her she didn’t need to be. I knew those kinds of patterns, those men marking territory was not something new.

She said I was becoming Birmingham. Whether it was a compliment or not, I didn't know.

Then John Shelby began appearing more often.

He did it without any great mystery. One afternoon, he was simply outside the hospital gate, leaning against the iron railings with that bright, restless grin and a cigarette tucked behind his ear. Beside him stood a boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen, thin and sharp-eyed, wearing a cap and an expression of terrible importance.

Mary saw them first that morning. Of course it was her.

“Oh, God,” she said.

I followed her gaze. “What?”

“John.”

“So I see.”

“And Finn.” Mary added 

“The child?”

She made a surprised sound “Don’t call him that to his face.”

“He is a child.”

“He’s a Shelby child. They’re born offended.”

John lifted a hand when he saw us.

His brother next to him stood straighter.

I adjusted my gloves and walked over because avoiding John Shelby had already proved impossible, and because some part of me was glad to see a familiar nuisance.

“Nurse Allen,” John said.

“Mr. Shelby.”

He winced. “That sounds worse every time you say it.”

“I’ll continue, then.”

The boy looked between us with open fascination.

John nudged him forward. “This is Finn.”

Finn held out his hand with great seriousness. “Finn Shelby.”

I shook it. “Margaret Allen.”

“I know.”

I looked at John.

John looked delighted. “He asked who told Arthur to shut up.”

Finn flushed, but he was excited nonetheless “John said it was brilliant.”

“John exaggerates.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Finn said. “Arthur was angry all night.”

“That doesn’t sound unusual.” I joked with a tiny smile tugging my mouth.

John laughed at that.

Mary muttered, “Christ alive.”

Finn looked at me as if I had just performed a magic trick. “You weren’t scared?”

I considered lying. Children often deserved lies more than adults. Gentler ones, at least.

“Somewhat,” I said.

“But you said it anyway?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he was being unpleasant.”

Finn nodded slowly, absorbing this as if it were a lesson that might be useful later. “Arthur’s often unpleasant.”

John cuffed the back of his cap lightly. “That’s your brother.”

“He is.”

“That means loyalty.”

Finn shrugged. “Doesn’t mean lying.”

I laughed before I could stop myself from doing so. John looked at me then, properly pleased in that boyish way Mary had warned me about. Something resembling a younger brother in the way he treated me. He liked amusement where he could find it, and apparently I had become one of the places.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Passing by.” John answered with a shrug.

“No, you weren’t.”

“Checking on you, then.”

A breath left me in the form of annoyance “I don’t need checking.”

“Didn’t say you did.”

“You implied it.”

“You always hear implications?”

“When men speak, yes.”

Finn grinned.

John took the cigarette from behind his ear and placed it between his lips without lighting it. “Tommy’s men bothering you?”

I folded my arms. “Ask Tommy.”

“I am asking you.”

“Are you asking on his behalf?”

“No.”

“Then why ask?”

His smile faded a little. “Because I was the one who walked you to the hospital. Feels I dragged you into Shelby business.”

“You didn’t.”

“No?”

“No. I walked into the Garrison on my own feet.”

Mary made a small sound of protest.

John pointed at me. “See? That’s what I said.”

“To whom?”

“Tommy.”

The name moved through me in a way I resented. I looked away first, which made me resent him more, though he was not present to deserve it.

Finn was watching me closely. “Tommy likes you.”

John nearly choked on his unlit cigarette.

Mary said, “Finn.”

I looked right at the boy. “Does he?”

Finn nodded. “He asked where you were from.”

“That’s information, not affection.”

“He asked if you sleep with a lamp on.”

The air changed.

John’s face sharpened. “Finn.”

The boy realized he had stepped somewhere he should not. His mouth shut at once.

I felt the blood leave my face slowly, from the edges inward.

Mary moved closer to me.

My voice, when it came, sounded calm enough to fool a stranger. “Why would he ask that?”

Finn looked at John with a panic owned by a younger brother who did something he wasn’t supposed to.

John looked as though he would have liked very much to be somewhere else. “Tommy asks things.”

“That is not an answer.”

“No.”

“Did he send you here?”

“No. I brought Finn. He wanted to meet you.”

“I did,” Finn said quietly.

My anger had nowhere decent to go. Not at the child. Not entirely at John. Thomas Shelby had gathered some piece of me, turned it over in his hand, and asked about something private.

This was something only a little trauma and grief could bring on someone. I hated him well enough because part of me wanted to know how he knew to ask something so mundane that could bring on a piece of myself I tried so hard to burry.

John stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Margaret.”

I looked at him sharply.

He held both hands up a little, surrendering before I gave him reason. “Tommy does that with everyone. It’s how his head works. He sees things and asks after what he sees.”

“And sends men to stand outside houses.”

John did not deny it. That made his little brother look between us, eyes wide with the pleasure and terror of hearing adults say dangerous things too plainly.

“So you know,” John said.

“I’m not blind.”

“No. You’re really not.”

I strangled the small smile before it could fully reach my lips.

“Tell your brother,” I said, “that if he has questions about me, he may ask me like a civilized person.”

John tilted his head. “And will you answer?”

“No.”

He laughed. “I’ll tell him.”

“Word for word.” I challenged him.

“He’ll like that.”

“I don’t care what he likes.”

John’s grin returned. “You might.”

Mary grabbed my arm. “We are leaving before God strikes you down for lying.”

Finn looked up at me. “Will you come to the Garrison again?”

“Finn Shelby,” Mary said.

“What?”

I looked at the boy. There was soot on his collar and a scrape near his knuckle. He seemed too young for the weight of his surname and entirely proud of it.

“Perhaps,” I said.

He smiled.

John looked satisfied.

I pointed at Finn’s hand. “Wash that scrape properly. Soap, warm water, clean cloth. If it reddens or swells, you come to the hospital.”

Finn glanced at his knuckle, embarrassed. “It’s nothing.”

“Every man says that before infection.”

John chuckled. “She’s got you there.”

Finn hid his hand in his pocket. “Yes, Nurse Allen.”

“Good.”

As Mary and I walked away, I felt their eyes following us. John’s amused. Finn’s curious. Somewhere behind them, I imagined Tommy’s interest moving through the city without needing his body to carry it.

That evening, I wrote my mother back.

My dearest Mother, I am eating, though Mrs. Hodge considers porridge a moral obligation rather than a meal. The lodging is clean. My room is small with a desk by the window, which I like. The hospital is busy enough that I do not have much time to think during daylight. This is a mercy, even if it leaves me half-dead by supper. I have made friends with two nurses, Mary Doyle and Edith Clarke. Mary laughs too much and worries more than she admits. Edith appears severe at first, but I have seen her hide sweets for frightened children, so I suspect there is hope for her yet. Birmingham is rough. You already know this, and I will not insult you by pretending otherwise. Still, I am learning my way. Do not listen to Mrs. Bell’s cousin’s son unless he has something useful to say about laundry costs or decent tea.

I paused there, then added.

I miss you.

The words looked bare and childish on the page.

I nearly crossed them out.

The following week brought rain, two factory accidents, three births in a ward too crowded to make dignity easy, and Arthur Shelby with blood on his sleeve.

He came in near closing, though hospitals never truly closed. I was in receiving, checking the pulse of a boy with fever, when the doors opened and the room reacted before I saw why.

Conversations thinned abruptly.

A porter carrying towels stopped moving.

Mary, at the cabinet, turned her head and said something under her breath to another nurse.

Arthur Shelby walked in with his right hand wrapped in a dark cloth and his jaw set hard enough to crack a teeth. He wore the same cap, same heavy coat, same look of barely leashed violence I remembered from the Garrison. Behind him came John, less amused than usual, and Finn hovering near the door despite John, telling him to stay outside.

Arthur’s eyes found me.

His expression soured. “No.”

I glanced at his hand. Blood had soaked through the cloth between the knuckles and along the thumb. Fresh and steady from an opened wound.

“Good evening to you as well,” I said.

John stepped forward. “He needs looking at.”

“I can see that.”

Arthur pointed with his uninjured hand. “Get someone else.”

Mary closed the cabinet slowly.

I finished with the feverish boy first because Arthur Shelby’s blood did not make him more urgent than a child burning under my fingers. I told the boy’s mother how often to sponge him, wrote the temperature down, then washed my hands.

Arthur watched, offended by the delay.

I dried my hands and nodded toward the chair. “Sit.”

“No.”

“Stand and bleed, then.”

John sighed. “Arthur.”

“Fuck off, John.”

Finn peered from the doorway. “You’re bleeding on the floor.”

Arthur turned. “Get outside.”

“I am outside.”

My mouth twitched against my will. Their dynamics were unfamiliar to me, as I didn’t have a brother or a sister of my own. But they were funny together.

Arthur saw it. “Something funny?”

“Yes.”

His eyes narrowed.

I pointed to the chair. “Sit down before your brother’s logic kills what remains of my patience.”

John laughed.

Arthur looked like he might refuse out of principle alone, but his hand chose that moment to drip blood onto his boot. He cursed and sat.

I came closer and reached for the cloth.

He pulled back.

I held his gaze. “If you want to keep the hand, I need to see the hand.”

“I didn’t say I wanted you.”

“I’m not taking that personally.”

“You should.”

“I’ve been disliked by better men.” One of my eyebrows shoot up.

John made a sound behind me.

Arthur leaned forward, eyes bloodshot, breath carrying whiskey beneath tobacco. “You think you’re clever?”

“I think you’re bleeding.”

His jaw thickened “You always this calm?”

“No.”

That answer seemed to catch him off guard. He was definitely expecting something else.

I used the distraction and unwound the cloth.

The wound ran across the knuckles of his right hand, split deep over two of them and torn near the base of the thumb. The skin was swollen already. There were small dark flecks in the torn flesh.

“Glass?” I asked.

Arthur looked away.

John answered. “Bottle.”

“His or someone else’s?”

“Does it matter?” Arthur spat the words.

“It affects how much stupidity I assign to the injury.”

Finn snorted from the doorway.

Arthur pointed at him. “Out.”

Finn disappeared one inch farther behind the frame.

I leaned closer to the wound. “Can you move your fingers?”

Arthur flexed them. Too quickly. His mouth tightened despite his efforts of looking tough in front of me.

“Slowly,” I said.

He did.

“Again.”

He glared but obeyed.

No obvious tendon loss. Lucky man. Men like Arthur were often lucky in irritating ways.

“This needs cleaning and stitches.”

“No stitches.”

“Yes stitches.” I countered.

Arthur looked mad enough “I said no.”

“I heard you.”

“Then why are you still talking?”

“Because the cut is full of glass and pride, and only one of those belongs in you.” My words came out quick.

John turned away, shoulders shaking.

Arthur stared at me.

For a moment, I thought he might stand and do something. I braced for it, not with fear exactly, but with the weariness of a woman who had spent years convincing wounded men that pain did not grant them authority over everyone in reach.

Then Arthur looked down at his hand.

“Do it, then.” he muttered.

Mary brought the tray without being asked. Her eyes moved between us, wary and interested.

I cleaned the wound first with Arthur swearing through most of it.

“Hold still.”

“It bloody hurts.” He flinched when I pulled some of the glass out.

“I assumed so from the language.”

“You ever shut up?”

“When patients behave.”

His laugh came out rough and unwilling. “Christ, Tommy was right.”

My hands paused for half a second, and I  hated that my body betrayed me in such small ways.

“About what?”

Arthur watched my face now, and something mean almost rose in his. Then, to my surprise, he let it go.

“Said you’d be trouble.”

“He seems fond of diagnosing women he barely knows.”

“He knows plenty.” Arthur said with a fierce loyalty.

“He knows pieces.”

Arthur’s jaw worked. “Pieces are enough for Tommy.”

“They wouldn’t be enough for me.”

John, quieter now, said, “No. Don’t reckon they would.”

I threaded the needle.

Arthur looked at it and then at the ceiling. Men who fought in pubs could face fists without blinking but turned pale at sutures. It would have been funny if it had not been so consistent.

“You served in France?” Arthur asked abruptly.

“Yes.”

“As nurse.”

“Yes.”

He swallowed as the first stitch went through. His left hand gripped the edge of the chair.

“Tommy was tunneller,” he said.

“I know.”

He looked at me sharply.

“I guessed,” I corrected. “From his eyes.”

The room went very still.

And by still, I mean that John stopped moving, and Arthur’s face changed. Less anger now. More something else, suspicious and raw.

“What about his eyes?”

I tied the stitch carefully. “They listen for things that aren’t happening.”

Arthur looked away. For the first time since he walked in, he seemed older than his temper.

“Yeah,” he said roughly. “They do.”

I made the next stitch and Arthur did not curse this time.

There was blood on my gloves, warm against my fingers. Outside receiving, the hospital continued around us. Rain ticked against the high windows. The world reduced itself to Arthur’s damaged hand, the needle, the thread, the strange quiet his brothers gave him when the war found its way into a room.

“You were there too,” Arthur said.

It was not a question.

“In France?”

“In hell.”

I pulled the thread through. “Yes.”

He breathed out through his nose.

“What did you see?”

John said, “Arthur.”

“No.” Arthur kept looking at the wall. “I want to know.”

I should have told him it was none of his business. I should have said enough to satisfy him and nothing to feed whatever wound he had brought in with the cut.

Instead, perhaps because he was bleeding under my hands and speaking without performance, I answered.

“Men without faces,” I said, pausing long enough to look at him even if he wasn’t looking back “Boys crying for mothers that wouldn’t come. Surgeons cutting until they forgot there was a person attached to the limb. Mud on wounds. Gas in lungs. Letters in pockets. Men begging me not to let them sleep because they knew they wouldn’t wake.”

Finn had gone completely quiet in the doorway.

Mary stood near the cabinet, eyes lowered.

Arthur’s throat moved.

I placed another stitch. “And once, a soldier asked me to write to his wife and say he had been brave.”

“Was he?” Arthur asked glancing sideways.

I smile a little with the memory. “He was terrified.”

Arthur looked right at me this time.

“I wrote that he was brave,” I said. “Both things were true that morning.”

His eyes reddened, though he would have punched anyone foolish enough to mention it.

For a while, he said nothing.

The rest of the stitches went in cleanly. When I finished, I wrapped the hand with gauze and secured it tighter than he would like.

“Keep it clean,” I said. “Don’t punch anyone for at least a few days.”

Arthur barked a laugh. “That medical advice?”

“Yes.”

“Impossible.”

“Then punch with the other hand and ruin that one too. I’m paid either way.”

John grinned. “She’s good.”

Arthur flexed his wrapped fingers, winced, then tried to pretend he had not. “It’ll scar?”

“Yes.” I rolled my eyes already knowing where he was heading.

“Good.”

“Men are very strange about scars.”

“They prove something.” Said Arthur, smiling.

“They prove skin repairs badly.”

John laughed at that.

Arthur looked up at me, and the dislike was still there from the first day we met, but it was less settled now. As if I had disturbed it and he did not know where to put it back.

“You’re all right,” he said.

Mary’s eyebrows lifted.

I blinked. “Am I?”

“For a London girl.”

“How generous.”

He tisked with his tongue. “Don’t push it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He stood, then swayed very slightly. John noticed and stepped closer without making a show of it. That made me like him more than I wanted to at that moment.

Arthur reached into his coat.

I held up one bloody gloved hand. “If you are about to offer money, don’t.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“Because this is a hospital, and I’m a nurse, and also because I don’t take payment from patients.”

“I’m not a patient.”

“You’re standing in receiving with stitches in your hand made by me.”

“That don’t make me a patient.”

I scuffled lightly “It absolutely does.”

John looked delighted again. “Told you, Arthur. She’ll have you.”

Arthur ignored him and looked at me. “Tommy’ll pay.”

“Thomas Shelby pays for many things, I imagine. He will not pay me for doing my job.”

Arthur studied me, jaw shifting. Then, unexpectedly, he nodded.

“Right.”

Finn stepped properly into the doorway again. “Can I see?”

“No,” Arthur and I said together.

The young man scowled, tired of being treated as a child.

John put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on. Let the nurse scare other people.”

Arthur paused by the door and looked back at me.

For a second, I saw past the hard brow, the temper, the drink, the way violence had made a home in his shoulders. I saw a man who had come back from war and found his own body and specially his own mind too full of noise.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“You’re welcome, Arthur.”

He seemed embarrassed by the whole exchange, which made two of us.

Then he left with John and Finn, taking half the room’s tension with him and leaving the other half for us to breathe through.

Mary waited until the doors shut.

Then she turned to me. “You are collecting Shelbys.”

“I am doing no such thing.”

“John brings you Finn. Arthur lets you stitch him. Tommy’s men stand outside like badly dressed gargoyles.”

“I’m a nurse. Injured men are inevitable.”

“She speaks as if this is normal,” Mary said to the ceiling.

“It’s becoming normal.”

“That’s what worries me.”

I stripped off my gloves and dropped them into the basin.

There was blood beneath my cuff. Arthur’s, likely. It had seeped through where the glove ended. I stared at it for longer than necessary.

I don’t know what’s happened for my mind to travel so fast and so long to somewhere around France, but it did.

Mary came closer. Her voice lowered. “You all right?”

“Yes.”

“Margaret.”

I reached for the soap. “He asked what I saw.”

“I heard.”

“I answered.” My voice was too quiet.

“Yes.” She nodded, still watching me.

The water ran pink over my wrists, and I noticed how my hands had begun to shake.

Only a little.

Mary noticed and said nothing. Bless her for that.

“I don’t know why I answered,” I said.

She leaned against the basin beside me. “Maybe because he knew the question too well.”

I shut off the water.

That was the trouble with the Shelbys, I was beginning to learn. They arrived wrapped in violence and arrogance, all caps and smoke and names spoken in lowered voices. Then, without warning, one of them looked too young, or too broken, or too much like every wounded man I had ever tried to keep alive.

It made disliking them properly so difficult.

That evening, Jake was outside the hospital again.

He straightened when he saw me.

I stopped in front of him, too tired to cross the street this time.

“Arthur Shelby’s hand needs redressing in two days,” I said.

Jake blinked. “Right.”

“If he ignores that, infection is his own fault.”

“Right.”

“And tell Tom his brother survived my nursing.”

Isaiah looked briefly pained. “You want me to say Tom?”

“Yes.”

“To Mr. Shelby?” His eyes went wide with what he heard.

“Yes.” I challenged him with the hint of a smile tugging my lips.

“He won’t like that.”

“I didn’t prescribe it for his enjoyment.”

A smile twitched at the corner of Jake’s mouth as well before he swallowed it. “Anything else?”

I consider it.

Then I said, “Tell him if he wants to know whether I sleep with a lamp on, he can ask me himself.”

Jake’s face went blank with fear so complete it almost made me laugh.

“Miss Allen—”

“Good evening, Jake.”

I walked away before courage could abandon either of us.

At Mrs. Hodge’s, another letter from my mother waited on the hall table. I tucked it into my coat pocket and went upstairs with the smell of hospital soap still clinging to my skin.

My room was cold.

Charles’s photograph stood upright on the desk.

I lit the candle, washed, changed, then sat by the window with my mother’s letter unopened in my lap for a long while. Outside, Birmingham moved through another night. Distant voices. Wheels. A laugh that rose and ended too quickly. Somewhere, a man watched the street because Thomas Shelby had told him to.

That should be reason enough for me to dislike anything related to that family.

My journal got opened that night after supper. I had things to write and very little motivation to do so.

April, 1921.

Arthur Shelby came to the hospital with his hand cut open and his pride worse damaged. I stitched the hand. The pride may require a specialist.

John brought Finn earlier this week. The boy is curious, quick, and already carrying the family name like a weapon too large for his pocket. John is easier than the others. I can see why people trust him before remembering they should not.

Tommy Shelby has placed men around my life without permission. I am angry. I am also sleeping a little better.

I paused with the pen hovering. Then I wrote the truth I had been avoiding since the Garrison.

I think he knows things about war because it lives in him too.

The candle flame shifted.

For a second, the room felt crowded. Charles in the photograph. My mother in the unopened letter. Tommy Shelby somewhere across Small Heath with his maps and cigarettes and eyes that listened for things that were not happening.

I closed the journal before any of them could accuse me of anything.

Then I opened my mother’s letter.

The stamp peeled along with a crack of a gunshot outside. Before I could think better, my hand reached for a cigarette.

I need to smoke that night.

TAGLIST.: @outlanderuniverse, @ourtiger04 , @mydearestlovexoxo,

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[aurorawritestoescape]

DADDY ISSUES Series

Joel Miller x fem!reader

Series summary: Dilf. That's what young women think when they see Joel. He doesn't mind. In fact, he welcomes it and uses his status to get what he wants. His scheme works smoothly until he meets you. You seem to be the only one who sees through his bullshit, the only one he should avoid. And now the only one he craves.

Series warnings: 18+ mdni | smut | angst | fluff | smutty slow burn | switching pov | age gap (Joel’s in his late 40s, reader is in her early 20s) | no outbreak | Sarah is alive | alcohol consumption | fingering | m/f!oral | protected/unprotected piv | slight daddy kink | m!masturbation | parental abuse | mention of a parent’s death | daddy issues | mention of infidelity | smoking | swearing

Chapter I 3,4k

Chapter II 4,3k

Chapter III 4,2k

Chapter IV 4,8k

Chapter V 3,6k

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

MASTERLIST

Series tag list: @pedrofan @pixieeee101 @daniwinx @itsagirlthings @glitterspark @crumbs-from-the-algonquin @p0isonb3rry @therewastherewas @vickie5446 @billionairecowgirl @anxiousscribbling @msmorningstaarr @classybroad2 @preciosapascal @acciogrimes @pedrito-is-punk7 @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff @esmeraldalopez0 @shivispunk @pasc4lfuzz @brittmb115 @iamladyp @bbyanarchist @mrsnegan @vel-vet61 @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @gorygladiators @whateverloomis @casa-boiardi @midcenturymanhattan-blog @noisynightmarepoetry @sawymredfox @anheloamores @cuteanimalmama @girl9inthepinkdres @eviispunk @joelsflannels @b00klvrs @madmelz @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu @friskispunk @gothpizzaroll @pleurspetal @rosharanfiction @team-free-will-you-idjits-67 @anisahfalcon @kyloispunk @kaliispunk @deepestchaoslove @cutiemermaidsalma @millermouth @lemon-ice-pops @bartzabel4 @morganlolitta @umadirectioner @bunnymami13 @lilacs97 @pattwtf @deardev0teddelicate @burntdownredlobster @pedritosgfreal @ashleyfilm @libellulaladepressa @iwas19 @writer-jamie @tofics @baronessvonglitter @callmecath1 @thegoldenhood @kauyu @yslgreen @wand-erer5 @viscouschaosscorpio @thatshortgirlwithglasses @thenonbotheredrobber @defonotsolesblog @subconsciouslystrange @oonlyalee @armandispunk @arcane-fox @twilightvelour @vickie5446 @stoicbae @achiv1nyl @wildthyng @westgasper @joelmillerpascal @thekidscallmebosss @thatoneperson38747 @nothinglefttogive @kissmeonthesidewalk @speaktothehandpeasants @urlivingdeadgirl

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[joelssimp]

TROUBLE | CHAPTER 10

CW: heavy PTSD, healing journey, mention of big injuries, angst, lots of angst.

13.5K words

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10 - Still Standing

Kings’s County Hospital, December/2009

Three days and the hospital room had started pretending it knew me. I know, weird right?!

The machines kept their same voices. The IV pump clicked and breathed beside me like some small, plastic animal. The curtain dragged over the same metal track whenever Denise came in and decided the light was wrong. Someone had taped a paper snowman to the outside of my door, probably for Christmas, though by then Christmas had already limped past and left all its glitter in the hallway for people in wheelchairs to roll over.

I knew the ceiling tile with the brown water stain near the vent. I knew the crack in the wall paint behind Shane’s chair. I knew the sound of Rick trying to sleep and failing at it, the slight scrape of his boot when his leg jerked him awake, the low breath he let out afterward like he was mad at his own body for needing rest.

I knew pain too.

By then, it had settled into different rooms inside me. My ribs had their own bright, mean ache. My arm lived somewhere far away, heavy and hot under the brace, swollen fingers perched uselessly on top of the pillow like they belonged to someone who had been buried wrong. My belly hurt deeper than everything else. That pain had a quieter voice, and I hated it most because every time it spoke, I remembered what Dr. Sutter had said.

Both ovaries.

That word kept coming back.

I would be looking at the little dry erase board across from my bed, at my name written in blue marker and the date beneath it, and there it was.

Both.

I would sip water through a straw while Lena told me my temperature looked good, and there it was again.

Both.

I would wake up from a doze with my mouth dry and my gown stuck damp to the back of my neck, and my hand would drift toward my stomach before I could stop it.

There was a bandage beneath the gown, low and careful. I hadn’t seen the incision yet. Denise said I didn’t have to look until I was ready, and I almost laughed at that because ready sounded like a thing other people got to be.

Shane hadn’t left much.

He went down for coffee he didn’t drink. He went outside once because Denise threatened to have security remove him if he kept pacing during shift change. He came back smelling like cold air.

HIs face changed every time I made a joke. It softened first, like relief had put a hand on the back of his neck. Then the guilt came in after and ruined it. He would look at me, at the bruising around my eye, calming down now, at the brace on my arm, at the blanket pulled carefully over my stomach, and he would go somewhere I couldn’t reach.

I hated that place.

I hated how crowded the room was with everyone’s guilt. Shane carried his around like a gun tucked into his waistband. Rick kept his quieter, folded under his tongue, in his hands, in the way he watched every nurse touch me like he was memorizing the pressure of their fingers in case he needed to argue later. Even Denise had a kind of sadness in her when she came in to check my vitals, though she had gotten good at turning it into work.

Work was easier.

Blood pressure. Temperature. Pain scale. Deep breaths.

I hated the pain scale.

“Seven,” I said when Denise asked that morning.

She raised one eyebrow.

“Fine. Eight.”

“Thank you.”

“You enjoy being right too much.”

“I enjoy accurate information.” She wrapped the cuff around my good arm and pressed the button on the monitor. “There’s a difference.”

“There she goes, using nurse words again.”

“That was regular English, Sam.”

“Everything you say sounds like homework.”

Shane snorted into his coffee.

Denise gave him a look. “You too, Walsh. Don’t think I don’t see you trying to hide that empty cup like you drank all of it by yourself.”

“I had some.”

“You carried it around for forty minutes.”

“I like the warmth.”

“Mm-hm.”

Rick stood near the window with his arms crossed, his shoulder pressed against the wall, the blinds putting pale stripes across his shirt. He had dark jeans,, with a flannel under his jacket. Hair still a mess. Face still tired. He looked more like himself and somehow worse for it.

He had gone home twice since Christmas morning.

Once to shower and change. Once because Lori had called the station, then called the hospital, then called Shane, which had been a bold choice considering Shane answered the phone like he wanted to bite through it.

I hadn’t heard the conversation. I only saw the way Rick came back after, quieter than before, with his jaw set and his eyes avoiding mine for too long.

Lori didn’t want him here. Of course she didn’t.

I couldn’t even hate her for it in a clean way. I wanted to. It would have been easier. But Lori had a husband who kept showing up at another woman’s hospital bed with the devotion of a man making promises he had no right to make.

And I had kissed that husband two months ago.

The thought sat badly in me, curled up beside the pain.

Denise unwrapped the blood pressure cuff and looked at the monitor. “Better today.”

“Does better mean I get to go home?”

Rick’s eyes moved to me. Shane’s entire body went tight.

Denise didn’t blink when she said: “No.”

“Worth a shot.” I replied shrugging.

“You had major surgery three days ago.”

“I’m aware.”

“Are you?”

I looked down at myself. Every small piece of wrong in me, the hospital gown, some of the bruises, IV line, and the heavy brace.

“Bits and pieces.” My voice came out small.

Her face softened before she could stop it. She hated when that happened. I could tell. She liked being the tough one because tough had instructions.

“Dr. Sutter is coming by after rounds,” she said. “If he likes how things look, physical therapy may come in today.”

I stared at her. The room changed around that sentence.

Shane leaned forward. “Physical therapy?”

“Early mobility,” Denise said, already putting a hand up because Shane’s face had gone suspicious. “We’re talking sitting at the edge of the bed. Maybe standing. A few steps if her blood pressure behaves and she tolerates it.”

“A few steps?” I repeated with my voice sounding far away.

Denise looked at me, careful now. “Maybe.”

I looked at my legs under the blanket.

They seemed like a rumor. “I can’t even get my own water.”

“That’s why we don’t start with a marathon.”

Shane stood. “Maybe today ain’t the day.”

Denise turned her head slowly toward him.

Rick called, “Shane.”

“What? Look at her.”

“I am looking at her.”

“She can barely breathe without it hurting.”

“I know.”

“Then why the hell are we talking about walking?”

Denise folded her arms. The Santa pin was gone now, replaced by a little badge reel with a cartoon flower on it. The flower smiled. Denise did not.

“Because lying still too long causes its own problems. Pneumonia. Blood clots. Weakness. Her lungs need help. Her body needs help remembering how to move. We do it safely, here where staff is trained for every possibility.”

Shane opened his mouth.

“Safely,” Denise repeated, sharper.

He shut it.

I stared at the ceiling. A strange little laugh crawled up my throat and died before it hurt me.

“Great,” I whispered. “Now my body needs tutoring.”

Rick came closer. His hand rested on the rail, close to my good hand without touching it right away. He had gotten better at that. Waiting. Asking without words. Letting me decide if I could stand the contact.

Some days I could.

Some moments I needed it so badly it made me angry.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he said.

I looked at him. “That what you think I’m doing?”

“No.”

His eyes held mine. He was getting too careful too. Everybody was.

That might have been the worst part. People used to crash into me. Shane, especially. Mariah with her loud mouth and her hugs that came with insults. Carl throwing himself at me like I was a piece of furniture built only for him to climb.

Now everybody approached like I had a sign around my neck.

Fragile, please handle with both hands.

I swallowed. My throat still hurt. Less than before, but enough to remind me of the tube and surgery and everything I missed while my body was open on a table.

“What time is it?” I asked.

Rick glanced at the clock. “Almost ten.”

“Morning?”

Shane frowned. “No, Sam. Ten at night. We’ve been standing here in broad daylight for fun.”

I closed my eyes. “I liked you better when you were asleep.”

“I liked you better when you weren’t bossing me around from a hospital bed.”

I opened my eyes again.

Shane looked down at his boots. This bickering was the closest thing that we had of our old lives.

Rick’s hand moved on the rail. His wedding ring caught the weak light from the window. I noticed it the way I noticed bruises. Against my will. With my whole body.

Before anyone could say anything else, there was a knock on the door.

Three light taps followed by a smaller voice.

“Dad?”

My heart forgot what it was doing.

Rick turned toward the door so fast his hand slipped off the rail.

Shane looked at him. “You asked Lori to drop him here?”

Rick didn’t answer right away.

The door opened a few inches, and Carl Grimes peeked in wearing a blue winter jacket and a red scarf that looked like it had been wrapped around him by someone in a hurry. His hair was sticking out from under his hat. His cheeks were pink from the cold. He had a plastic grocery bag clutched in one hand, the handles stretched tight around his fingers.

For one second, nobody moved.

Then his eyes found me.

His little face changed.

“Hey, buddy,” I said, and my voice came out rough enough to scare even me.

Carl stepped inside. Rick put a hand on the back of his shoulder immediately, steadying him or holding himself back. Maybe both.

“Hey, Trouble.”

He sounded too quiet.

Carl was almost never quiet around me. He usually came into rooms like he’d been fired from a cannon, talking before anyone had even said hello, carrying sticks, toy cars, frogs, stolen cookies, whatever treasure his pockets had decided to cough up that day.

Now he stood near the door and stared.

I could feel myself through his eyes. The swollen left side of my face. The yellow and purple bruising. The cut near my eyebrow. The oxygen tube that had been removed yesterday but left red marks along my skin., a big brace on my left arm, IV in the right. The way I had to breathe shallow so my ribs didn’t punish me.

I wanted to pull the blanket over my head.

Rick crouched beside him. “Remember what we talked about?”

Carl nodded without looking at him.

“You can come closer if Sam says it’s okay.”

My chest hurt. Fuck, everything hurt.

“Get over here,” I whispered.

Carl looked at Rick first, then his blue eyes moved to Shane, then to me.

He walked like he was afraid the floor might make noise. That was when I nearly cried.

He came to the right side of the bed, the safe side, and stopped by the rail. His eyes were shiny. He was trying so hard to be brave that I wanted to reach inside my own chest and tear something out.

“You look bad,” he said.

Shane made a sound behind his hand.

Rick closed his eyes.

I stared at Carl for half a second. Then I smiled because he was Carl, and Carl had never once in his life known what to do with a gentle lie.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “You should see the other guy.”

Rick’s face tightened, and I saw Shane looking at the wall.

Carl didn’t laugh. His mouth pulled down, and the grocery bag crinkled in his fist.

“Dad said I couldn’t ask about that.”

Smart man.

“Your dad says a lot of things.”

Rick gave me a look. I gave him one back, or tried to. My left eye still didn’t fully cooperate.

Carl moved closer. “Mom said I shouldn’t come.”

The room went still in a different way. Rick’s hand tightened on the back of the visitor chair. I looked at Carl because looking at Rick would do something to me I didn’t have the strength for.

“Moms worry,” I said.

“She said hospitals are for family.”

Shane’s head snapped up.

Rick said, low, “Carl.”

Carl’s chin trembled, and he looked furious about it. “I told her Sam is family.”

There it was.

There was the thing that did it for me.

The tears came so fast I had no time to stop them. They slid down sideways into my hair, hot and stupid and immediate. Carl’s eyes widened, alarmed, like he had broken something.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“You didn’t.” I tried to breathe around it and winced when my ribs reminded me to keep emotions small. “Come here.”

He looked at Rick again.

His dad nodded once.

Carl leaned over the rail, awkward and careful. He wanted to hug me. I could see it in the way his whole body tilted forward. He didn’t know where to put himself.

“Good hand,” I whispered.

He looked down.

I moved my right hand as much as I could. It wasn’t far. Maybe an inch. Maybe less.

Carl took it with both of his.

His hands were cold from outside, small and dry, the nails bitten unevenly. He held me like he was afraid I would float away if he didn’t.

“I missed you,” he said.

I closed my eyes. Too emotional with those three small words.

“I missed you too, kid.”

“I made you something.” He lifted the grocery bag onto the bed with Rick’s help. It landed near my knees, light enough that it barely shifted the blanket. Carl pulled out a folded piece of construction paper, a packet of crayons, and something wrapped in too much tape.

“I was gonna give it to you on Christmas,” he said.

“Yeah?”

He nodded. “Dad said maybe you were sleeping too much.”

“Your dad’s bossy.”

“I know.”

Rick sighed. “I’m standing right here.”

“That’s why I said it quiet,” Carl told him.

Shane laughed first. It came out of him rusty and surprised. Rick followed with something softer. I almost smiled. It pulled on my cheek and hurt, so I let it stay small.

Carl unfolded the construction paper.

It was a drawing of the two of us. At least, I thought it was. I had long brown hair, giant eyes, and a shirt that said SAM in case the likeness failed. Carl had drawn himself beside me holding a sheriff’s hat nearly the size of his chest. There was a dog in the corner even though neither of us had a dog.

“Who’s that?” I asked, looking at the animal.

“That’s Bandit.”

“Do I know Bandit?”

“No. I made him up.”

“Good name.”

“He bites bad guys.”

Bad guys. Of course he thought of that. Rick’s eyes moved to Carl, then to me.

I kept looking at the drawing because I had a feeling the room was about to make me feel a lot more than just too much.

Carl set the paper carefully on the tray where I could see it. Then he picked up the taped thing.

“This is for your car.”

“My car?”

“When you get one. Shane said you wanted to travel to Atlanta.”

The room went quiet around that word. Atlanta had become a bruise too. People tried not to press it. Mariah had pressed it because Mariah did whatever the hell she wanted, but everyone else stepped around it like it was a spill on the floor.

Carl didn’t know better.

Or maybe he did, in his own way.

He peeled back some of the tape and revealed a little keychain made from plastic beads and string. The beads were blue and yellow. Some of them were shaped like stars. The string was knotted badly at the top.

“I made it at school before break,” he said. “It’s for your keys. So you don’t lose them when you leave.”

My lips parted. No sound came out for a second.

I looked at that ugly little keychain in Carl’s hand and saw the road out of King County. Saw a bus ticket, and the coffee can under my bed. Saw myself walking away before Simon be the one thing keeping me here.

Now my body couldn’t even get to the bathroom alone.

Carl’s fingers tightened around the keychain. “You don’t like it?”

“I love it,” I said, fast, voice breaking in the middle. “I love it, Carl.”

His face eased.

Rick took the keychain gently and set it beside the drawing. His fingers lingered there a second.

“You’ll need keys first,” he said quietly.

I looked at him. He looked back. There were too many meanings in the room.

Carl leaned closer to the rail. “When can you come home?”

I breathed in too deep and paid for it.

Rick’s hand came up. “Easy.”

“I’m fine,” I lied.

Carl watched my face with his father’s eyes. That was unfair. He was too young to look that worried.

“Doctors are still figuring it out,” I said.

“But you’ll get better.”

I swallowed while everybody waited.

Kids asked questions like that because they still thought adults could answer them.

“Yeah,” I said.

Carl studied me. “Promise?”

The word touched something raw.

I couldn’t promise. My body had already proved it could change the rules while I was unconscious. Doctors could come in with tired eyes and put a before and after in the middle of my life. People could go home and sleep after destroying you. Money could vanish into bills. A father could become a suspect. A friend could become the man at your bedside while his wife waited somewhere else with anger in her mouth.

I couldn’t promise better. But I could promise trying.

So I squeezed Carl’s fingers as much as I could. It was barely anything.

“I promise I’m gonna work at it.”

He seemed to accept that.

Rick’s eyes softened so much I had to look away.

A little while later, Denise came in and stopped near the door when she saw Carl. Her face shifted into a different kind of kindness. The one adults used around children when the room was full of things too big to explain.

“Well,” she said. “You must be Carl.”

Carl turned. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Very polite.” She glanced at Rick. “Suspiciously polite.”

“He gets it from his mother,” Shane said.

Rick shot him a look.

I pressed my lips together because laughing would kill me.

Denise came to the bed and checked the IV. “Dr. Sutter is on his way. Physical therapy is right behind him.”

Carl looked up at Rick. “What’s physical therapy?”

“It helps people move again,” Rick said.

Carl looked at me. “You can’t move?”

“I can move.” I shifted my good fingers against his. “See? Olympic level.”

Carl didn’t smile at my joke. Damn it.

Denise glanced at me. “Today might be a lot. Visitors can wait outside for this part.”

“No,” Carl said at once.

Rick touched his shoulder. “Carl.”

“I can stay.”

“This ain’t something you need to see,” Shane said, gentler than I expected.

Carl’s face tightened. “I’m not a baby.”

“No one said you were.” Rick tried to argue.

Carl made an annoyed sound “You all keep acting like it.”

He looked at me again, and I saw it then. He had been scared at home. Scared and shut out. Adults whispering. Lori saying no. His dad leaving. Shane and I gone since thanksgiving, his Christmas happening around a missing person everyone cared about. He had filled the empty space with whatever his imagination could build, and kids could build terrible things when nobody gave them enough truth.

I looked at Denise. “Can he stay by the door?”

Rick said my name softly, but I kept looking at Denise.

She considered me for a moment, then Carl. “Only if he stays seated and quiet. If Sam gets dizzy or upset, you step out with your dad. No arguing.”

Carl nodded, grown as he could be in that situation.

Denise pointed toward the chair by the wall. “There.”

Carl went, dragging the grocery bag with him like he was in charge of supplies.

Dr. Sutter came in after that, with his white coat and his tired, kind face. He asked me annoying questions: My name, what day it was, where I was. He shone the little light in my eyes, listened to my chest, pressed around my abdomen with more care than before and still made sweat gather at the back of my neck.

“Sorry,” he said when I hissed.

“Doctors always say that right after they do something terrible.”

His mouth twitched. “Occupational hazard.”

He checked the incision without showing it to me. Denise lifted the gown and kept the blanket arranged so I didn’t feel completely exposed, though exposed had become the room I lived in now. Dr. Sutter murmured something to her about no increased drainage, bowel sounds returning, vitals improving.

I caught half of it.

The other half got swallowed by the fact that Rick had turned toward the window without being asked, and Shane had done the same, and neither of them made it feel strange.

“Any nausea?” Dr. Sutter asked.

“Only emotionally.”

Denise made a small amused sound.

Dr. Sutter nodded like I had given him useful data. “Dizziness?”

“Sometimes.”

“Headache?”

“Yes.”

“Worse than yesterday?”

“No.”

“Good. We’re going to try sitting up first. Then standing. If that goes well, a few steps to the chair.”

“The chair?” I stared at him. “That’s the grand destination?”

“For today, yes.”

I looked at the chair beside the bed. It was maybe four feet away.

Four feet had never looked so rude in my entire life.

A woman came in behind him with short dark hair and purple scrubs. She introduced herself as Caroline from physical therapy, and she had the voice of someone who had spent her entire life telling people to do things they hated for their own good.

“Sam,” she said, smiling, “I hear we’re getting you up today.”

“That rumor feels ambitious.”

“We love ambition.” Her smile didn't stutter.

“I don’t.”

“Then we’ll call it a trial.”

Shane leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “What happens if she can’t?”

Caroline didn’t look offended. She probably got that tone all the time from scared husbands and brothers and sons who thought volume could soften pain.

“Then we stop,” she said. “We try again later.”

I liked her a little more for that answer alone.

Rick came closer. “Where do you want us?”

Caroline looked between him and Shane. “Out of my way.”

Shane blinked.

Rick nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Sam needs staff helping her first. Family can support, but I don’t want anyone grabbing her if she wobbles. That’s how everybody ends up on the floor.”

“I’m not family,” Rick said quietly.

The words hit the room wrong. Carl’s head lifted from the chair as Shane looked at Rick.

I stared at the blanket.

Caroline, bless her, did not care about the emotional disaster she had stepped in. “Friend, then. Same rule.”

Rick’s jaw moved once. “Yes, ma’am.”

Denise lowered the rail on my right side. The sound of it clicking down made my stomach flip. Suddenly the bed felt less like a bed and more like a cliff.

Caroline washed her hands, then came to stand near me. “We’re going slow. First, I’m going to raise the head of the bed more. Tell me if you get dizzy or your pain spikes.”

“I feel like you’re gonna do it anyway.”

“I am. I still want information from you.”

The bed began to move beneath me. A mechanical hum, tilting. My body shifting by degrees.

Pain woke in layers.

My ribs complained first, sharp enough to make my breath catch. My abdomen followed, deep and pulling, like the stitches beneath my skin had all taken hold of different pieces and wanted to keep me flat. My arm throbbed from the change in angle. My head went light.

“Sam?” Denise asked.

I had my eyes squeezed shut.

“Give me a second.”

“We’ve got time,” Caroline said.

That sentence almost made me angry. Time had been doing whatever it wanted to me for days.

I opened my eyes when the bed stopped.

The room was higher now. Or I was. The door looked different from this angle. Carl sat near it, small and pale, both hands locked around the grocery bag in his lap. Shane stood beside the window with one hand pressed over his mouth. Rick had moved near the foot of the bed, close enough to see me and far enough to obey orders given to him.

He looked terrified though.

I wanted to tell him that I was too.

“Dizzy?” Caroline asked.

“Some.”

“Pain?”

“Still rude.”

“Number?”

I breathed carefully. “Eight.”

Denise looked at the IV pump. “You had medication forty minutes ago. We can’t give more yet.”

“I figured.”

“We can stop.”

I looked at the chair again. Four feet. A stupid, ugly chair with vinyl arms and a thin cushion.

“No,” I said. “Keep going.”

Caroline nodded. “Alright. We’re going to bring your legs over the side. Denise will help at your shoulders. I’ll support your legs. Keep your left arm against the pillow.”

“I don’t think it’s going anywhere.”

“Humor is good.”

“It’s all I’ve got left.”

Shane muttered, feeling offended. “That ain’t true.”

I looked at him as he swallowed whatever else he wanted to say.

The next minute was awful.

There wasn’t a graceful way to get me upright. My body had become a list of places nobody could touch too hard. Denise had one arm behind my shoulders, firm and sure, talking me through every inch. Caroline guided my legs toward the side of the bed. My gown shifted. The blanket slipped. My ribs went bright, and the pain in my belly pulled so sharply I made a sound I didn’t recognize.

Rick moved.

Caroline’s voice snapped clean across the room. “Stay right there.”

He stopped like she’d just put an invisible hand on his chest. My face went hot because I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t look at anybody.

I focused on Denise’s sleeve. Little blue flowers. Tiny leaves.

“Breathe, Sam,” Denise said.

“I am.”

“Slow it down.”

“I’m trying.”

My legs came over the side of the bed.

The blood rushed downward and took the whole room with it.

“Oh,” I whispered.

Caroline’s hand went to my shoulder. “Dizzy?”

I couldn’t answer right away.

Black crowded the edges of my vision. My stomach turned over, cold and sudden. Sweat prickled under my hairline. I sat hunched on the side of the bed with my right hand gripping the sheet, my left arm strapped and useless against the pillow, my bare feet hovering above the floor because the bed was still too high.

The room breathed around me.

Or maybe that was just me.

“Sam?” Rick said.

His voice sounded like it came from under water.

“I’m okay,” I managed to say.

It was an obvious lie.

Caroline didn’t call me on it. “Eyes open if you can.”

I opened them. The floor steadied a little.

Denise crouched in front of me and looked up into my face. “Color’s lousy.”

“That’s my winter shade.”

Carl made a tiny sound near the door. I couldn’t tell if it was a laugh or a cry.

Denise smiled just a little. “There you are, girl.”

They let me sit there for a while.

Maybe a minute, or maybe five. Time got slippery when all of me was busy staying upright. My muscles shook from doing almost nothing. My ribs ached with every breath. The incision pulled wrong at my skin, and my head pounded. I could feel gravity like an insult.

Caroline put yellow socks on my feet. Hospital socks, with little grips on the bottom.

I looked down at them.

“Sexy,” I whispered.

Shane choked, and a little further from him, Rick pressed his fingers against his mouth.

Caroline said, “They’re the height of medical fashion.”

“Do I get to keep them?”

“You’re welcome to.”

“Finally, this place gives back.”

That got a real laugh out of Carl. A hot feeling of pride took me for a small second.

Caroline brought a gait belt around my waist, above where my stomach hurt, then thought better and adjusted it higher with Denise’s help, careful not to press where Dr. Sutter had checked the incision.

“Okay,” she said. “We’re going to stand. Your right hand can press from the bed. No pulling with the left. Keep your eyes up.”

“My legs might be ornamental.”

“We’ll find out.” Caroline was having fun with it.

Rick’s boots shifted on the floor, ready to act in case I needed him.

“On three,” she said. “One. Two. Three.”

I pushed.

My legs shook immediately.

Pain went through me so fast and so completely that sound disappeared. Denise and Caroline lifted and steadied, their hands firm at my waist and under my good arm, and suddenly I was standing.

Standing.

Bare feet on cold hospital floor inside ugly yellow socks. Knees trembling. Body folded slightly forward because straightening hurt too much.

My head swam so hard I thought I might vomit.

But I was up.

“Oh, shit,” I whispered.

Carl stood from his chair. “Sam?”

Rick moved one step before stopping himself again.

Caroline tightened her hold. “There you go. Lock your eyes on something.”

Alright, this should be easy. I tried the wall, no, too blank. The chair? Fuck, too far. Rick... Bad fucking idea.

Ended up looking at Carl.

He stood by the door with his hands half raised, like he could catch me from across the room through sheer determination.

“There,” I whispered.

Carl went very still.

“Bossy kid,” I said, breath catching. “Good target.”

His eyes filled again, but he nodded like I had given him a job. “Okay,” he said. “Look at me.”

Caroline’s voice came close to my ear. “We can sit back down now, or we can try a step.”

One step.

My body had known how to walk since I was a baby. I had walked through bars with trays full of drinks. Walked home in the dark with keys between my fingers. Walked away from fights. Walked into Rick Grimes’ house too many times. Walked around my father when he was drunk because the wrong path through the trailer could get you cornered.

Now one step required an audience and a belt around my body.

I almost said gave up, then Shane whispered, “You don’t gotta.”

I looked at him, saw how his eyes were wet. He wasn’t hiding it well.

Maybe I should have let myself sit. Maybe that would have been smarter. Denise would have approved. Dr. Sutter would have said we could try later.

But something small and stubborn lifted its head inside me.

I had lost enough without my permission.

“One,” I said.

Caroline nodded. “One is good. One is solid”

My right foot moved first.

Barely.

It slid more than stepped, the sock catching against the floor. My knee wobbled. Pain snapped low in my belly, and my ribs locked down around a gasp. Denise’s hand tightened where it was holding me. Caroline held the belt a little tighter, and for half a second, I was sure I was going down.

Then my foot landed.

One fucking step.

“Good,” Caroline said. “That’s good.”

Carl’s face broke open. “You did it.”

I tried to answer him and couldn’t. Room was spinning with the effort.

The second step was worse because now my body knew what I was asking. My left foot dragged forward, weak and shaking. The distance between the bed and the chair had grown somehow. I could smell my own sweat in the air. Felt my heart pounding everywhere. The hospital gown stuck to my back.

Rick’s voice came low and steady. “You’re alright.”

“I know,” I breathed.

He went quiet, then, after a second, softer, “Okay.”

I took another step.

Then another.

By the time we reached the chair, I was crying. Quietly at first, then with a sharp little sound I couldn’t swallow because breathing and walking and staying alive had used up all the space where pride usually lived.

Denise and Caroline turned me with slow, careful instructions. The chair touched the backs of my legs. Sitting hurt worse than standing for one terrible second, the bend pulling at every bruised and stitched part of me, and I cried out before I could stop it.

I heard Shane cursing under his breath.

Then I was down. In the chair. Four feet from the bed.

Caroline crouched in front of me, watching my face. “Dizzy?”

“Yes.”

“Nauseous?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“Going to pass out?”

“Maybe for attention.”

Denise checked my pulse at my wrist. “Smart mouth’s intact.”

“Only organ they didn’t mess with.”

The second I said it, the room changed.

Of course I hadn’t meant to. That stupid joke landed wrong and opened a door under all of us.

My hand went to my stomach before I could stop it.

Both.

Carl didn’t understand. I could tell by the way he looked from me to Rick, then Shane. Both grown man looked like someone had punched them.

Denise’s fingers stayed gentle around my wrist.

Caroline stood slowly. “Let’s give her a minute.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the room.

Nobody spoke.

“I didn’t mean…” My voice cracked. “I just…”

Shane came forward then, slow enough that Caroline didn’t stop him. He crouched beside the chair, big body folding awkwardly, and rested one hand on the armrest near my knee.

“You don’t gotta apologize for what hurts,” he said.

I stared at him.

His voice was rough. His eyes were ruined. He looked like he had aged five years since Christmas Eve.

“You hear me?” he said.

I nodded once and small.

Rick was still near the bed. I could feel him there more than see him. Carl stood by his side now, pressed against his leg.

“Can I…” Carl started, then stopped.

I wiped my face with my good hand. It didn’t do much. “Can you what?”

He looked at his dad, asking. Rick’s hand settled on his shoulder.

“Ask her.”

Carl swallowed. “Can I sit with you?”

“In the chair?”

“No.” His face scrunched. “Beside it.”

My laugh came out as a breath. “Yeah, kid. You can sit beside it.”

Rick helped him drag the visitor chair closer, the one with metal legs that scraped the floor even when he tried to lift it. Carl sat down so near me that his shoulder almost touched the blanket Denise had tucked around my body.

He looked up at me.

“You’re short from here,” he said.

Shane barked out a laugh and covered it with his hand.

I stared at Carl. Then I laughed too.

It hurt, just like the other times I tried to laugh. My ribs flared, my belly pulled, and Denise immediately said, “Easy,” but I couldn’t stop all of it. It came through wet and broken and halfway to crying, but it was a laugh.

Carl smiled like he had saved the whole damn world.

Denise pretended to check the IV tubing so she didn’t have to admit she was smiling too.

The chair became my new kingdom for twelve minutes. That was all I lasted.

Twelve minutes of sitting upright, breathing shallow, sweating through my gown, listening to Caroline explain that tomorrow we would try again if Dr. Sutter agreed. Twelve minutes of Carl showing me the rest of the crayons in the bag and asking if he could tape his drawing to the wall. Twelve minutes of Shane hovering so hard Denise threatened to assign him paperwork. Twelve minutes of Rick standing close enough to help and far enough to let the staff do their jobs.

Then the pain got too loud.

My face must have changed because Rick noticed first.

“Sam?”

I shook my head, though I wasn’t sure what I meant by it.

Denise was already moving. “Back to bed.”

“I’m okay.”

“Sure,” she said. “And I’m Miss America.”

Carl looked worried again.

Damn it.

I forced my eyes toward him. “Still taller than me now?”

He nodded slowly.

“Enjoy it while it lasts.” I tried another joke.

Getting back into bed was worse because all the bravery had leaked out of me. The steps were smaller. My knees kept trying to fold on the way back so Caroline and Denise did most of the work, speaking in calm, practical sentences that I followed because my body had stopped listening to me and decided to trust them instead.

When the bed took me back, I almost sobbed with relief.

The mattress was terrible, but It was also my personal heaven.

Denise lifted my legs with Caroline’s help, arranged pillows, checked lines, tucked the blanket around me. My arm was placed back on its throne of pillows. The bed lowered. The rail came up with a click.

Safe and trapped again.

I was too tired to decide which one made me angrier.

Carl stood near the bed, holding his drawing.

“Can I put it there?” he asked, pointing to the wall where the water stain watched over everything.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Make the place classy, kid.”

Rick found tape from somewhere. Of course he did. He helped Carl tape the drawing to the wall, and the paper curled at one corner immediately. Carl pressed it flat with both hands, serious as a surgeon.

Me and Carl. The imaginary dog and the giant sheriff hat.

Shane sank into the chair beside me after Denise and Caroline left. He looked exhausted just by being my supportive big brother. His hand hovered near mine, then settled lightly over my knuckles.

“You did good,” he said.

“I made it to a chair.”

“Yeah.” His voice cracked, making my head turn slightly towards him. He looked back with tears sitting bright in his eyes. “That’s good, Sammy.”

Rick came to the other side of the bed. Carl leaned against him, finally starting to look like the morning had caught up with him.

“You should take him home,” I said.

Rick’s face tightened and Carl lifted his head. “I don’t wanna go.”

“I know.”

“I can stay quiet.”

“Carl.” Rick called as a warning.

He stopped. I looked at him as steadily as I could. “Your mom’s gonna be worried.”

His mouth twisted. “She’s mad all the time.”

Rick closed his eyes briefly. There was so much in his face that I couldn’t hold it for long.

“She has a right to be,” I said quietly.

The room went still again in a weird silence until Rick’s voice came low: “Sam.”

I looked at the drawing on the wall. “She does.”

Shane shifted, uncomfortable.

Carl frowned. “Why?”

Rick’s hand tightened on Carl’s shoulder. “That’s grown-up stuff.”

“I hate grown-up stuff.”

“Me too, kid.” I whispered.

Carl looked at me with such honest sadness that it nearly split me.

“Will you still be here tomorrow?”

“Probably.”

“That’s bad.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But it means you know where to find me.”

He thought about that. Then nodded.

Rick helped him gather the empty grocery bag and the crayons, though I kept the keychain on the tray. Carl came to my side one more time.

He didn’t ask to hug me this time. No, he did something a hundred times worse emotionally. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the back of my good hand.

My heart broke so cleanly I didn’t even feel it at first.

“Bye, Sam.”

“Bye, sheriff.”

He smiled a little.

Rick looked at me over Carl’s head. His eyes were tired and blue and full of things that had nowhere decent to go. “I’ll come back after I take him home.”

I should have told him not to, or at least told him to stay with his wife and son, with the life that existed before my blood got on his hands.

Instead I nodded.

Because I was tired, and selfish, and this fucking room felt less terrible when he was close.

Rick understood enough for his face to soften and hurt at the same time.

Shane looked between us and said nothing.

The room got quieter without Carl in it.

Shane sat beside me, still holding my hand. The drawing stayed on the wall, bright and crooked, making the whole place look less like a hospital and more like somewhere a kid believed I could be better.

I stared at it until my eyes burned.

“You really think I’ll still go?” I asked.

Shane’s thumb moved carefully over my knuckles.

“To Atlanta?” He asked with his raspy voice.

“Anywhere.” I answered with that lump

He was quiet for a while. That question was so much deeper than anyone could understand.

“Yeah,” he said finally.

My throat tightened. “You sound sure.”

“I ain’t sure about much right now.”

I turned my head a little more on the pillow. Shane looked at the drawing too. His jaw worked like the words hurt coming up.

“But I saw you take a few steps today after everything he did.” He swallowed hard. “So yeah. I think someday you’re gonna walk right outta here. Then outta that trailer. Then maybe outta this whole damn town if that’s still what you want.”

The tears came again, slower this time.

I was too tired to wipe them away.

“And you?” I whispered.

“What about me?”

“You gonna survive this too?”

His face folded. For a second, he looked like the Shane I knew when I was little. Too young, too angry, trying to be bigger than every room because our house had too many things in it that scared him.

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to the edge of the mattress near my hand.

“I’m gonna try,” he said.

I moved my fingers against his, proud of today.

***

That week after Christmas moved like a fever.

Some hours were clear enough that I could count the cracks in the paint and know exactly where I was. King County Hospital. Room 52. Left arm broken and screwed back together. Ribs bruised and one cracked. Stitches low on my belly. Head still tender from a strong concussion. Body still mine, technically, though it felt like a place I was renting after someone else had wrecked it.

Other hours didn’t stay where I put them.

I would blink and be back on the floor of the bar.

Christmas lights above me. Sticky wood under my cheek. The smell of spilled beer, old smoke, whiskey breath.

Boots.

A shadow blocking the door.

Boots.

My father’s voice, low and slurred, turning my name into something ugly.

Boots.

Then a hand would touch my shoulder, and I would come out of it swinging.

The first time it happened, Lena was the one beside the bed.

Poor Lena.

She came in after lunch on a regular Friday with a cup of pills and a clean blanket folded over her arm, talking softly about the weather like people did when there was nothing decent to say about the room. I had been half asleep, floating in that thin place where pain meds made everything warm and wrong. She put her hand on the rail, and the sound of the metal clicking loose snapped through me like a gunshot.

I was in the bar before I knew I had left the hospital.

“No,” I gasped, and my right hand flew up.

It caught her wrist.

Not hard enough to hurt, probably. I didn’t have hard in me yet. But enough to make her freeze.

Enough to make me see her face going pale when I came back. `Wide eyes and blanket slipping from her arm.

The room was too bright, monitor beeping faster. My own breath scraped out of me in awful little pulls that punished my ribs. Lena stood there with my fingers still around her wrist, and I stared at my hand like it belonged to Simon.

“Oh God,” I whispered.

She swallowed. “It’s okay.”

I let go so fast my shoulder jerked.

“It’s okay,” she said again, softer.

“It’s not.”

“Sam—”

“Don’t say that.” My voice sounded mean.

She took half a step back, not because she wanted to leave me there, because I had scared her and she was trying not to make me feel worse about it. Well, that made me feel worse about it.

Denise came in less than a minute later, because the monitor had tattled on me. She looked from Lena to me, to the blanket on the floor, to the pills still in Lena’s hand.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” Lena said.

I closed my eyes. “Don’t.”

Denise’s shoes came closer. “Sam.”

“I grabbed her.”

“She startled,” Lena said quickly. “That’s all.”

I opened my eyes and looked at her. “I grabbed you.”

Lena’s mouth pulled tight. “You didn’t hurt me.”

“That’s not the point.”

Denise stood at the side of the bed for a second, practical face settling over something sadder underneath. Then she picked the blanket up off the floor and draped it over the foot of my bed.

“After what you went through,” she said, “your body’s going to react before your brain catches up sometimes.”

“I don’t want it to.”

“I know.”

“I’m not some…” I stopped because I didn’t even know what word I was reaching for. Crazy. Broken. Dangerous. Weak. All of them sounded like Simon if I let them sit long enough.

Denise must have heard some of it anyway.

“You’re a person who got hurt,” she said. “That’s all I’m writing down.”

The sentence landed wrong and right at the same time.

My throat tightened. “I’m sorry.”

Lena came closer again, careful, but she came. “We’ll tell you before we touch you. Every time. Even if it gets annoying.”

“It will.”

A tiny smile moved across her face. “Good. Then I’ll know you’re listening.”

That was the first bad one.

It wasn’t the last, though.

The next day, a man in the hall laughed too loud, and I nearly threw up. It was a deep laugh, rough around the edges, carrying through the half-open door while Denise helped me sit at the edge of the bed. My hands went cold, my vision tilted, and my ribs locked around a breath I couldn’t finish.

“Sam?” Denise said.

The laugh came again.

My father used to laugh like that when he got mean.

Not always. That was the worst part. Sometimes he laughed and was only drunk. Sometimes he laughed and threw a bottle at the wall. Sometimes he laughed and cried about my mother leaving like that explained the shape of his fist.

“Close the door,” I whispered.

Denise didn’t ask why. She crossed the room and shut it.

The silence after was almost worse because my body still heard him.

Caroline came for physical therapy every single day.

I hated her for that, which was unfair because Caroline was one of the only people in that building who didn’t let anyone drown in pity. She came in every afternoon with her purple scrubs and her clipboard and her cheerful cruelty.

“Today we’re going to make it to the hallway.”

“Today we’re going to make it to you leaving me alone.” I said with a voice copying hers.

She smiled. “That’s a long-term goal.”

The first walk to the hallway took two nurses, a gait belt, and every curse word I knew.

Shane was there for that one, standing by the door with his fists pressed into his pockets, looking like his body wanted to tear itself in half. Rick had gone back to work that morning. He came in before sunrise in uniform, hair still kinda wet from a shower, badge clipped to his belt, eyes too tired for the clean shirt he was wearing.

“I gotta go in,” he had said.

I looked at his badge because it was easier than looking at his face.

“Okay.”

“I can come by at lunch.”

“You don’t have to.”

His mouth tightened. “I know.”

The room had been dim then, early blue light barely reaching through the blinds. Shane was asleep in the small couch, mouth open, jacket bunched under his cheek. Denise had not come in yet. For once, the hospital felt almost private.

Rick stood beside the bed with his hat in his hands.

“You should go,” I said.

His eyes moved over my face slowly, like he was checking for new bruises even though all the old ones were right there.

“Yeah.”

“People will start thinking you quit.”

“People already think plenty.”

That made my stomach twist. I looked toward the window. “Rick.”

“I’m sorry.” He let out a breath, almost a laugh, without any humor in it. His fingers tightened around the brim of his hat.

There was a line between us. There had always been one. Lori’s name was written on it. Carl’s too. Shane in big bold letters. A heated kiss from my birthday. Pete's bar with his hands lifting me out of blood. My body knowing his voice even when it didn’t know where it was.

Neither of us stepped over it and neither of us backed up enough either.

“I’ll come by at lunch,” he said again.

I closed my eyes. “Okay.”

His hand touched the rail. Just the metal between us.

Shane went back on shift the next afternoon because Thompson came by in person and told him, in the gentlest voice possible, that sitting in my hospital room until he rotted would not help anyone.

My angry big brother nearly punched a wall after he left.

I watched him from the bed while he stood with both hands braced against the windowsill, head bowed, shoulders rising and falling too hard.

“Go,” I said.

“No.”

“Shane.”

“No.”

“You smell like hospital and rage.”

He looked over his shoulder. “You always this sweet to people keeping you company?”

“Only the dramatic ones.”

He turned around. His eyes were red. He had shaved badly that morning and missed a spot near his jaw.

“I don’t wanna leave you here.”

“I’m not alone.”

His face said he disagreed.

I did too, a little.

I mean, Denise was good. Lena was kind. Caroline was mean in ways that helped. Dr. Sutter came in every day with his careful eyes and annoying questions. Dr. Mehta checked my arm and told me swelling was normal, numbness was not, pain was expected, movement would take time. There were people in and out of that room constantly.

I had never been less alone. I also had never felt more abandoned.

“Someone has to make money in this family,” I said.

Shane’s jaw tightened. “Don’t talk about money.”

“That usually works great for people without it.”

“I said don’t.” His voice snapped too hard.

We both went still.

He looked horrified before I even reacted.

I didn’t flinch exactly. I hated that I could feel the beginning of one in my body, that tiny pulling in, that old calculation of space and exits and how drunk a man sounded.

Shane saw it, and immediately felt bad for speaking a little too loud.“Sammy.” He started.

I looked down at my hand on the blanket.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know, Shane.”

“I’m not him.”

I swallowed. “I know.”

But my body didn’t. That was the problem.

Shane sat down slowly, as if sudden movement might make the air worse. He dragged both hands over his face and held them there for a second.

“I’m sorry,” he said through his palms.

“I know that too.”

He looked at me, wrecked.

I was tired of everybody being wrecked. I was tired of holding guilt that didn’t belong to me. I was tired of needing them and resenting them for being needed. I was tired of the fact that one man had put his hands on me and now every other man in the room had to prove he wouldn’t.

“Go to work,” I whispered. “Come back after.”

He smiled a little, then lost it.

Before he left, he bent carefully and kissed my hair. He didn’t touch my face. He had learned that by then. Everybody had learned the map of me, the places that were safe and the places that made me go somewhere else.

“I’ll be back before dinner,” he said.

“Bring real food.”

“You can’t eat real food yet.”

“Then bring fake food and lie to me.”

That got him out the door with something close to a laugh.

After that, the room felt enormous. Nurses were changing shifts, the light moved across the floor. Someone down the hall watched a game show too loud until Denise went and handled it with the kind of voice that made grown men apologize. I tried to read the magazine Mariah had brought me, but the words kept slipping. I tried to sleep, but sleep had become tricky. It waited until I was tired enough to fall hard, then dragged me back to the bar.

Sometimes I woke up gasping, or crying.

Once I woke up with my right hand pressed over my mouth because in the dream I had been trying not to make noise. Denise found me afterward, curled as much as my ribs allowed, staring at the wall with Carl’s drawing taped crooked above the chair.

She didn’t ask if I was okay.

Maybe nurses knew when a question was too stupid to survive the room.

She came in, checked the monitor, and sat in the chair beside the bed like she had five minutes to spare even though I knew she didn’t.

“Nightmares?” she asked.

I nodded once.

“About what happened?”

I kept staring at the drawing. The dog. Bandit. Bites bad guys.

“Some.”

“You want something to help you sleep?”

“I don’t want more drugs.”

“Okay.”

“I’m already stupid half the time.”

“You’re concussed, recovering from surgery, and on pain medication. Stupid is not the clinical term I’d use.”

“What’s the clinical term?”

“Recovering." She met my eyes without making it heavy. “You fought hard to live, Sam,” she said. “Bodies don’t just go quiet after that.”

I breathed out slowly.

My ribs still complained, though less than before. Improvement had become this insulting little thing. I could breathe a little deeper. Walk two more steps. Sit upright for fifteen minutes instead of twelve. Pee with help instead of a catheter. Eat pudding and keep it down. Wash my face with a warm cloth without crying from exhaustion.

People called it progress.

It felt humiliating.

By New Year’s Eve, I made it to the nurses’ station and back with Caroline on one side and Denise behind me with the wheelchair, which I thought was insulting until my knees started shaking halfway through the return trip.

Lena clapped quietly when I got back into bed.

I told her I’d report her, she replied with a simple "I'm terrified".

***

Morning after fireworks, celebration all over the world, after the New Year started, I had my first real shower.

Calling it real was generous.

It took Denise, Lena, a plastic chair, a waterproof cover for my arm, a stack of towels, pain medication timed thirty minutes before, and the kind of planning usually reserved for military operations. Dr. Sutter cleared it because my incision looked good enough and because Denise said I needed it in a voice that dared him to argue.

I did need it.

I wanted a shower so badly I could taste it. I wanted the hospital smell off me. The sweat and the stale fear. The dried adhesive marks on my skin. The feeling of being wiped down in pieces by people who were kind but still people.

Then Lena helped me stand and the world tilted, and wanting became embarrassment so quickly I almost sat back down.

“We can wait,” she said.

“No.” My voice shook.

Denise stood by the bathroom door. “Then we go slow.”

Slow was the only speed left.

They helped me shuffle across the room in my ugly socks, brace held close, gown loose around me, body aching from every small change. The bathroom was too bright and too small. There were grab bars on the walls and a shower chair waiting under the spray. Denise turned the water on and tested it with her wrist.

Steam rose. For a second, the sound of water hit wrong. I wasn’t in the hospital.

I was at the trailer, shower running, Simon yelling through the door because the water bill was too high, because I took too long, because I thought I was better than him, because I breathed in a way he could hear.

My hand went cold around Lena’s arm. She stopped immediately.

“Sam?”

I stared at the shower. Water. Tile. Steam. Drain.

Safe. Hospital.

Denise reached past me and turned the spray lower, so it whispered instead of roared. “Better?” she asked.

I nodded, though my throat had closed.

Nobody said PTSD. Nobody said trauma response. Nobody put words on it. They only waited until I could move again. Getting undressed was awful. There was no way to make it less awful. Lena helped with the gown ties. Denise kept the towel up. I stared at the wall and tried to leave my body in a way that didn’t scare anyone. Bruises had turned my skin into a map of days I didn’t want to remember. Yellow at the edges. Purple deep in the middle. Green starting near my ribs. Tape marks. IV bruises. Stitches. The surgical dressing low on my belly, clean and neat and obscene.

I saw it in the mirror for half a second before Denise shifted the towel. That was enough. My knees bent.

“Chair,” Denise said with urgency.

They got me seated before I fell. I pressed my good hand over my mouth and breathed through my nose until the bathroom stopped narrowing.

Lena crouched in front of me, eyes level with mine. “Do you want me to cover the mirror?”

I nodded. She stood and draped a towel over it.

I cried then.

No sound at first. Just tears. Then my face crumpled, and I hated myself so hard for it that crying turned into something uglier. Denise put one hand between my shoulder blades, above the worst of the bruising, and left it there.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Denise sighed. “You apologize one more time today, I’m adding it to your chart as a symptom.”

A laugh broke through the crying, and it hurt. “Mean.”

“Accurate.”

The shower itself took ten minutes. Maybe less. It felt like a whole day.

Lena washed my hair because I couldn’t raise my arms properly. Her fingers were gentle at my scalp, avoiding the healing cut in the middle of my hair. Denise helped with the handheld shower, careful around my incision, the bruises, the brace cover. They let me do what I could. That mattered too. My right shoulder. My neck. The part of my face that didn’t look like it belonged to a ghost.

When warm water ran down my back, I almost sobbed again.

It felt so good and terrifying. Just like being a person for the first time in a week and finding out personhood came with too many nerves.

By the time they got me dried, dressed in clean pajamas Shane had brought, and back into bed, I was shaking with exhaustion. My hair hung damp over one shoulder. My skin smelled faintly like hospital soap instead of old fear. Denise tucked the blanket around my legs while Lena combed through the ends of my hair with a little plastic comb from a hygiene kit.

“You look more like yourself,” Lena said.

I stared at the covered mirror through the open bathroom door.

“I don’t know if that’s true.”

She didn’t argue.

Rick came in that afternoon and stopped just inside the door. I was half sitting up, hair still damp, wearing a soft gray sweatshirt. Carl’s drawing was still on the wall. Shane was at work. Denise was somewhere terrorizing another patient into drinking water.

Rick stood there with a brown paper bag in one hand and looked at me like the room had changed shape.

“What?” I asked.

His throat moved. “Nothing.”

“Convincing.”

He stepped in and shut the door behind him. “You showered.”

“I had a full team.”

“Still.”

I looked down at my lap. The sweatshirt swallowed me. My left arm was propped up beneath it, brace hidden badly by fabric and pillows.

“I cried in the bathroom.”

Rick came closer. “That makes sense.”

I hated that answer because it did make sense. I was holding too much for too long.

He set the bag on the tray. “Carl sent cookies.”

“Hospital approved?”

“Absolutely not. He told me to say Bandit helped bake them.”

“Amazing" I whispered with a small smile.

Rick sat in the chair beside the bed. He looked tired in regular clothes, which felt more intimate than the uniform somehow. A dark jacket. Flannel. Jeans. His hair soft from wind or fingers. No hat. The badge gone from sight.

The room felt smaller with the door closed.

It always did when we were alone.

“How was work?” I asked, because adults asked normal things when the air had too much electricity in it.

He leaned back, eyes on the bag of cookies. “Boring.”

“Liar.”

“Paperwork. A domestic call that turned out to be two brothers fighting over a lawn mower. Dave Peterson backed into a mailbox and tried to blame ice that wasn’t there.”

“Small town crime wave.”

“Mm.”

His eyes lifted to mine and there it was again.

The thing neither of us knew where to put.

I looked away first. “How’s Lori?”

Rick was quiet too long. “Angry.”

I nodded.

“She’s mostly angry at me.”

“Good.”

His eyebrows pulled together.

I looked at him. “I don’t want her angry at Carl.”

His face sobered at that. Silence stretching a little.

Rick leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t know how to do this right.”

That was too honest.I looked at him before I could stop myself and he held my eyes with those blue, and impossible not to look pair of eyes.

“I keep trying to find the line,” he said. “With you, Lori, Carl... With Shane, and with what happened and what didn’t happen and what almost happened. Every time I think I found it, something moves.”

My chest hurt. Softer than the ribs. “Maybe you should stop coming here alone,” I whispered.

His jaw tightened. “Is that what you want?”

No.

The answer was so immediate I hated it. I touched Carl’s keychain where it sat on the tray, moving one plastic star with my fingertip.

“I don’t know what I want.”

Rick nodded slowly.

He looked hurt, though he tried to hide it. I had gotten good at reading the small failures in him.

A knock saved us.

Dr. Sutter came in with Denise behind him and a folder in his hand. Rick stood, stepping back in a way that made the room feel less dangerous.

Dr. Sutter looked pleased. Suspicious.

“Your labs look better, Samantha” he said.

“Hello to you too.”

He smiled. “Hello, Sam.”

Denise stood at the foot of the bed with a face that gave nothing away, which meant she knew something.

Dr. Sutter checked my incision, my lungs, my eyes, my arm swelling, my ability to wiggle my fingers. He asked about bathroom trips, nausea, food, dizziness, pain control. I answered like a person who wanted out and also like a person terrified of what out meant.

He must have heard both.

“I think we can start planning discharge,” he said.

I stared at him.

“Planning,” Dr. Sutter said, because apparently he knew panic when he saw it. “Not today. Possibly in two or three days if you keep improving. You’ll need help at home. No lifting. No driving. No stairs if they can be avoided. You’ll have follow-ups with me and orthopedics. You’ll need wound care instructions, pain medication, and outpatient therapy.”

Home.

The word hit worse than I expected. My mouth went dry, because home meant the trailer.

The narrow hallway. The stained carpet. Simon’s recliner. The kitchen counter where he used to leave empty cans. The bedroom door that didn’t lock right. The place where he had gone after beating me, where he had slept, and where cops had found him.

Dr. Sutter was still talking.

I missed half of it.

Denise noticed. “Sam?”

I blinked. “Sorry.”

“We’ll go over it again,” Dr. Sutter said gently. “More than once.”

I nodded.

Rick looked at me in a way that said he had seen the whole thing. Of course he had.

That evening, Shane came in with a grin that lasted until he saw my face. Mariah had heard from someone who heard from someone that discharge was coming, because news in King County traveled faster than medical paperwork. She called the room phone and shouted so loud I had to hold the receiver away from my ear.

“You are not going back to that goddamn trailer,” she said.

“Hello to you too.”

“I mean it.”

“I’m in a hospital. Lower your volume.”

“I will lower nothing.”

Shane stood near the window, pretending not to listen while listening with his whole body.

Mariah kept going. “You can stay with me.”

“You live above your mom's garage.”

“So?”

“The stairs alone would kill me.”

“We’ll build a ramp.”

“With what money?”

“We’ll use Markus as structural support.”

Despite everything, that made me smile. Then I stopped because the question underneath didn’t smile back.

Where was I going?

The question alone stole my sleep that night. Shane had gone home because Denise bullied him into it, and Rick was working late. The room was mine in the dark. Mine and the machines. Mine and Carl’s drawing. Mine and the shape of the future sitting in the corner with its arms crossed.

I tried to imagine the trailer.

My body reacted before the picture finished: Heart pounding, sweat under my gown, breath short enough to set my ribs on fire.

I pressed the call button because Denise told me to stop waiting until panic became a full-time job.

Lena came in.

I was embarrassed when I saw her.

“I’m sorry,” I said automatically.

She pointed at me. “Symptom.”

That made a weak laugh come out of me.

She sat for a while after checking my vitals and didn’t say much. She only asked if I wanted the light on or off, the door open or closed, water or ice. Choices small enough to survive.

The next afternoon, Rick came by after his shift.

Shane had gone to talk to Thompson about leave and paperwork and whatever legal storm was waiting around Simon. Denise had taken my blood pressure and called me stubborn with real affection. Caroline had made me walk to the end of the hall. I hated her. I also wanted to hug her for not giving up on me.

The Sheriff found me sitting in the chair beside the bed, which felt like winning until he saw how pale I was and told on me with his face.

The door clicked shut behind him.

I looked at it and he noticed.

“You want it open?” The question moved through me quietly.

A week ago, he wouldn’t have asked. He would have assumed privacy was kinder. Now he asked.

“No,” I said.

He nodded and came closer bringing soup from the diner, cleared by Denise because apparently she and Rick had developed an alliance I found offensive. The soup sat on the tray while I pretended to have an appetite.

Rick took the chair near mine, turning it so we faced the window instead of each other. It helped.

For a few minutes, we watched the parking lot. Cold gray afternoon. Bare trees. Cars coming and going. People walking into the hospital with their heads down against the wind.

“I can’t go back there,” The words came out before I decided to say them.

I kept looking out the window. “The trailer,” I said, as if he might not know. “I can’t.”

His voice was low. “I know.” He wasn’t surprised.

“You know?”

“I figured.”

I swallowed. “Shane thinks I can stay with him, probably.”

“He’s trying.”

“He’d sleep standing in a doorway with a shotgun if I let him.”

Rick’s jaw moved. “Yeah.”

“I can’t do that either.” I looked back at the window. “I can’t be watched every second like something’s coming through the wall. I know he means well. I know. But Shane scared me yesterday because he raised his voice, and he knew it, and I saw what it did to him. I can’t heal while making sure my healing doesn’t kill him. And Mariah has stairs. Markus would give me the bar if I asked, but that’s insane. I don’t have money for a place. I don’t even know what the hospital bill looks like yet.” My voice got thinner. I hated that. “I don’t know where to go.”

Rick leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “You can stay with us.”

I closed my eyes. There it was. The offer I knew was coming and dreaded anyway.

“Rick.”

“Just listen.”

“No.”

“Sam—”

“No.” My voice shook, but it held. I forced myself to keep looking back. “I’m not walking into your house with Lori there,” I said. “I’m not recovering in the middle of your marriage falling apart.”

His eyes flashed. “That’s not on you.”

“It will feel like it.”

He looked away. That was answer enough.

“I love Carl,” I said, and my throat tightened around the words. “You know I do.”

“I know.”

“And that’s why I’m saying no.”

Rick rubbed a hand over his mouth, then dropped it. For a second, I thought he might argue anyway. Part of me wanted him to. That was ugly, but it was true. I wanted him to fight for me because I was tired of fighting for myself. I wanted him to say he didn’t care what Lori thought. I wanted him to be that selfish so I didn’t have to be.

Then his face changed. Just a little shift. “My parents’ farm,” he said.

I frowned. “What?”

“My mom and dad.” He sat up a little. “The farm, with a guest room downstairs. Mom’s home most of the day. Dad’s retired, but he still thinks fences need his supervision. There’s space. No stairs you’d need. No trailer. No Lori.”

My chest went tight. The offer came at me differently because I hadn’t prepared for it.

“Rick—”

“They love you, Sam.” He held my eyes. “You know they do.”

And that was the problem. Because I did know.

Thomas Grimes had been showing up for me since I was a teenager, usually without making a big thing out of it. Fixing things that broke. Teaching me things nobody else bothered teaching me. Looking at me like I was worth listening to even when I was sixteen and angry at the world. The closest thing I'd ever had to a father who didn't make me afraid to come home.

And Louise—

Louise fed people the way other folks prayed. If she thought someone was hurting, they somehow ended up at her kitchen table with a plate in front of them and a blanket over their shoulders before they realized what happened.

I swallowed.

“Louise is gonna fuss herself into an early grave.”

Rick almost smiled. “Probably.”

“She already thinks I don't eat enough.”

“You don't.”

I looked down at the blanket.

The farm came into my head so clearly it hurt. The porch swing. Louise's kitchen. Thomas sitting at the table with a coffee cup and the newspaper. Summer evenings catching lightning bugs in the fields. Christmas dinners. Birthdays. A place that had never once made me feel unwelcome.

A place that had felt more like home than the trailer ever had.

“I can't just move into their house.”

“You wouldn't be imposing.”

“That sounds exactly like something Louise would say before feeding me enough for three people.”

“Also true.” Rick's mouth twitched. Then he got serious again. “Mom asked about you yesterday.”

I looked down at my lap. My right hand was curled around the edge of the blanket.

“What did you tell her?”

“That you were getting better.” He paused. “That you’d need somewhere safe for a while.”

My eyes lifted. “You already talked to them?”

“I asked if it would be alright if I brought it up to you. And my mother said if I waited too long she’d come down here and ask herself.”

Louise Grimes had always been terrifying in the way nice women with clean kitchens could be terrifying. She had fed half the sheriff’s department for years and somehow made grown men scrape mud off their boots without raising her voice. Thomas was quieter, with kind eyes and hands that looked like they had fixed every broken thing in Georgia at least once.

The thought of their farm came into my head slowly. A porch. Fields gone pale for winter. A kitchen that smelled like coffee and biscuits. A guest room downstairs. No Simon. No recliner. No hallway where I knew exactly how to walk so the floor wouldn’t creak.

I pressed my hand to my mouth.

Rick leaned forward but didn’t touch me. “Sam?”

“I don’t want to owe your parents.”

“You won’t.” I looked at him, and he nodded with a small smile. “Okay. Maybe you will. But they’re good people to owe.”

My eyes burned. “I can’t pay them.”

“They wouldn’t ask for money.”

I laughed then, but it broke in the middle. My ribs pulled, and I winced, pressing my hand to my side.

Rick’s hand lifted and stopped in the air. “Can I?” he asked.

I looked at his hand, then at him. Nodding to allow a small contact.

He touched my shoulder. Not my face. Not my hand. My shoulder, where it was safe, through the thick fabric of the sweatshirt.

The weight of it was gentle.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I whispered.

His thumb moved once. Barely. “You don’t have to do it all today.”

“I’m so tired.”

“I know.” His eyes held mine.

He didn’t take his hand back. For a while, neither of us spoke. Then I said, “Shane’s gonna hate it.”

“Probably.”

“He’ll think I’m choosing your family over him.”

“No.” Rick’s voice was steady. “I’ll talk to him.”

His hand was still on my shoulder. His wedding ring caught the light again. I looked at it.

The charge in the room changed shape, heavier now, sadder. I wanted to lean into him. I wanted to ask him to leave. I wanted to be the kind of woman who could take comfort without it costing anyone else.

Rick took his hand back first. “I’ll call them tonight,” he said. His voice had gone rough. “See if Mom can come by tomorrow. You can say no after you talk to her.”

I nodded.

Two days later, Dr. Sutter said the word discharge again, and this time it had a date attached.

January tenth. If nothing changed.

If my labs stayed good. If the incision kept healing. If my pain stayed controlled on pills. If I could walk with help. If the farm was ready. If I promised not to do anything stupid, which seemed personally directed and unfair. So many If's.

Denise went over instructions with Shane until his eyes glazed over and then made him repeat them back.

Lena brought me extra gauze and whispered that hospital socks were terrible for long-term fashion.

Caroline made me practice getting in and out of a chair until I told her I was filing for divorce.

“You have to be married to divorce me,” she said.

“I’ll marry you out of spite.”

“Good. Then I can put ‘motivated’ in your chart.”

Louise Grimes came the morning before discharge. I cried as soon as she hugged me, which was humiliating because she barely touched me, only bent down and held me around the shoulders like I was something precious and not a burden wheeled into her life by her married son.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said against my hair.

Thomas stood behind her with his hat in both hands, eyes damp and kind. He cleared his throat twice before saying hello.

“Hi, Mr. Grimes,” I whispered.

“Thomas,” he said. “You’re grown enough to have earned that.”

“I don’t feel grown.”

“No one does when it matters.”

Louise pulled back and looked at my face with no flinch. No pity that made me feel smaller. Only a steadiness that reminded me of Rick in a way that hurt.

“We have the downstairs room made up,” she said. “Bathroom’s right across the hall. Rick’s bringing a shower chair from the station supply closet because apparently deputies steal medical equipment now.”

“Borrow,” Rick said from near the door.

Louise looked at him. “I said what I said.”

Shane stood in the corner with his arms crossed so tight he looked bolted together. He had been polite to Louise and Thomas. Too polite, which meant he was seconds from saying something stupid or crying.

Louise noticed him too. “Shane,” she said. “You’ll come by for supper after shift.”

His head jerked up. “Ma’am?”

“That wasn’t complicated.”

Thomas coughed into his hand.

The next morning, Denise removed the IV. That tiny thing made me cry too.

“Big day,” she said.

“Don’t make it emotional.”

“You’re the one crying.”

“Because you’re hurting me.”

“I am pulling tape, Sam.”

“Violently.”

She smiled.

The discharge papers were a thick stack of instructions, medications, follow-up dates, warning signs, restrictions. Shane took them like holy scripture. Rick packed the few things that had gathered around the room. Carl’s drawing came off the wall carefully, tape tearing one corner anyway. I kept the keychain in my hand.

The wheelchair waited by the door. I had spent days wanting out. Now the door looked like a mouth.

Denise saw my face. “We can take a minute.”

“No.”

I was so tired of minutes. Shane helped me stand because Caroline had cleared family assistance after training him like he was a large, emotionally unstable golden retriever. Rick stood by with the bag. Louise waited downstairs with the car. Thomas had gone ahead to warm it up.

My legs shook when I sat in the wheelchair. Pain moved through me, familiar now. I breathed around it. Rick crouched in front of me before we left. His eyes were level with mine.

“You ready?”

No. “Yes.”

His mouth softened. “Liar.”

“Don’t arrest me.”

“Can’t. Paperwork’s terrible.”

Shane gripped the wheelchair handles. “You two done flirting with your little cop jokes?”

I looked down at my lap.

Shane’s face flushed. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” I said.

But we all knew he had meant something.

The hallway outside smelled like antiseptic and cafeteria coffee. The nurses’ station had a little bowl of hard candy on it. Lena came around the desk to hug me carefully, then settled for squeezing my good hand because she saw my face before I had to say anything.

“Come back only for appointments,” she said.

“I’ll try to avoid getting beaten half to death again.”

Her eyes filled. Damn it.

“Sorry,” I whispered.

“Symptom,” she said, voice breaking.

Denise walked us to the elevator. At the doors, she leaned down and adjusted the blanket over my lap even though it didn’t need adjusting.

“You call if anything feels wrong,” she said.

“I know.”

“I mean it.” She said serious as ever “And when the nightmares get bad, you tell someone.” Denise kept her eyes on me. “You hear me?”

I nodded.

She touched my cheek with two fingers, barely there, on the side that wasn’t bruised.

“Good.”

The elevator doors opened.

Room 52 was down the hall, door open, bed stripped already. Empty. Waiting for someone else.

I have a taglist for this one, and if you want to be tagged, just let me know? taglist: @staley83 , @ravensare

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[joelssimp]

TROUBLE | CHAPTER 09

CW: Aftermath of a big physical assault. Blood, forced trauma. surgical removal of both ovaries.

14K words

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09 - Emergency

Kings’s County, December/2009

RICK'S POV

There wasn’t much thought in it after the engine caught. Just the road, my hands locked tight around the steering wheel, and the sound of Sam breathing from the passenger seat like every pull of air had to fight its way through her body.

The truck took the turn too hard when I left the bar parking lot, tires skidding over the rocks on pavement before finding grip again. My shoulder hit the door. Sam made a sound beside me, small and broken, and it cut through me worse than the sight of blood had.

“Shit. I’m sorry,” I said fast, forcing one hand off the wheel long enough to hover near her, useless as hell. I couldn’t touch her. Didn’t know where to touch without making something worse. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know, I know.”

Her head had fallen against the seat, turned slightly toward the window. The Christmas lights from houses passed over her face in quick flashes of red and green and gold, lighting up the blood at her temple before throwing her back into shadow. Her left eye was barely open, skin around it had gotten swollen. The other one tried to focus, then drifted again.

“Sam,” I said, sharper. “Hey. Stay awake for me.”

Her mouth moved. No sound came out.

“Don’t talk. Just look at me.”

I hated saying that. I hated asking anything of her when she was folded into that seat with her arm splinted by my jacket and an old broken chair leg, face gray beneath all that blood. I kept wanting to pull over, fix it, check her ribs, check her pulse better, check everything the way I’d been trained to do before the fear got its hands around my throat.

I knew enough to know she needed a hospital, and enough to know the road between us and that hospital was too damn long.

The town was quiet in that Christmas Eve way. Houses warm behind curtains. Porches lit up. Plastic reindeer standing crooked in yards. A wreath hanging from the front of the pharmacy. All of it passed in streaks because I was driving too fast and still felt like I wasn’t moving at all.

The radio was off. The heat blasted from the vents, too loud in the silence between her breaths. I could smell blood on my hands. On my shirt. In the truck. Metallic and sharp, soaked into the sleeves jacket where I’d held her against me.

“Keep breathing,” I said. “That’s all. Just keep doing that.”

Her lips parted around another shallow inhale.

Good, good.

I stared at the road, then back at her, then back at the road. My eyes wouldn’t stay where they were supposed to. Every few seconds I had to check that she was still there. That her chest still moved. That the terrible slackness in her body hadn’t taken more from her while I wasn’t looking.

The speedometer climbed. My fingers tightened until the leather of the wheel creaked.

Sam shifted beside me, barely an inch, and then her body seized around the pain. Her face twisted, breath cutting off halfway.

“Don’t move,” I said, voice rough. “Sam, don’t move. We’re almost there.”

We weren’t, we both knew that was a lie, so I pressed harder on the gas.

The truck flew past the old church with the nativity scene out front. Baby Jesus in a manger, one of the wise men tipped halfway over from the wind. I saw it for half a second and then it was gone. A stupid part of me thought of Carl asleep in his room. Stocking by the couch. Lori’s voice telling me not to stay gone too long.

I’d left my wife in the kitchen, and now I had Sam’s blood drying under my fingernails.

My mind tried to split in every direction at once, and I couldn’t let it. If I let it happen, I’d lose the road. I’d lose her.

So I counted her breaths instead.

One.

Two.

A pause too long.

“Sam.”

Three.

“There you go, baby” I whispered, swallowing hard. “There you go.”

She made a faint sound, almost like my name, though maybe I only heard it because I needed to.

“I’m here,” I said anyway. “I’m right here.”

Her hand moved on her lap. The good one. Fingers curling weakly against the fabric of her shirt.

I reached over and took it.

The second my fingers closed around hers, she squeezed. Barely. A flicker of pressure. Her skin felt cold, and that scared me more than I wanted it to. I held on for two seconds, maybe three, then forced myself to let go because I needed both hands for the next turn.

“Hold on,” I warned her.

I slowed more than I wanted to and still hit the turn rough. Her breath broke again. My stomach twisted.

The hospital appeared ahead, low and bright against the dark, emergency entrance glowing red under the overhang. There were only a handful of cars outside. Night shift on a Christmas Eve. The kind of night where everyone hoped nothing bad would happen because half the county was home pretending peace could last until morning.

I slammed the truck into park so hard the whole thing jerked.

Sam gasped with a broken cry.

“Damn it,” I muttered, already out of the driver’s side.

The cold hit me full in the face. I ran around the front of the truck, boots slipping once on the wet pavement. My hand shook when I opened her door. The dome light came on, soft and yellow, showing me all over again what had happened to her.

For half a second, I froze.

Her blood was on the seat. On the floor mat. On my second jacket wrapped around her arm. Her hair stuck to her face in damp pieces, and her lips had gone pale enough that I felt the ground shift under me.

Then her eyes fluttered.

“Alright,” I said, leaning in. “I’m gonna pick you up again. I know it hurts. I’m sorry.”

She tried to shake her head.

“You can curse me out later.”

That got nothing from her. No little smirk. No breath of a laugh. Nothing.

I slid my arms under her as carefully as I could, one behind her shoulders, one beneath her knees. Her body went rigid the second I lifted, and the sound that came out of her was so thin and scared that I almost dropped to my knees right there in the parking lot.

“I got you,” I said, holding her tighter. “I got you, Sam. I got you.”

Her face turned into my chest.

I kicked the truck door shut with my heel and carried her through the automatic doors.

The emergency room was too bright after the dark. White light. Waxed floors. A plastic Christmas tree in the corner with silver garland wound around it. Someone had taped paper snowflakes to the glass. The television mounted near the ceiling played some holiday movie with the volume low, laughter rising from it at the exact wrong time.

A nurse at the desk looked up, already wearing the tired patience of someone expecting a drunk with a busted lip or a child with a fever.

Then her face changed.

“Help!” I shouted, and my voice came out bigger than the room. “I need help right now!”

The nurse was on her feet so fast her chair rolled back and hit the wall. Another nurse came out from behind a curtain, coffee cup in hand, stopping dead when she saw the blood.

“Oh my God,” someone said.

“She’s twenty-four,” I said, because facts were the only thing I could grab. “Assault. Blunt force. Broken arm, head injury, possible ribs. She’s been in and out. Breathing’s shallow.”

The first nurse rounded the desk. I knew her. Knew half the people in that building. Had brought in plenty of folks over the years. Car wrecks. Domestic calls. A teenager who got too drunk behind the fairgrounds and cracked his skull open on a curb. I’d stood right there before and let them work.

“Rick, we need you to lay her down.”

“No.” The word came out before I thought about it.

Denise looked at me, firm now. “Deputy Grimes, we need to assess her.”

I didn’t move. My arms wouldn’t open. Sam’s fingers were tangled weakly in the front of my shirt.

“Rick,” Denise said, softer, but commanding enough “You have to put her down.”

A second nurse wheeled a gurney toward us, the wheels squeaking over the floor. Sam stirred against me, a tiny movement of her head. Her mouth brushed the fabric near my collar.

“R—”

“I’m here, baby” I said immediately, bending my head toward her. “I’m right here.”

“Sir,” another voice said, male this time. A doctor, maybe. Young. Too young. Dark hair flattened on one side like he’d been sleeping in the break room. “We need her on the bed now.”

I looked at him, and something ugly moved inside me.

“Then be careful.”

“We will.”

“If you hurt her—”

“Rick,” Denise cut in, low and hard. “Let us help her.”

I turned toward the gurney and lowered Sam down like she was made of glass and I was already too late. The moment her back touched the mattress, her body arched. Her face twisted, and a cry broke loose through clenched teeth.

Every instinct in me lunged forward.

Denise blocked me with one arm while the younger nurse grabbed for Sam’s shoulders.

“Easy, honey,” the nurse said, voice shaking under the calm she was trying to keep. “Easy. We’ve got you.”

“She doesn’t like being held down,” I said fast. “Don’t crowd her.”

“We have to keep her still.”

“She’ll panic.”

“She’s already panicking.” The young nurse said.

“She can hear you,” I snapped.

The room went quiet for one breath.

Then Denise looked at me again, and there was no patience left in her face. “Then talk to her.”

I got close to the side of the gurney, close enough that Sam’s eyes could find me if she tried. My hand went to her good one. Her fingers were slick with blood and cold in my palm.

“Sam. Look at me.”

Her eyes rolled, unfocused.

“Come on, Trouble.” The name slipped out before I could stop it, full of a softness I had no right to use in front of anyone. “Look at me.”

Her gaze caught on mine, loose and swimming, but there.

“There you are,” I breathed. “Stay with me. Let them look at you. I’m not leaving.”

Denise’s eyes flicked to me for a second at that. Then she went back to Sam’s arm.

“We need trauma room two,” she called over her shoulder. “Page Dr. Sutter and someone in Ortho. Get x-ray ready. I need vitals, IV access, type and cross.”

The younger nurse swallowed hard and moved faster. Somebody pulled the plastic Christmas tree farther out of the way as the gurney started rolling.

I moved with it. Nobody told me to stop right away. Maybe because I still had Sam’s hand locked in mine and nobody wanted to be the one to pry it loose.

The hallway stretched too bright and too long. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A vending machine blinked blue near the waiting area. Somewhere behind a curtain, an old man coughed wetly. The whole place smelled like antiseptic, burnt coffee, and the faint fake cinnamon from some holiday plug-in warmer doing its best to cover sickness.

Sam’s eyes fluttered closed.

“No,” I said. “Open your eyes.”

Denise glanced down. “Sam? Honey, can you hear us?”

“She can,” I said, too quick.

“Sam, my name’s Denise. You’re at King’s County Hospital. We’re gonna take care of you.”

Sam’s lips parted. “Hurts,” she whispered.

“I know,” I said. “I know it does.”

“We’re going to give you something for pain once we get a line in,” Denise said. “Can you tell me where it hurts most?”

Sam’s face crumpled. A tear slipped sideways into her hair. “Everywhere.”

The word was barely there. I looked away for a second, just one, because the hallway blurred so bad I couldn’t see the floor.

Trauma room doors swung open. Warm light flooded over us. The room was small and crowded too fast. Cabinets. Monitors. Stainless steel trays. A sink in the corner. A Santa hat stuck on top of one of the supply carts like someone had thought that was cute earlier in the night, but it looked obscene now.

They moved around her with practiced urgency, though I could see it on their faces. They hadn’t expected this. Not tonight. Not Sam Walsh from the bar. Not Shane’s little sister. Not a girl half the town knew by name and nickname and trouble she never caused as much as survived.

“On my count,” the doctor said. “We need to transfer her.”

My hand tightened around hers and then I let go.

“Rick,” Denise warned.

“I’m here,” I told Sam. “They’re gonna move you. I’m here.”

The doctor counted.

They lifted and Sam screamed.

There was no way around hearing it. It filled the room, raw and sudden, and every bit of training I’d ever had burned clean out of me. I stepped forward without realizing it, Denise’s hand hitting my chest before I got in their way.

“Back up.”

“She’s hurting.”

“I know.” She was almost offended at the way I was talking to them.

“Do something.”

“We are.” Her voice cracked on the last word. Just a little. Enough to remind me she was human too. Enough to make me step back, though my whole body fought me on it.

They cut Sam’s shirt open. I turned my head because I had to, then turned back because leaving her alone with strangers felt worse. Someone asked for gauze. Someone else read her blood pressure out loud, and the number made Denise curse under her breath.

The doctor shone a light into Sam’s eyes. “Pupils unequal. Possible concussion. We need imaging.”

“She got hit in the head,” I said, trying to help. “More than once.”

He looked at me. “With what?”

“Fist. Maybe wall. Counter. I don’t know.” My voice dropped lower. “Her father did it.”

The room shifted.

Nobody stopped working. Their hands kept moving, gloves snapping, tape ripping, scissors cutting fabric away. But every face changed in a way I knew too well. A little tightening around the mouth. A little pause behind the eyes.

Denise looked at Sam then like she knew her better than she had five seconds ago.

“Okay,” the doctor said carefully. “Law enforcement needs to be notified.”

“I am law enforcement.”

His eyes moved over me, the blood covering my clothes, my hands, my face. “You can’t be the only one on this.”

“I know.”

I did know. Somewhere under all the panic, I knew exactly how bad this looked. A deputy bringing in a woman beaten half to death by her father, a woman he knew too well, a woman whose blood was all over him before any report was written.

I didn’t care yet. That would come later.

Right now, Sam was on that table with strangers cutting her clothes off and trying to keep her inside her own body.

“Rick,” she whispered.

I was beside her before anyone could stop me again.

“I’m here.”

Her good hand reached blindly, fingers searching the air. I took it and bent low. Her eyes opened a crack. “Shane?”

“I’ll call him.”

Her breath hitched. Pain moved through her face again. “Don’t let him…”

“I won’t,” I said, because I knew. I knew Shane like I knew the roads in this town, knew the rage in him, knew exactly what he’d do when he found out. “I won’t let him do anything stupid.”

A faint crease formed between her brows, like she didn’t believe me.

“Promise,” she breathed and my throat closed.

“I promise.”

Denise slid an IV into her arm while the doctor listened to her chest. Sam flinched at the needle, then barely reacted after.

“Rick, we need space,” Denise said.

“I told her I wouldn’t leave.”

“You can stand right there.” She pointed to a spot near the wall. “There. She can still see you.”

I looked at Sam. Her eyes were already drifting.

“Sam, I’m gonna stand right there. You’ll see me.” I said, as her fingers tried to hold mine.

I peeled them away gently, one by one, feeling like I was betraying her with every inch of distance I put between us.

The wall hit my back. I hadn’t realized I’d moved that far until there was nowhere else to go.

Hospital staff worked. The monitor started beeping once they got it hooked up, steady enough to keep me from losing my mind, uneven enough to stop me from trusting it. They cleaned the cut above her eyebrow and the blood kept coming. Her arm looked worse under the lights, already swollen, and bent wrong even with the makeshift splint. Bruises were already blooming across her ribs, dark patches under her pale skin.

The doctor pressed gently against her abdomen, and Sam jerked with a hoarse cry. He pulled his hand back. “Possible internal injury. We need ultrasound. Now.”

The words entered the room and stayed there. Internal injury.

My hand curled into a fist at my side. Dried blood cracked across my knuckles.

The young nurse looked like she might be sick. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, cheeks pale, ponytail coming loose. She moved toward the supply cabinet, then stopped like she forgot what she was looking for.

“Lena,” Denise said sharply.

The girl startled.

“Ultrasound cart. Move.”

“Right.” She went.

Christmas Eve, I thought suddenly. This girl was probably supposed to be drinking cocoa in the break room and trading stale cookies with the other nurses. Denise was probably counting down the hours until she could go home to her daughter. The doctor had sleep still creased into his face.

Then I walked in carrying Sam. A deputy covered in blood. A girl broken in his arms.

The thought made my stomach roll.

Denise came near me while the doctor kept working. Her gloves were red.

“Rick,” she said quietly. “You need to call Shane.”

I nodded once, but my body didn’t move.

“Rick.”

“I know.” I answered with a lump inside my throat.

“Does Simon have access to weapons?”

The question lit something under my skin.

“He has a shotgun at the trailer. Maybe a handgun if he hasn’t pawned it.”

Her eyes hardened. “Then call it in too.”

I looked toward Sam.

“She’s safe here,” Denise said.

I almost laughed. It came up wrong in my chest, ugly and empty. Safe. In a hospital room with blood on the floor and her shirt cut open and a doctor asking for imaging because her insides might be bleeding.

Denise seemed to understand enough to lower her voice.

“She’s safer here than she was twenty minutes ago. Go!”

I nodded again, and this time I went outside, got the spare radio from my truck. My fingers didn’t work right the first time. Too stiff. Too slick. I wiped them hard on my pants and tried again.

“Dispatch, this is Grimes.”

Static answered first.

Then Shelly’s voice came through, bright with forced holiday cheer that died the second she heard me. “Go ahead, Rick.”

“I need units at Pete's Bar. Assault scene. Suspect Simon Walsh. Male, late forties, intoxicated, violent. Last seen leaving the premises. Possible weapons at his residence.”

There was a pause.

Small town, everybody knew everybody.

“Copy,” Shelly said, voice changed now. “Victim?”

My eyes closed. I felt a single tear escape me before I could do anything about it.

“Samantha Walsh,” I said.

Silence again. Then, quieter, “Copy that. EMS?”

“I transported. She’s at King’s County Hospital.”

“Rick—”

“Send units,” I cut in, because if she said anything else, if she sounded sorry for even one second, I was going to come apart in the middle of the hospital parking lot. “Notify Sheriff Thompson. And find Shane.”

“Do you want me to call him?”

I closed my eyes.

No.

“Yes,” I said. “Tell him to come to the hospital. Do not tell him where Simon is if you have it. You hear me? Do not.”

“Copy.”

The radio went quiet.

I came back inside, going directly to the trauma room.

The doctor was taping gauze near her eyebrow. “Sam, we’re going to take you for scans soon. You’re doing so good.”

She wasn’t doing good. Everybody in that room knew it.

Her eyes found me again, barely open. “Rick.”

“I’m here.”

“Cold.”

I looked at Denise and she was already reaching for a warmed blanket. “Here we go, honey.”

They laid it over Sam carefully, tucking it around the side that wasn’t being examined. Sam’s body trembled under it.

I wanted to put my hands on her face. Brush the hair away from her eyes. Tell her something that would make sense of any of this.

All I could do was stand close enough for her to see me.

“You did real good,” I told her, voice low. “You hear me? You got through it.”

Her gaze moved over my face. I didn’t know what she saw there. Blood, probably. Fear. Everything I’d spent years learning how to keep out of my expression.

Her lips parted.

“Don’t tell Shane.”

The words were so faint I almost missed them. My whole body went still. Denise glanced at me, then away.

The room kept moving around us, but that one sentence found the worst place inside me and pressed down.

“Don’t worry about that right now,” I said.

Her eyelids fluttered. “Rick.”

“I won’t,” I said, though I didn’t know what I meant. I wouldn’t tell Shane? I wouldn’t let Sam carry that fear while she was bleeding on a hospital bed? I wouldn’t make tonight worse than it already was? “Just stay with me.”

Her eyes closed.

The monitor kept beeping.

“Sam?” I leaned closer. “Sam.”

The doctor checked her. “She’s unconscious. Pulse is still there. Pain must be high, so she just shuts down to keep the energy.”

The room moved faster after that. The ultrasound cart came in. The doctor watched the screen with his jaw tight. Denise stood on the other side of the bed, one hand on Sam’s shoulder in a way that felt almost maternal, even while she watched the monitor.

I stayed against the wall again because there was nowhere else for my fear to go.

A smear of blood had dried on my wrist in the shape of her fingers. I stared at it until the doctor spoke again.

“We’re sending her for CT. Head, chest, abdomen, pelvis. X-ray that arm. I want ortho called in.”

The doors opened behind me. A security guard stepped in first, then another nurse, then the hallway swallowed them as movement built around the bed. They were preparing to take her away from me again.

I pushed off the wall. “I’m going with her.”

The doctor looked at me. “You can come to the doors. After that, you wait.”

“No.”

“Deputy—”

“I said no.”

His shoulders squared. He was younger than me, maybe by a few years, but he looked at me then with a tired kind of authority that belonged to the room we were in. “If you get in the way of her care, you hurt her. That’s what happens next.”

I shut my mouth. Denise’s expression softened just enough. “Walk with us to imaging. Then you wait outside.”

I nodded because it was the only answer I had left.

They rolled her out. I walked beside the bed, close to her head, my hand resting near hers without touching because they had lines in now and monitors and too many things I didn’t understand. Her face looked smaller under the hospital lights. Younger. Twenty-four felt impossible.

Trouble.

Goddamn that nickname.

The hallway doors opened ahead, and then I heard boots running.

I turned just as Shane came around the corner, half in uniform and half out of it, shirt untucked, jacket open, hair a mess like he’d dragged his hands through it the whole way over. His eyes landed on me first. Then on the blood on my skin, then on the bed.

His face changed into something I’d never seen on him before.

“Sammy?”

His voice broke on her name, and I stepped into his path before he could reach her too hard.

“Shane.”

He shoved at me. “Move.”

“Listen to me.”

“Move, Rick!”

“She’s alive,” I said, grabbing his shoulders because he was already looking past me, already gone somewhere rage could use him. “She’s alive. They’re taking her for scans.”

His eyes snapped to mine. For one second, he looked like a little boy. Then the rage came back so fast I felt it making his body tremble.

“Where is he?”

“Don’t.”

“Where the fuck is he?”

“Shane.”

He shoved me again, harder. “Where the hell is he, Rick?”

The nurses froze for half a breath around the gurney.

Sam was right there between us. Unconscious. Bruised. Bleeding through fresh gauze.

I gripped Shane tighter and lowered my voice. “Look at her.”

He tried to pull away.

“Look at her.”

His eyes moved down to his sister. Everything drained out of his face.

The bed kept rolling, and for once Shane didn’t fight me. He stood there with my hands on his shoulders, staring as they moved her past. His mouth opened, then closed. His breathing turned harsh.

“Sammy,” he whispered again, and there was nothing angry in it now. Just ruin and hurt.

I let go of him, letting him take one step after the gurney. Then another.

Denise looked back at us. “You can walk to the imaging doors. Both of you. Then you wait.”

Shane nodded without looking at her.

For the next few seconds, neither of us said a thing. The only sound was the roll of wheels, the squeak of a bad one catching every few feet, the monitor beeping beside Sam like a small stubborn proof that she was still here.

Shane walked on the other side of her, his hand hovering over the blanket like mine had.

Afraid to touch. Also afraid not to.

At the double doors, Denise stopped us. “This is where you wait.”

Shane looked like he might argue. I put a hand on his chest before he could. He looked at me then.

“What happened?”

I held his stare. The doors swung shut behind Sam. And once she was gone, once there was no hand to hold and no breath to count and no job left for me except telling the truth, the adrenaline finally started to crack apart inside my bones.

I looked down at my shirt, at the blood soaked into the fabric.

“Simon,” I said.

Shane’s face went dead.

“Rick.”

“He was still on her when I got there.”

The air left him in one hard breath. He turned away, both hands going to the back of his head. For a second he just stood there, elbows wide, body locked like he was trying to keep himself from flying into pieces.

Then he moved.

I caught him by the arm.

“No.”

He spun on me. “Let go.”

“No.”

“I’m gonna kill him.”

“I know.”

His eyes were wet now, red with it, burning straight through me. “He did that to her.”

“He did.”

“He did that to my little sister.”

“I know, Shane.”

“Then get your goddamn hand off me.”

I didn’t. He looked down at where I held him, then back up at me. His jaw worked. His whole body shook with the need to run, to hunt, to find Simon and turn him into something that couldn’t raise a hand again.

Part of me wanted to let him.

A bigger part of me saw Sam’s eyes in the truck, heard her broken little promise. Don’t let him.

“You go after him,” I said, keeping my voice low, “you lose her too.”

Shane flinched like I’d hit him.

“She asked me to stop you,” I said.

His face twisted. “She said that?”

I nodded once.

His breath came out rough. He looked toward the closed doors, and something in him folded, slow and painful.

“She was supposed to call me,” he said, voice suddenly wrecked. “I was supposed to pick her up.” The words scraped out of him. “I forgot.”

I didn’t know that until then. The hallway seemed to narrow around us.

Shane looked at me, and the guilt on his face was so naked I had to look away for a second.

“I forgot her,” he whispered.

“No,” I said.

“I was with some girl, and I forgot my sister on Christmas Eve.”

“Shane—”

“He could’ve killed her.”

I swallowed hard because he was right. If I’d walked into that bar with seconds already gone and blood already on the floor, if I’d stayed in that kitchen with Lori, if I’d ignored that feeling in my gut, if I’d driven anywhere else first, Sam might have died under those cheap Christmas lights.

I leaned back against the wall, suddenly aware of how badly my hands were shaking.

For a second, the anger between us shifted into something neither of us wanted to name.

“You found her,” he said, voice rough.

I nodded, once. He stared at the closed doors.

Then he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, elbows on his knees, both hands covering his face.

I stayed standing. Couldn’t sit. If I sat, I might not get back up.

Down the hall, someone laughed quietly near the nurses’ station. A phone rang. The hospital kept being a hospital. Christmas Eve kept being Christmas Eve.

We waited for Sam.

And all I could see was the way she looked in my arms when I carried her through those doors.

***

SAM'S POV For a while, I thought I was underwater.

Everything came to me warped and soft around the edges, like sound had to push through a wall before it reached me. There was a beep somewhere. Steady and annoying. A low murmur of voices too, far away at first, then close enough to make my head hurt. Something squeezed around my arm, another thing tugged at the inside of my elbow. My mouth tasted like cotton and pennies.

I tried to swallow and couldn’t. My tongue felt too big inside my mouth, and my throat felt scraped raw.

I blinked once, or maybe I only thought I did, because the dark didn’t really change. It just shifted. A gray kind of dark, hospital with curtains pulled halfway. Small light leaking through the blinds in weak blue lines.

The smell... Antiseptic mixed with plastic. The cold, clean smell of a place where people got cut open and stitched back together while everyone pretended that was normal.

Pain was everywhere.

It wasn’t sharp at first. It sat deep and heavy, a whole second skin made of bruises and fire. My arm felt too far away from me, packed in something hard and thick. My ribs burned every time I breathed. There was an ache low in my belly that felt wrong, hollow and mean, like someone had reached inside and scraped something out with both hands.

I tried to move.

No, bad idea. The pain woke fully.

It tore up through my side so fast that my eyes snapped open, and whatever sound I made got stuck in my throat as a broken gasp.

A chair scraped close to me.

“Sam?” Rick asked with urgency. His voice was the first thing that got through. Rough and ruined around the edges.

I turned toward it because I knew that voice. Even drugged halfway out of my skull, I knew it. My eyes wouldn’t focus right away. Everything blurred into pale walls, shadowed furniture, one thin strip of morning light, and then his face leaning over me.

He looked awful. That was my first real thought. Rick Grimes looked like he hadn’t slept in years.

His hair was a mess, sticking up in places from where he’d probably been dragging his hand through it. His eyes were red, the shirt he was wearing was different from before, a plain gray hospital top that didn’t fit him right across the shoulders, and I wondered with slow, stupid confusion where his other clothes went.

Then I remembered blood.

His shirt had blood.

My blood.

The bar came back in small pieces: Christmas lights, smell of whiskey, glass on the floor, Simon’s boots, the disgusting floor under my cheek, then Rick’s voice, loud enough to break the room apart.

My breathing stuttered, and the monitor beside me answered with a faster beep.

“Hey,” Rick said quickly, one hand coming up, careful near my face without landing there. “Hey, you’re okay. You’re in the hospital.”

I stared at him with a 'well, that makes sense' kind of look. But the reality was, none of it made sense.

My lips parted, but my voice came out like desert dust. “What…”

Rick leaned closer. “Don’t push it. Your throat’s gonna hurt some.”

I blinked again, slow and heavy.

There was something around my nose. Little tubes of oxygen blowing up my nose, I could feel them now, light against my skin. My left eye was closed and swollen, like it had been packed full of sand. I tried to lift my hand toward it and couldn’t. My right arm had an IV taped to it. My left arm was wrapped and set, heavy as a cinder block, propped on pillows.

A cast. No, that thing was definitely bigger than a cast. Some metal inside of it, stiff as hell.

I looked down and immediately wished I hadn’t.

I was under a blanket, hospital gown over me, wires disappearing beneath it. My arm was held straight with thick bandages and a brace that ran from above my elbow down past my wrist. The fingers were swollen and yellowing with bruises. They didn’t look like mine.

“Arm,” I whispered.

Rick’s jaw tightened.

“Ortho fixed it.”

Ortho... I stared at him because the word didn’t belong in my head.

“They had to take you into surgery,” he said, voice low. “Your arm was broken bad. They put plates in.”

Surgery. The room moved a little with those strange words.

I closed my eyes, and that made the floating worse. The anesthesia was still there, thick behind my eyes, pulling at my thoughts whenever I tried to hold them still. Everything was too slow and too fast. My stomach rolled.

I opened my eyes again because I was scared I’d fall back into that gray water and wake up somewhere worse.

Rick was still there. Just past his shoulder, I saw Shane.

He was slumped in another chair, folded in a way that made him look too big for it. One boot was planted flat on the floor, the other stretched out. His arms were crossed tight over his chest. His head had fallen to the side, mouth slightly open, face pale beneath the stubble. He looked like he’d passed out against his own will.

There was dried blood on the cuff of his jacket. Mine too, probably.

My big brother.

A sound tried to come out of me. Rick followed my gaze. “He’s here. He hasn’t left.”

“Is he…”

“He’s asleep. Barely.”

I watched Shane’s chest rise and fall.

Good.

I wanted to reach for him too, but my body was a ruined thing I was trapped inside, and the thought of moving made sweat break cold along my neck.

“What time?” I asked.

Rick looked at the small clock on the wall. “Little after five.”

The room was dim, but I could see the edge of morning trying to happen behind the blinds. Christmas morning.

Jesus.

A laugh came up before I could stop it. It was barely anything, just air with pain around it, and it turned into a sharp cry halfway through.

Rick got even closer to me, concern written all over his tired face.

“Sam?”

My ribs seized.

The pain clenched around my chest and squeezed until I couldn’t breathe right. Panic moved up through me, hot and instant. My hand grabbed at the blanket, fingers twisting in the cheap cotton.

“Ribs,” I gasped.

“I know. I know.” Rick reached for the call button clipped near the rail and pressed it hard. “Breathe slow if you can.”

“Can’t.”

“You can. Look at me.”

I tried. His face swam.

“Small breath,” he said. “Just a small one.”

I hated calm he sounded right there. But it helped me a little.

The door opened, and a nurse stepped in, hair pulled back, cardigan over scrubs with tiny snowmen on it. Her eyes went to the monitor before they went to me.

“She’s awake,” Rick said.

“I can see that.” The nurse came to my side. “Hi, Sam. I’m Denise. You remember me?”

I looked at her.

A flash of hallway. Her hand on Rick’s chest. Her voice telling me I was at King’s County Hospital.

“Kind of,” I whispered.

“That’s okay.” She checked something on the IV pump, then leaned close enough that I didn’t have to fight to hear her. “You’re coming out of anesthesia, honey. You’re gonna feel foggy. Maybe sick. Pain’s gonna come in waves for a bit.”

“Feels like a truck.”

Her mouth softened. “Yeah. I’d say that’s fair.”

Rick let out one breath, it sounded broken.

Denise looked at him. “Go get Dr. Sutter. He wanted to know when she woke up.”

Rick didn’t move. Of course he didn’t. Denise gave him a look that even through the drug haze I understood.

“Rick.”

“I’m not leaving the room.”

“The door is six feet away.”

“I said I’m not leaving.”

His voice didn’t rise. But he was serious, which felt a little ridiculous. I blinked at him, and some weird little part of me wanted to tell him to stop acting like a stubborn cowboy at my bedside, but my mouth didn’t have enough strength to make jokes properly.

Denise sighed through her nose and stepped toward the doorway. “Lena,” she called softly into the hall. “Tell Dr. Sutter she’s awake.”

Shane stirred in the chair.

His eyes snapped open like he’d heard a gunshot.

For half a second he didn’t know where he was. I watched it happen. His face blank, body jerking upright, one hand going toward his belt out of habit. Then he saw me.

Everything in him stopped.

“Sammy?” His voice sounded terrible.

“Hey,” I rasped.

He was out of the chair so fast he almost tripped over it. Rick caught the back of it before it hit the floor. Shane came to the opposite side of the bed, then froze with both hands hovering over the railing.

He didn’t know what to do with them.

My big brother, who always grabbed, shoved, hugged too hard, yelled too loud, filled every room until there was no space left for anyone else’s fear.

He stood there afraid to touch me. That was the thing that made me cry. The tears came without warning, sliding hot out of the corners of my eyes. One burned over the bruise on my cheek and disappeared into my hair.

Shane’s face crumpled.

“Hey, don’t do that,” he said, voice breaking. “Don’t cry, baby girl.”

“Don’t call me baby girl.” It came out weak as hell.

He made a sound that was almost a sob or almost a laugh. “Yeah. There she is.”

Rick stood by the foot of the bed, watching us with his arms crossed tight, like he was physically holding himself back from doing too much.

Shane reached down carefully and touched two fingers to the back of my right hand, the one without the worst of everything attached to it.

That little touch spoke so loud on how he was feeling. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

I stared at him through the blur. “Why?”

His mouth opened. Shut. His eyes went red again. “I was supposed to pick you up.”

Oh, that.

I did told my coworkers that Shane would be the one picking me up from my shift. I was kind of waiting when it happened.

I swallowed, and my throat fought me. “Shane…”

“I forgot,” he said, and the words came out like they hurt bad. “I forgot you, Sam.”

The pain medicine made everything too soft for the size of what he was saying. I could see the guilt in him, though. It was sitting on his shoulders, heavy and ugly, and I hated that too. I hated every damn thing about this room and this morning and the fact that I was the one lying there while my brother looked like someone had carved him open.

“Don’t,” I whispered.

His eyebrows pulled together.

“Don’t make me forgive you right now. Too tired.”

Rick looked down.

Shane let out a wet, wrecked laugh and nodded, pressing his fingers harder against mine. “Okay. Okay, Trouble. I won’t.”

The door opened again.

A doctor stepped in wearing blue scrubs and tired eyes. He had a white coat thrown over, the kind of coat that made him look official even though his hair was flattened on one side and there was coffee on his sleeve. Another doctor came in behind him, older, with gray at his temples and a serious mouth.

The first one looked at me with a careful kind of kindness.

“Sam, I’m Dr. Sutter. I was the trauma surgeon on call tonight. This is Dr. Mehta, orthopedics. He repaired your arm.”

I stared at both of them.

“Lucky me,” I whispered.

Dr. Mehta’s serious mouth twitched for one second. “You gave us some work.”

Shane’s hand tightened on mine. Rick moved a little closer from the foot of the bed.

Dr. Sutter glanced at both of them. “Sam, are you comfortable with them staying while we talk?”

The question was weird. What does he mean by: Comfortable?

I was in a hospital bed with tubes in my nose, bruises on my face, my brother looking at me like he might throw up, and Rick Grimes standing there in borrowed clothes with my blood probably still somewhere on his hands.

Comfortable was a stupid word.

“They stay,” I said.

Dr. Sutter nodded once. “Okay.”

Something in the room changed. So much that it was possible to feel it. The nurse was still at the IV pump. Shane went still. Rick’s eyes fixed on the doctor’s face in a way that made my stomach drop.

“What?” I asked.

Dr. Sutter pulled a rolling stool closer and sat, which scared me a little. “Sam, you had several serious injuries when Deputy Grimes brought you in.”

Deputy Grimes. My eyes flicked to Rick. He looked like the title hurt him.

“You had a concussion,” the doctor continued. “A deep laceration over your left eyebrow with multiple small cuts on your face, hemorrhage inside your eye. Multiple bruised ribs, and we’re watching one small fracture on the right side. Your left arm had two major breaks. One in the forearm and one above the elbow. Dr. Mehta was able to stabilize those with plates and screws.”

I tried to listen.

The words entered my head slowly, each one finding a place and then slipping a little.

Concussion, ribs, arm, plates, screws.

It didn’t feel real. It sounded like he was talking about someone else, some other girl who got unlucky on Christmas Eve.

“Okay,” I whispered, though nothing was okay.

Dr. Sutter’s face tightened with sympathy. “And you had internal bleeding.”

There it was.

The hollow ache low in my belly seemed to answer him, pulsing under the blanket.

I looked down, even though I couldn’t see anything except the blanket over my stomach.

“From what?”

“Blunt force trauma to your abdomen and pelvis,” he said. “You had bleeding in your pelvic cavity. Some of it came from torn tissue around the reproductive organs. When we got inside, there was active bleeding from both ovaries and the surrounding blood vessels.”

The room lost sound for a second. Or maybe I did.

Both ovaries.

The words floated above me without touching.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

My voice was so small I hated it.

Dr. Sutter took a breath. “It means the trauma damaged them badly. We tried to control the bleeding and preserve what we could.”

Tried.

That rarely means they got any good news. My eyes moved to Rick and his face that had gone pale. Shane’s fingers slipped away from mine.

“No,” I said before the doctor finished, because my body understood before I did. “No, wait.”

Dr. Sutter kept his voice gentle, but he didn’t hide from me. I could give him that, at least. He looked right at me.

“Sam, the bleeding wasn’t stopping. Your blood pressure was dropping. We repaired what we could, and we had to remove both ovaries to get control of the hemorrhage.”

I stared at him.hearing the ordinary sounds close by. The monitor beeping. Somewhere in the hall, a cart rolled past. Christmas morning kept arriving.

I waited for him to take it back. For someone to say I’d misunderstood because I was drugged and tired and half-stupid from anesthesia.

Nobody did.

“Both?” I asked.

Dr. Sutter nodded slowly. “Both.”

I felt my mouth open, but nothing came out. Shane turned away with one hand over his mouth.

Rick didn’t move at all.

The doctor kept talking, careful and soft, like he had to lay each word down where it wouldn’t shatter me, as if I wasn’t already in pieces.

“I know this is a lot to hear right now. I’m sorry to tell you while you’re just waking up, but you needed to know what happened. The surgery saved your life.”

Saved my life.

I looked down at my covered body again.

That thing I had dragged through double shifts and bar fights and bad nights. That thing I kept going on coffee and gas station fries and spite. That thing I had hated plenty, ignored plenty, used like a machine because stopping would mean thinking too much.

Now part of it was gone. Something I didn’t even think about every day was gone.

The list was there, hard to ignore: My ovaries. Eggs. Hormones. Future babies.

I hadn’t planned any till now. I was twenty-four and broke and trying to run to Atlanta with a coffee can full of small bills. I didn’t sit around dreaming about nurseries or names. I didn’t even know if I’d be good at being a mother, considering the one I had walked out and the father I had beat me bloody under Christmas lights.

Still, some door inside me slammed shut so hard I felt the echo in my teeth.

“Can I…” My voice cracked, and I had to start again. “Can I have kids?”

The doctor’s eyes softened in a way that made me want to scream.

“You won’t be able to conceive with your own eggs,” he said. “Your uterus was bruised, and we repaired some surrounding tissue, but we did not remove it. Carrying a pregnancy may still be possible in the future with donor eggs or embryos, depending on how you heal. That would be a conversation for later with specialists.”

Specialists. Right.

The words piled up beside the bed like things that belonged to a woman with health insurance and a house and someone who didn’t wake up on Christmas morning to find out her father had beaten motherhood out of her before she’d even decided if she wanted it.

I breathed in. Fucking mistake, pain stabbed through my ribs. I breathed out in a broken little sound.

“Sammy,” Shane whispered.

I looked at him, and that was another fucking mistake, because his face was destroyed. My big brother was crying openly now, quiet and horrified, tears running down into the lines by his mouth. He looked like he wanted to climb into the bed and gather up every broken piece of me with his bare hands.

“I’m gonna kill him,” he said. The room went sharp.

Rick moved immediately. “Shane.”

“I’m gonna kill him.”

“Don’t,” I whispered.

Shane’s eyes came to me, wild red around it.

“Don’t ask me that.”

“I am.”

“Sam—”

“I can’t do this and worry about you in jail.” I aid as clearly as possible.

His face twisted.

The effort it took to say those words lit my ribs on fire. The monitor started yelling about it in small frantic beeps. Denise came closer, checking the line, checking me, touching my shoulder with a hand that was too kind.

“Easy,” she said. “Sam, breathe.”

I tried. But the room blurred all together.

Rick came to my side again, fast. “Look at me.”

I did because he was the safest option right now.

His eyes were wet too, though no tears had fallen. He looked furious and helpless and so gentle around the mouth that it hurt worse than the ribs.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

I frowned, or tried to. My face didn’t like it.

“For what?”

He swallowed. “I should’ve gotten there sooner.”

There it was again: Men collecting guilt like it might do something useful.

I wanted to tell him he did get there. I wanted to tell him there were worse endings, and I felt one of them breathing against my neck before the bar door opened. I wanted to tell him I remembered his arms. His voice. His truck. The way he kept saying stay with me like he could make my body obey him.

But my chest hurt. My belly hurt. My arm was a distant thunderstorm.

So I only whispered, “You came.”

Rick’s face cracked. He looked down for half a second, then back at me. “Yeah.”

“You came,” I said again, because maybe I needed to hear it too.

His hand found mine on top of the blanket. Carefully, but warm and a little shaky.

The doctor was saying something about hormone replacement, follow-up care, recovery, another surgery possible later if swelling got bad around the arm. My brain caught pieces and lost the rest. Menopause was said at some point, and I almost laughed again because that was absurd. Twenty-four years old with bruised ribs and Christmas morning outside the window, and somebody was talking about menopause.

I turned my head away.

The movement pulled at the cut over my brow. Everything was too bright inside the dark room.

“I want to sleep,” I said.

Dr. Sutter nodded. “That’s okay. Your body needs rest.”

“No,” I breathed, because sleep sounded like falling into a hole now. “I mean… I don’t wanna feel this.”

Denise stepped closer. “Pain’s climbing?”

I nodded once. Fucking bad choice, because my skull throbbed.

“Ribs,” I gasped. “And… lower. Please.”

She checked the chart hanging near the bed. “You’re due for more morphine. I can give it now.”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Please.”

Rick’s thumb moved once over the back of my hand.

Shane came closer again, wiping his face hard with his sleeve like that would hide anything from anyone.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he said.

I looked at him, mad as hell. The sentence felt too big. Too stupid for a girl trapped inside her own body.

“I know,” I lied.

His mouth trembled.

Denise pushed something into my IV, slow and practiced. “You might get warm. Maybe a little dizzy.”

“I’m already dizzy.”

“Then you’re ahead of the game.”

That should’ve made me smile. It almost did. Almost.

Warmth slipped into my veins a few moments later, strange and heavy, spreading through my arm first, then the rest of me. The pain didn’t vanish. It pulled back from the edge enough for me to unclench my jaw. My ribs still burned, but the fire had a blanket thrown over it now.

The room softened again. Rick’s face blurred at the edges.

Shane’s hand settled near my ankle over the blanket, careful as a prayer.

“Don’t go after him,” I murmured, though I wasn’t sure which one of them I was talking to anymore.

Rick answered. “We won’t.”

Shane didn’t say anything, so I forced my eyes toward him.

“Shane.”

His jaw clenched. He looked toward the window, toward the pale morning hiding behind blinds.

Then he nodded once. “I’ll stay,” he said, voice shredded. “I’ll stay right here with you.”

That was enough for me to relax further.

My eyelids grew heavy. The anesthesia and morphine braided together, pulling me back under with slow hands. I fought it for a second because I was afraid of what I’d wake up to next. More news. More pieces missing. More faces looking at me like I was something fragile on a shelf.

Rick leaned closer, voice low enough that maybe only I heard it.

“You sleep, Trouble. We’re here.”

Trouble.

The name didn’t hurt as much coming from him. Maybe because his voice didn’t carry whiskey and the anger of a piece of shit.

I let my eyes close.

The last thing I felt was Shane’s hand on the blanket and Rick’s fingers around mine, both of them holding on without moving me.

The last thing I heard was the monitor beside me.

Still there.

Still there.

Still there.

***

The first thing I notice when I woke up was the light shift in the room. That light had pushed its way through the blinds in thin white stripes, pale and cold, landing across the wall, the end of the bed, the little rolling table someone had parked too close to my knees. Morning had arrived without asking me if I was ready for it.

Christmas morning.

There was a softness in the voices outside. A nurse laughing quietly somewhere down the corridor. The distant sound of someone saying Merry Christmas like they were trying to mean it in a building where half the people were hurt and the other half were too tired to celebrate properly.

My mouth still tasted like medicine.

My tongue felt dry. My throat burned in that scratched-up way from the tube they’d used during surgery, or maybe from all the crying I didn’t remember doing. There was a plastic cup with a straw on the tray beside me, just out of reach, because of course it was. Everything I needed seemed to sit six inches too far away now.

I blinked slowly and waited for the room to stop moving.

It didn’t move much. Just enough to remind me my head had been hit hard several times, and my body was full of whatever they kept pushing through that IV. The pain was there too, waiting under the medicine. Less sharp than before, more spread out. A deep ache through my ribs. A heavy throb in my arm. A terrible soreness low in my belly that made my thoughts go quiet every time I noticed it.

I looked over to where people were supposed to be, but the chair beside the bed was empty.

It took a second for that to make sense. Then it made too much sense all at once, and my chest pinched in a way that had nothing to do with my ribs.

Rick had a wife, and a son, and Christmas morning with his family.

I stared at the empty chair like it might explain itself if I looked hard enough.

There was a blanket folded over the back of it, the ugly hospital kind with a blue stripe along the edge. A coffee cup sat on the floor beside one of the legs, empty, lid bent where someone had probably been pressing their thumb into it. The pillow from the little visitor couch had been used too, dented in the middle, a shallow proof that someone had tried to rest and failed.

I tried to swallow around the lump in my throat and ended up coughing instead. Bad move. My ribs lit up so fast I squeezed my eyes shut, body curling the smallest amount before pain stopped me cold.

A sound scraped out of me.

The door opened almost immediately.

Denise came in with a cup of ice chips in one hand and a Santa pin clipped to her scrub top, tiny red hat bobbing over a plastic snowman. She looked too awake for someone who had worked through the night helping saving my life. Her eyes were tired though. That gave her away.

“Well,” she said, coming to my side, “there she is.”

I breathed through my teeth. “Barely.”

“Barely counts in here.”

She adjusted the rail and checked the monitor like she could read my whole life from the beeping. Then she reached for the water and bent the straw toward my mouth.

“Small sip.”

I wanted to grab it like I’d been crawling through the desert, but my body didn’t have that kind of drama left in it. I took a tiny sip. Cold water slid over my tongue and down my throat, hurting the whole way.

“God,” I whispered.

“I know.” Denise pulled it back before I could be stupid with it. “Your throat’s gonna feel rough for a bit. That’s normal after anesthesia.”

I opened my eyes and looked past her at the empty chair.

She followed my gaze.

“Rick went home for a while,” she said carefully.

I tried to keep my face still. I had no idea if it worked. My face was so swollen it probably couldn’t do much anyway.

“He said he needed to update Lori and see his boy open presents,” she added. “He didn’t want to leave.”

I stared at the ceiling. “He should.”

Denise didn’t answer right away. She did something with the IV line, then wrote something on the chart hanging at the foot of the bed.

“He said he’d come back.”

I closed my eyes. Of course he would.

“And Shane?” I asked.

“He went to get you some clothes and things from home. Said he was bringing enough to stay here with you.”

My stomach tightened with that word — Home. That meant the trailer, which also meant Simon.

My mind also remembered that I had my savings. But I also had hospital bills now. Surgery bills. Room charges. Medication, a lot of medications. Scans... You name it.

Every dollar I’d tucked away after double shifts and skipped dinners. Every crumpled bill folded inside that can like a promise. Atlanta money. Rent money. Bus ticket money. The little rocket ship in my notebook waiting to launch.

Gone.

Maybe not gone yet, but already reaching for the door.

I stared at the ceiling and felt something colder than grief settle under my ribs.

“Sam?”

I blinked.

Denise was watching me. “Pain climbing?”

I almost laughed. Pain was such a busy word.

“No.”

She gave me a look.

“Some,” I admitted.

“We’re keeping you on a schedule today. You don’t need to be brave with me.”

“I’m not brave.”

“Good. Makes my job easier.”

I looked at her then, the hair had started escaping its ponytail near her ears. Her lipstick, if she’d had any at the start of the shift, was long gone. She had one of those faces that seemed built for being practical, but there was kindness tucked into the corners when she let it show.

“Is it Christmas?” I asked, even though I knew.

She glanced toward the window. “Sure is.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“No.” Her hand paused on the bed rail. “Hospitals have a strange way of swallowing holidays.”

I looked at the Santa pin on her shirt.

She noticed and touched it lightly. “My daughter made me wear it. Said the patients needed cheer.”

“Is it working?”

Denise looked down at it. “Jury’s still out.”

That almost got a real smile from me. It pulled at my split eyebrow, so I stopped.

A few minutes later, another nurse came in with a small paper cup of pills and a folded towel still warm from somewhere. Her name was Lena. I remembered her vaguely, young and pale from the night before, though maybe that was the drugs filling in faces from noise.

“Merry Christmas,” she said softly, then winced like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed.

“Bold choice,” I whispered.

She froze where she was and Denise snorted.

Lena relaxed by half an inch. “We have pudding later. Red and green sprinkles if the kitchen doesn’t forget.”

“Living large.”

“That’s what we do here.”

They worked around me in a way that made me feel less like a person and more like a project, though neither of them treated me that way. Denise checked the dressing across my abdomen. Lena helped shift the blanket. They rolled me slightly with more pillows and warning than I thought a human body required, and I still cried through my teeth because the pain went mean and bright.

“Sorry, honey,” Denise murmured. “I know. I know.”

I hated being called honey. I also wanted to hold onto her sleeve and beg her not to move me again.

Once they were done, Lena tucked the warm towel beneath my good hand.

“For comfort,” she said, almost shy.

I stared at it. It was just a towel. A hospital towel, thin and ugly, warm enough to seep into my fingers.

For some reason, that was the thing that made my eyes sting.

“Thanks,” I whispered.

She nodded and slipped out before she could see if I was really crying.

Denise stayed behind, fussing with the curtain, then the trash can, then the little Santa pin that had turned sideways.

“You have visitors,” she said after a while.

My stomach tightened again. “Who?”

“Mariah and Markus. They’re in the waiting room.”

Oh.

My eyes closed. This is the small town effect. Bad news in King’s County didn’t travel, it sprinted. It climbed through vents, slipped under doors, rode in police radios, and landed in people’s kitchens before the coffee finished brewing.

“How bad do I look?” I asked.

Denise considered lying. I watched her decide against it. “Rough.”

“Great.”

“You want me to tell them no?”

I thought about that.

Mariah would come in anyway, probably through the air ducts if she had to. Markus would stand outside looking like a sad boy until I felt guilty enough to let him in.

“No,” I said. “Let them.”

Denise nodded. “Ten minutes. You get tired, I kick them out.”

“Promise?”

“With pleasure.”

She left, and I stared at the doorway and tried to prepare myself to be seen.

That was a strange kind of fear. I’d been seen messy before. Hungover. Sweaty from work. Crying in the alley behind the bar. Wearing the same jeans three days in a row because the washer at the trailer broke again and Shane forgot to fix the hose.

This was different.

This was my face bruised and swollen. My arm bolted back together. My body cut open because Simon had kicked and hit until doctors had to remove pieces of me to keep me alive. I didn't want them to see all that.

The door opened before I could build a decent wall around myself.

Mariah came in first.

Her hair was shoved under a knit hat, eyeliner smudged in a way that usually looked careless and cool, but today it looked like she’d cried in the car and wiped it away badly. She had a gas station coffee in one hand and a stuffed reindeer tucked under her arm.

Markus followed with a paper bag and a face so stricken I had to look away from him immediately.

Mariah stopped three steps inside, and for once, she had nothing to say. That shit was scary, Mariah always had something to say.

“Damn,” I whispered. “That bad?”

Her mouth trembled. Then she walked to the side of the bed and put the stuffed reindeer on my blanket like she had a job to do and had decided this was it.

“He’s stupid looking,” she said. “I thought you’d relate.”

I let out a breath that tried to be a laugh and ended up hurting too much.

“Don’t make me laugh.”

“Right. Sorry.” She wiped under one eye with her thumb, quick and angry. “I’m pissed at you.”

“At me?”

“Yeah, for looking like this on Christmas. Really inconsiderate.”

Markus made a rough sound near the door. He hadn’t moved closer yet. Him and his big old heart stood there holding a paper bag with both hands like he didn’t trust himself.

“Hey, boss,” I said, because somebody had to.

His face crumpled.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Don’t,” I warned, though my voice was barely there.

He nodded too fast. “I’m trying.”

“You’re failing.”

“I know.”

Mariah dragged the chair closer with her foot and sat. “He cried in the parking lot.”

“Traitor,” Markus muttered.

“He did. Full Hallmark movie.”

“I didn’t know what else to do.” He spoke softly and it broke something inside me.

He came closer then, slow, like I was a deer that might bolt. The thought was ridiculous enough that I focused on it instead of his wet eyes.

“I brought muffins,” he said, lifting the bag. “Hospital probably won’t let you eat them yet, but I panicked at the bakery.”

“Very on brand.” I answered with a smile tugging my lips.

“And your tips from last night.” His voice changed. He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope, thick and folded. “I counted the drawer after… after everything. You had seventy-eight dollars in cash tips. I added your shift pay for the night from the safe.”

My throat tightened so hard at that, I cursed him on my mind, because, damn... That was very thoughtful.

“Markus.”

“It’s yours.”

I looked at the envelope, and that ugly little voice in my head woke again. Hospital bills, take the fucking money.

My eyes burned. “Can you… can you give it to Shane? He’ll put it with my stuff.”

Markus nodded. “Yeah. Course.”

Mariah watched me too closely. She knew. Maybe not the details, but she knew money was never just money for me. It was distance, a door. It was a bus ticket out of the life that had finally caught me by the throat.

“You still going to Atlanta,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

But how could I go anywhere like this? I couldn’t sit up without Denise and Lena turning it into a team effort. I had a left arm full of hardware, ribs that screamed when I breathed wrong, and stitches low on my belly where doctors had gone in and changed my future. My coffee can savings were about to be eaten by a hospital bed and a surgeon with tired eyes.

Atlanta felt like a story I’d told myself before the world corrected me.

Mariah leaned closer. “Sam.”

I looked at her.

“You’re still going.”

A tear slid into my hair. I hated it. I hated crying in front of them. I hated that my body had become a thing everyone could read without asking me.

“Maybe,” I whispered.

“No maybe.”

Markus shifted. “Mariah.”

“No, don’t Markus me.” She kept her eyes on mine. “Maybe it’s later. But you’re not letting him keep you here from a jail cell or a grave or wherever the hell he ends up.”

A strange silence followed. The words jail cell made something change in my mind.

“Did they find him?” I asked.

Mariah looked at Markus like she spoke too much. And to be fair? She had.

Markus looked at the floor.

I swallowed hard enough to hurt. “Tell me.”

Mariah’s jaw flexed. “Cops picked him up at the trailer sometime before dawn. He was passed out in the recliner.”

Of course he was. Of course Simon Walsh beat his daughter until she needed surgery, then went home and fell asleep in his chair like a man who’d earned rest.

My vision blurred so fast.

“Good,” I said, though it sounded empty.

“Shane didn’t know where he was,” Markus added quickly. “Rick made sure nobody told him until Simon was already in custody.”

Mariah’s voice gentled in a way that made me nervous. “You don’t have to know what to do with that right now.”

I stared at the ceiling.

Doing something with my life had been my problem for months.

“Can we talk about literally anything else?” I whispered.

Mariah nodded. “Markus wore two different socks.”

I turned my eyes toward him. He looked down at his boots. “You can’t even see them.”

“I saw them when he got out of the car,” Mariah said. “One has ducks.”

“Goddamn it.”

“Even Jesus saw.” She teased him.

I closed my eyes and smiled for real for the first time that morning.

For ten minutes, they did exactly what I needed without asking. They talked about the bar. About the drunk regular who once tried to pay his tab with a Blockbuster card. About Mariah’s mom burning cinnamon rolls that morning because she got distracted calling half the county to verify the gossip. Markus told me he was closing the bar for a few days. I told him that was financially irresponsible. He told me to shut up in the gentlest voice I’d ever heard from him.

Denise came in twice. Once to check my vitals, once to glare at the length of the visit. Lena brought a little paper cup of ice chips and asked if I wanted the TV on for the Christmas parade.

“No,” I said immediately.

Mariah raised her hand. “Absolutely not. She hates joy.”

“I hate marching bands.”

“She hates joy and marching bands.”

Lena smiled like she’d been waiting all shift for someone to say something normal.

Before they left, Mariah stood and looked down at me with her mouth pressed tight.

“I don’t know how to hug you,” she said.

“Probably shouldn't”

“I want to.”

“I know.”

She bent carefully and kissed the only safe place she could find, the top of my hair near my temple, away from the stitches and swelling.

“You scared the shit out of me,” she whispered.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Be alive.”

I closed my eyes.

Markus came next. He didn’t kiss my hair. He didn’t try to touch much. He put his hand over my good one for one second, warm and heavy.

“You call me for anything,” he said. “You hear?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean it.” He looked like he wanted to say more. Then he didn’t. Maybe there were no words big enough, and for once Markus knew better than to force small ones into the room.

They left the reindeer on the bed.

After they were gone, the room felt wider.

I slept a little. Or drifted. It was hard to tell the difference. The drugs made dreams out of ceiling tiles and half-heard conversations. Someone came in to check the drain near my incision. Someone else listened to my lungs and told me to take a deeper breath, which made me want to throw the little stuffed reindeer at their head. Lena brought pudding at some point. Vanilla, with red and green sprinkles dumped on top like an apology.

“You don’t have to eat it,” she said.

I stared at it. The sprinkles were bleeding color into the pale pudding.

“Did the kitchen remember?”

“They did.”

“Big day for them.”

She smiled and set it on the tray. “Merry Christmas, Sam.”

She fed me two bites because some woman in a kitchen had put Christmas sprinkles on it, and it felt rude to waste that.

By the time Shane came back, the light outside had changed again. Late afternoon I think, since I couldn’t see the clock without turning my head, and turning my head was a whole event. The door opened quietly, which meant whoever came in was trying very hard to behave.

That alone told me it was him.

Shane Walsh entered my hospital room carrying two duffel bags, a plastic grocery sack, a folded blanket, and the expression of a man who had been punched by the last twelve hours and kept asking for another round.

His hair was wet like he’d shoved his head under the sink. He’d changed clothes, but his shirt was wrinkled, and his boots still had mud near the soles. His eyes went to me first. Then the machines. Then the reindeer.

“What the hell is that?”

“His name is probably Kevin.”

“Probably?”

“Mariah didn’t say.”

He stepped inside and set the bags down by the wall. “Looks like a Kevin.”

“Told you.”

For a second, it almost felt like us. Then he looked at my face too long, and that feeling broke.

“Stop,” I whispered.

He blinked. “What?”

“Looking like that.”

His jaw tightened. He sat in the chair Rick had used, the one with the folded blanket still over the back. His eyes dropped to the coffee cup on the floor.

“Rick coming back?”

The question was careful in a way Shane usually wasn’t.

“He said he would.”

Shane nodded. No comment. That was new.

“He went to see Carl,” I added, because I didn’t know why I needed to defend him. “Christmas.”

“I know.” Shane rubbed both hands over his face. “He called the station before he left. Checked on Simon.”

My body went cold.

Shane saw it. “He’s locked up.”

I stared at him.

“He’s locked up,” he repeated. “He ain’t coming near you.”

“Did you see him?”

Shane’s eyes flashed. “No.”

That one word held a whole fight behind it.

“Shane.”

“I didn’t.”

“Did you want to?”

He let out a laugh that had nothing good in it. “What do you think?”

I watched him. The guilt was still there, sitting under everything he did. The way he held his shoulders. The way he kept rubbing at his mouth. The way his eyes avoided the blanket over my middle like looking there might finish him.

“You can’t carry this,” I said.

He looked at me as the words left my mouth. “What?”

“This.” I swallowed. “That fucking guilt.”

His face went hard fast, protective anger rising because it was easier than hearing me.

“I’m your brother.”

“Yeah.”

“I was supposed to get you.”

“I know.”

He flinched. Good. Maybe he needed it honest before he could let any of it go.

“I waited,” I said softly. “I was annoyed. Then Dad came in. That happened. You forgetting is part of the night, Shane. It isn’t the whole night.”

He looked away.

“Don’t do that.”

His eyes came back to mine, wet and furious. “Do what?”

“Turn it into something you can punish yourself with forever.”

His mouth trembled once. “I left you there.”

“Simon did this. Not you.”

“I left you there with him.”

“He walked into the bar and did this.”

“If I’d been there—”

“You weren’t.”

My own heart hurt saying those words. The truth. He weren't there.

Shane stared at me, breathing hard through his nose, eyes shining. The little boy was there again under all the muscle and anger. The one from old photo albums. The teenager who used to sleep beside my bed during storms because I’d pretend I wasn’t scared and he’d pretend he wasn’t either.

"You weren’t there,” I repeated, gentler. “And I’m angry about that. I think I get to be angry about it for a while.”

He nodded quickly, tears spilling before he could stop them.

“But I need you here now,” I said. “So don’t go somewhere in your head where I can’t reach you.”

He bent forward, and covered his face.

I let him cry.

There wasn’t much else I could do. I couldn’t reach him, couldn’t sit up, couldn’t wrap my good arm around his neck and tell him I was still his annoying little sister who stole his fries and called him an idiot to his face.

So I let the silence hold us until he could breathe again.

After a while, he wiped his face with both hands and sat down. His eyes were red, and so was his nose.

“I brought your stuff.”

“Please tell me you packed underwear and didn’t just throw random shit into a bag.”

He gave me a wounded look. “I know how to pack a bag.”

“You once packed for a camping trip and forgot socks.”

“That was one time.”

“And bug spray. And the tent poles.”

“We slept in the Jeep. It was fine.”

I looked at him.

He sighed. “I packed underwear.”

“Proud of you.”

He reached for one duffel bag and unzipped it, showing me folded clothes that were probably less folded and more aggressively flattened. Pajama pants. Socks. A sweatshirt. My hairbrush. Toothpaste. My notebook.

My chest tightened.

“You brought that?”

He glanced down at the notebook like it had burned him. “It was under your pillow.”

My mouth went dry.

“And the coffee can?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Shane went still for a second too long. I hated that I asked. I hated that I needed to know.

“I got it,” he said quietly. “It’s in the bag. All of it.”

I stared at him.

“All of it,” he repeated. “I didn’t count it.”

I nodded.

The ugly voice started again with all the things I probably need to pay after this.

Atlanta getting smaller and smaller until it fit inside a coffee can and still wasn’t enough.

Shane leaned forward. “Sammy.”

“I’ll need it,” I whispered.

“No. We’re not doing that right now.” He said with his big brother authority voice.

“I have to pay for this.”

“You have to heal.”

“With what money?”

His jaw flexed. “We’ll figure it out.”

That almost made me laugh, and not in a good way. People said that when there wasn’t a plan. We’ll figure it out, now meant bills on the table, phone calls ignored, envelopes unopened until they turned threatening. I’d been figuring it out since I was old enough to understand overdue notices.

“My Atlanta money’s gone,” I said.

His face changed. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s only money.”

“It was my way out.”

His eyes held mine, and something stubborn came alive in them. “Then we’ll get you another way out.”

I closed my eyes. But he kept going "You being alive is the most important thing to me right now."

My chest hurt again. This time it was only halfway physical.

He leaned down and pulled something small from the pocket of his jacket. His fingers closed around it for a second before he showed me, like he needed one last breath.

“I got you something.”

“Shane, I’m in the hospital. If this is gas station candy, I might cry.”

“It ain’t candy.”

He held out a small box.

It was dark blue, velvet on the outside, the kind of box that made me immediately uncomfortable because it looked too nice for anyone in my family to own. My eyes went from it to him.

“What did you do?”

“Bought it.”

“With what money?”

“Don’t start.”

I was too tired to fight properly, so I only stared until he opened it.

Inside was a necklace. Silver chain. Small pendant. Angel wings.

Two wings curved inward slightly, detailed enough to catch the pale hospital light. Simple and delicate. So unlike Shane that for a second I couldn’t understand it had come from his hands.

My throat closed.

“I saw it a couple weeks ago,” he said, voice rough. “At that little jewelry place by the grocery store. Thought it was stupid to spend money on something like this when everything’s been…” He looked around the hospital room, then back at the necklace. “Anyway. I went back this morning after I got your stuff. Lady was opening late, but I banged on the door until she let me in.”

“Oh my God.”

“I paid, don't worry.”

“That’s not the part I’m worried about.”

He ignored that and lifted the necklace slightly. The wings swung from the chain, catching light.

“You used to draw rockets on everything,” he said.

“Don’t make fun of my rockets.”

“I ain’t.” His fingers tightened around the chain. “You always wanted out. Wanted up. Wanted somewhere bigger than this place. When you were little, you’d climb on top of Dad’s truck and tell me you were practicing for takeoff.”

A tear slipped before I could stop it.

He saw it and kept going anyway.

“I don’t know how to fix what happened. I don’t know how to make up for missing that call or being stupid or letting you carry so much for so long. I can’t go back and walk into that bar before him.”

His voice cracked and a sob escaped me.

“But from today on, you don’t fly alone. You need me, I’m there. Any hour. Any place. I don’t care if you’re mad at me. I don’t care if you leave King’s County and never look back. You call, I come.”

I couldn’t breathe right. He looked at the necklace, then at me.

“You’re meant to fly high in this life, Sammy. Higher than all of us. Higher than him. And I’m gonna make damn sure nobody gets to tear your wings off again.”

The sob hit me so much more hard it hurt everywhere.

My ribs protested. My belly pulled. My arm throbbed. The monitor sped up and Shane panicked, half-standing with the necklace still in his hand.

“Shit. Did I hurt you?”

“No,” I cried, which was a lie in every possible way. “You’re just… you’re being so fucking dramatic.”

He laughed and cried at the same time, wiping his face with his shoulder because both hands were busy with the necklace.

“You want me to put it on you?”

I nodded.

Then remembered my body. “Can you?”

“I’ll be careful.”

He stood and moved behind the bed, slow as hell, like Denise might burst through the wall and tackle him if he breathed too hard around me. He lifted my hair gently from the back of my neck. His fingers shook. The chain brushed my skin, cool and light, and for a second all I could do was stare at the ceiling while my big brother fastened angel wings around my throat in a hospital room on Christmas Day.

The pendant settled against my chest. Almost weightless.

I looked down as much as I could. The wings rested above the hospital gown, bright against the faded fabric.

Shane came back around to my side. “Too tight?”

I shook my head carefully. “No.”

“You like it?”

I couldn’t answer right away.

So I reached with my good hand, and he took it.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “I love it.”

His thumb pressed against my knuckles.

“I’m still mad,” I said.

“I know.”

“And I’m still gonna bring this up every Christmas.”

A broken smile touched his mouth. “Fair.”

“And you’re paying for my hospital pudding if they charge me for it.”

His smile faded a little at that, because he heard the fear under the joke.

“We’ll deal with the money,” he said.

I looked at the angel wings on my chest.

“I was so close.”

“I know.”

“So close, Shane.”

His hand tightened around mine. “You still are.”

I closed my eyes, exhausted in a way sleep couldn’t fix. The necklace rested lightly against my skin.

My body hurt. My future felt strange and half-buried. Rick was somewhere else with his family, and Simon was locked behind bars. My coffee can full of freedom sat inside a duffel bag by the wall waiting to become a hospital payment.

Still, Shane was here.

His hand was wrapped around mine, careful now. Careful in a way he’d never been before because life had finally scared him into learning how.

I breathed in as much as my ribs allowed.

The wings moved with me.

I have a taglist for this one, and if you want to be tagged, just let me know? taglist: @staley83 , @ravensare

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[followyourfleart]

Baby, Come Back to Me

a03 | masterlist

blurb - Separated by miles, years, and the undead, you and your husband have been ghosts in each other’s lives for two decades. The thought of Joel being alive hurt just as much as thinking he was dead. But when a stand-off forces you face-to-face with a familiar man—older, harder, and still devastatingly him—all the pain resurfaces.

warnings - nsfw,  mdni  18+, attempted murder, violence, yearning, loss of a child, parent!Reader, grief, fear of intimacy, slight suicidal wishes, female masturbation, mutual masturbation, 69, cuddle fucking, creampie (don't try this at home), emotional sex, scent kink???

author's note: I did listen to "Back to Me" by the Marias the entire time I wrote this...

One shot requested by: anyomous

wc: 18.3 k

Mwah!

“Joel…”

Mwah!

You giggled this time, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and a smile. “Joel.”

Mwah! Mwah!

“Oh my God! You’re gonna ruin my hair!”

He didn’t stop. He kissed you once more—loudly, obnoxiously—right on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely reach for your keys.

“You ain’t leavin’ yet,” he said against your hair.

You tried to twist out of his hold, but he just shifted with you, his body like a weighted blanket. “Joel—”

“My birthday is tonight,” he murmured, cheek pressed to the side of your head. “Keyword: Tonight.”

“You’re not six.”

“Don’t need to be,” he muttered, “To wanna spend it with my wife.”

Somewhere down the hall, Sarah’s laughter drifted from her room, soft and muffled. You exhaled, melting into his chest despite yourself. He smelled like sawdust and soap, and you hated how safe it made you feel, because you did need to go.

“Joel,” you whispered again, gentler this time. “It’s an ER shift. You know I can’t just—”

“I know, I know.”

He finally leaned back enough to look at you. His face was that ache that always peeked out when you had to leave for your night shifts.

“I packed you dinner,” he said finally, nodding toward the counter.

Your gaze followed. A brown paper bag sat neatly by your keys, the folded top pressed flat with ridiculous precision. You could see his handwriting scrawled across it: Eat every bite.

You looked back at him, and his expression was stubbornly casual, like you hadn’t watched him make sure your thermos didn’t leak and your sandwich didn’t get squished while you changed into your scrubs.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah, I did,” he cut in, quiet but sure. “You forget to eat when it gets busy.”

“I do not forget.”

“Mm,” he said, unconvinced. “That’s why last week you came home and inhaled pizza like you ain’t seen food in a week.”

You shoved at his chest, and he caught your wrist with a smirk, pressing one more kiss to your knuckles.

And that’s when the sound of socked feet sliding down the hallway interrupted you.

“Ew,” Sarah groaned, appearing in the doorway, half-eaten apple in hand. “Not this again.”

Joel didn’t even look her way. “What’s this ‘gain?”

“You being a total sap,” she said, hopping up on one of the stools. “She’s just going to work.”

Joel’s head turned slowly to his kid. “You don’t get it.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re dramatic.”

You covered your mouth to hide a smile, pretending to check your bag again.

Joel lifted a brow at her. “You done?”

“Not even close,” she said sweetly. “Stop hogging her.”

He glanced back to you, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Why’d wanna talk to her so bad, huh?”

“Maybe I wanna talk to someone other than you for the next twelve hours.”

Joel let out a low noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and grabbed his mug. “Uh-huh. I’ll remember that next time you need a ride to the mall.”

You and Sarah watched him disappear around the corner. There was a beat of silence, and then the sound of him shutting the bedroom door echoed faintly.

“Did it get fixed?”

Her grin was instant, mischievous, like she’d been waiting for that cue all night.

“You bet it did.”

She glanced over her shoulder once more, then ducked into her backpack and pulled out a small box. When she cracked it open, the soft ticking filled the quiet kitchen.

Joel’s watch. Working.

You hadn’t seen it tick since—well, since ever. Not once in all the years you’d known him. She smiled so wide it almost broke your heart. “He deserves it,” she said softly.

You wrapped your arms around her before she could hide her blush. “You did good, baby.”

Her hair smelled faintly of coconut shampoo and laundry detergent. You pressed a kiss into her curls, and she squeezed you tight.

“When I’m back in the morning,” you murmured against her hair, “Your dad gets me, then it’s all you and me, okay?”

She pulled back, grinning. “Deal. I need a dress. Homecomings, like, next week and everyone already has theirs.”

You smoothed her hair from her face. “Then we’ll find you the perfect one. Promise.”

Her eyes sparkled. “It’s gonna be the best.”

You smiled, meaning it. “It will.”

For a moment, it was just the two of you, the low hum of the fridge filling the silence, the clock ticking in time with the watch.

Then you glanced up—and froze.

“Shoot,” you muttered. “I’m late.”

You moved fast—badge, phone, keys—but she was still standing there, smiling at you.

“I love you, Sarah!” you called as you backed toward the door.

“Love you too!”

The night air was cooler than you expected, the kind of fall chill that hinted at rain but hadn’t quite decided to commit. The street was quiet, just the whisper of trees and the hum of a streetlight flickering at the corner.

The porch light cast a pale gold over the hood of your car, and you were halfway to opening the door when you heard it.

“Hey!”

You turned.

Joel was coming down the porch steps, hair mussed.

“What—?”

Before you could finish, he reached you. His hands found your face, warm and calloused, and his mouth was on yours before another word could form.

Steady. Familiar.

You smiled against his lips, your fingers curling in his shirt. “Happy birthday,” you murmured.

His eyes softened, lines crinkling at the corners. “Thank you, baby.”

He kissed you again—slower this time—and then rested his forehead against yours.

“You sure you can’t call in sick?” he whispered, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Y‘know I can’t.”

“Doesn’t hurt to try.”

For a few seconds, neither of you moved. You brushed your thumb along Joel’s jaw, tracing the familiar edge of stubble.

“Tomorrow morning,” you promised quietly. “I’m all yours.”

He nodded once, like he was filing it away. “All mine,” he repeated, voice low, half-rasp, half-prayer.

You stepped back, his hand still holding yours until the distance forced it to fall away.

“Go on,” he said, smiling now. “‘Fore I think of another excuse to keep you.”

You opened the car door, sliding in. The engine coughed to life, headlights washing the driveway in white.

Joel leaned down to your window as it rolled open, bracing one hand on the roof. “Text me when you get there.”

“I always do.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Still.”

You looked up at him for a moment—just a man standing under the porch light, watching the woman he loves drive away to work.

Then you smiled one last time, lifted your fingers in a small wave, and pulled out of the driveway.

The taillights disappeared down the street.

And behind you, Joel stood there for a long while, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes on the road that led toward the hospital, until the light finally went out.

That was the last quiet night.

┈┈・┈┈

The gas station sits at the edge of the highway like a fossil—half-buried in snowdrift, windows caked in frost, the faded sign creaking against the wind.

You pull your scarf higher over your nose and push through the door. The bell above it gives a tired little jingle, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the emptiness inside.

The place smells of dust and fuel. Rows of cracked candy wrappers and long-dead flies line the counter. A can of peaches sits upright on a shelf like it’s been waiting for you all these years.

You pause, listening. Wind sighs through a shattered window. Nothing else.

Good.

Your boots crunch on the tile as you move down the aisle. You check under the counter—some old batteries, half a lighter, a few shotgun shells. You pocket the shells, roll the lighter between your fingers, flick it. Spark. No flame. You toss it back.

You find the storage room behind a warped door, push it open with your shoulder. The metal hinges wail.

Inside: shelves toppled over, a spill of canned goods frozen to the concrete. A single cot in the corner—torn, mold creeping up the side. But it’s shelter.

You run a hand through your hair, exhale through your scarf.

You start sorting through the wreckage. Your bag was already heavy, but there’s always room for something that might keep you alive another week. A can of beans, a box of ammo if you’re lucky, maybe even a flask with something that burns on the way down.

Outside, the wind changes pitch—sharper now, colder. Snow was coming quick.

You glance through the window. Clouds roll over the mountains, dark and low, swallowing the last streaks of light.

Wyoming. You’d always wanted to see it. The peaks in the distance look soft under the gray sky, like something out of a dream you half-remember. You lean against the window frame, watch the world blur behind the snow.

The beans taste like dust. You chew anyway, slow and mechanical. You swallow, stare at the dented can in your hand, and wonder—not for the first time—why food never tastes like anything anymore.

The silence stretches long and thin.

Outside, the wind howls low through the busted doorframe, slipping under your coat. The storm’s closer. You pull your scarf tighter and sit cross-legged on the moldy cot.

The flickering fluorescent light above you buzzes. Once. Twice. Then dies completely. You sit in the dark for a long moment.

You fish out a flashlight from your pack and click it on. The beam slices through the dark in a narrow cone. Dust motes float like ghosts.

You set the can aside, grab your knife, and start sharpening it against a stone. The rhythmic scrape fills the space. Shk. Shk. Shk.

You stop only when you catch your reflection in the blade. Eyes sunken. Hair streaked with gray. Skin roughened by twenty-four winters too many.

You huff a breath through your nose, letting the knife fall beside you and lean your head back against the wall.

For a moment—just a flicker—you see it again.

The hospital. The gurneys. The screaming.

You still smelled antiseptic and blood, heard the alarms, and felt the heat of panic flooding every hallway.

Your hands had been shaking so badly back then that you couldn’t even hold the scalpel right. And when they shoved the rifle at you—you’d dropped it. You remember that clearly. You’d dropped it, and the nurse beside you had died two minutes later.

You open your eyes fast, drag in air until your ribs ache. You stare at your hands. Calloused. Scarred.

The storm outside is getting heavier now, snow slamming against the roof in thick, rhythmic waves.

You sit for a while, just breathing.

Then you reach pass your collar. Metal is cold against your fingers, smooth from years of handling. You pull out the necklace—its chain tangled from travel, the ring catching faint light from the window.

Your wedding ring.

It still fits around your finger, though you haven’t worn it in years. The gold has dulled, edges rough from weather and time. You turn it between your fingers, feeling the tiny engraving on the inside—J.M. The letters are faint now, nearly worn away.

Since rings were a ripping hazard through gloves, you always ended up leaving your ring in Joel’s hands. Meaning you left it when you escaped.

Years later, you went for it. Maybe to see if someone took it, or if it was possible that time had stopped in that house, just waiting for you to come home.

Half the roof gone, windows shattered. You’d stepped over the debris, heart thudding in your chest, and found the ring sitting in your dresser. Dust-coated. Waiting.

The rest of the house had been silent, save for the groan of wood and wind slipping through the cracks. There’d been blood by the entryway—dark, old. But no bodies. The truck was gone.

That had meant something. You’d clung to that, smiling through the tears back then.

“They made it out,” you’d whispered into your old bedroom. “He got her out. He always does.”

Now, years later, you still hold the ring like it’s proof that somewhere, somehow, they’re still alive.

That Sarah’s grown—thirty-eight now, if you’ve done the math right—maybe with her father’s strength, that same stubborn tilt of her chin.

You smile, just a little. And for that small, fragile moment between exhaustion and faith, you let yourself believe it.

That if you keep walking, keep breathing, fate might finally let your paths cross again.

The wind howls against the window. And then—a noise. Not the wind. Not the shifting of snow. You freeze.

It’s faint, beneath the storm. A crunch of a can, the muted thud of boots.

You snap out of it fast, tucking your necklace back underneath your layers, and you grab your rifle. You move silently, muscle memory taking over. The scarf wanted up, covering your mouth. You sling the rifle over your shoulder, knife in your other hand.

Another sound. Closer this time.

You forced your breathing to be small. Listened. The sound is human—not the ragged rasp of infected but even, purposeful steps. You creep to the door, ease it open a crack. Cold air hits you.

You don’t take chances. You move through the gas station like a ghost.

Shelves cast long black teeth. You navigate by sound: the snap of a plastic wrapper, a muted clink of metal. You pass an aisle and there—under a hanging sign that reads ‘SNACKS’ in flaking red paint—is a person.

She’s young-ish, brown hair dusted with snow. Pale. Focused on canned goods. You watch her for a beat, then you’re beside her; blade at her throat, gloved hand clamping her jaw before she can scream air into the room.

“Don’t make noise,” you whisper, teeth pressed to the syllables. Cold breath fogs between you.

She makes a sound—a sharp intake—but you clamp harder until it’s a single pulse under your fingers. Her green eyes are wide and furious.

You press the tip of the knife, close enough the metal kisses her skin. She doesn’t flinch. “Who are you with?”

Her eyes flick left, then right, then back up to your face. She groans something obscene. You tilt your head.

“Nod if you’re alone.”

Slow, stiff nod. Her gaze keeps sliding. You don’t believe her.

“Walk.”

She huffs and starts shuffling. You edge behind her, blade at the hollow of her throat in case she bolts.

Outside, horses stand tethered to a dented pickup. Two adult-size steeds, their breaths steaming into the night. Packs sewn onto their flanks look new—canvas stitched and mended, not the scavenged mess you usually see.

“Community,” you mutter.

The girl mumbles behind your glove—garbled words, half-swallowed by the wool. You pause, glancing down at her. Her eyes flicker with something sharper than fear. You can’t tell if it’s anger or a plan.

You loosen your hand just enough for her to speak. “You’re making a mistake,” she says, voice low, shaky but not scared. Not really. There’s defiance there. “You don’t wanna do this.”

“That right?”

“Yeah,” she breathes, chin tilting toward the dark. “Because—”

She stops. Eyes dart past you. Just a flicker. Barely a second. But it’s enough. Your instincts snap tight.

You spin, knife still at her throat, snow exploding under your boots. The world narrows to metal and breath and the small, frantic drum in your ribs. A man stands a few yards off. Broad shoulders, an old bandana pulled up over his mouth, thick winter jacket bulking up his frame more that it is; only his eyes are free.

They’re cold. Wild. Protective.

He’s holding a blade too. The wind howls between you.

“I’ll slit her throat before you take a step.” you snarl.

He doesn’t blink.

You circle, keeping the girl as a shield. He mirrors you both of you counting the breaths, looking for the twitch that means fight. Wind keens between the pillars, the horses stamp and throw up more steam.

“Back off, I swear I’ll—”

“I’ll kill you ‘fore you can.” he interrupts, stepping closer. There’s a cadence to the sentence that slips under your skin, some pattern you know but can’t name. Texan accent. Worn by the years, but Texas nonetheless.

Your hands tighten around the girl. Then she jerks—twists. You shove her back against your chest and press the knife harder; she hisses.

“Stop movin’, Ellie!” The man yells.

“Goddammit!”

She spits, and the world completely inverts—just by one word in her next sentence detonating in your chest.

“Kill her already, Joel!”

Joel.

The name stops you cold.

Joel.

It hits like a gunshot under your ribs. Your grip falters—barely, but enough.

Joel.

“...What did you just say?” you whisper.

The girl feels it, the hesitation. She wrenches free. In the same motion, she grabs your scarf and yanks it down. Cold air hits your face.

Then—pain. A hot, sharp slide near your ribs. You stumble back with a strangled noise, clutching your side.

For a second, you don’t feel it. Not really. Your body’s in survival mode, your mind already screaming move, move, move.

Two against one. You’ve been in worse. You’ve survived worse. But still—your pulse hammers so loud it drowns out the rest of the world.

The wind whooshes past your ear. White noise. You can barely hear anything else.

Except the softest call you’ve heard in years. Your name. Spoken like a memory dragged out of the grave.

You haven’t heard it in years. You’d forgotten the shape of it, the way it used to sound. You’d forgotten what it felt like to belong to it.

You look up.

The man’s eyes are on you—wide, unsteady. His chest rises and falls like he’s staring at a ghost. His knife is forgotten, dropped to the snow. You stumble back a step, confused, dizzy. He mirrors it, stepping forward, matching your retreat. One for one.

“Stay back,” you rasp, though your voice cracks halfway through.

He doesn’t. The girl says his name again, a sharp exhale of confusion. “Joel! What are you—?”

No.

No, no, no.

The world tilts. The light from the moon flickers across his face, and in that fractured second, you know. He rips the bandana from his face—

It’s him. Your life. Your love. Your other half. Your soul. Your husband.

Your Joel Miller.

Lines carved deep into his face, gray hair decorated his beautiful brown. His face is more wrinkled than before, his body more wider. But those eyes—same as the day you lost saw him.

Your breath catches in your throat. “Joel…”

The word breaks, splintering halfway out. It sounds nothing like how you used to say it. He takes another step. His voice shakes.

“Darlin’...”

You want to run. To reach for him. To scream in fear. To laugh. You can’t do any of it. You just stand there, the world narrowing until it’s just the two of you and the ghost of everything you lost.

Your knees go weak. You can feel pain now—the slow, spreading warmth of something sticky seeping through your coat. You press your hand harder to your side, but it doesn’t stop the tremor.

Joel takes another step.

“Don’t…” you manage, breathless. “Don’t—come any closer.”

You stumble back again, your boots slipping in the snow. The light-headedness hits harder now. The sky spins. You reach out, steadying yourself against the cold metal of the building behind you.

The girl’s hand tightens around her knife. Her voice is shaking now, too. “What are you waiting for?! She’s…she’s—why are you hesitating—”

You sway, vision blurring. Ellie takes another step, as if she’s going to finish the job for Joel, and that’s when you see it—the blade in her hand. Red. Glinting as it drips. Your blood.

“Christ…” you whisper.

You can barely keep your eyes open now. The snow feels softer under your boots than it should. You blink, slow and heavy, your breath coming out in short, white bursts.

Then, you fall.

Joel moves fast. A shadow through the storm. The next thing you feel is his arms wrapping around you, pulling you in. The warmth of him hits like a blow, his chest against yours, his breath shaking against your temple.

You forgot this.

The sound of him breathing, the rough rasp in his throat. The weight of his hand and how they shake when they press against your side, trying to stop the bleeding. His voice breaks through the wind, hoarse, terrified—words you can’t quite catch, just the vibration of them.

Your fingers find his coat, clutching it. It feels real. Too real. You lift your head—barely—and see his face. That face.

The man from your dreams, the one you used to stare at when you couldn’t sleep. The one you buried with your past. The one you thought you’d never touch again.

You try to speak, but it comes out as a shiver.

He presses his hand harder, cursing under his breath. His mouth opens over and over, forming words but you can’t really hear him. The wind eats at his words. You can only see his eyes frantic.

You forgot how soft his eyes could be when he was afraid. Your vision blurs around the edges. His face flickers in and out, the snow dimming into a wash of gray and white.

He yells something over his shoulder—maybe to the girl, maybe to no one. You can’t tell. The world’s shrinking too fast.

Then—his voice, raw, breaking:

“Not ’gain. Not ’gain.”

You blink slowly, trying to focus on his mouth, the way his voice trembles like he’s said this before.

Again?

The thought cuts through the haze for a second. Did he mean you? Did he dream of you, too? See your face in strangers? Hear your voice in the dark like you did his?

The thought makes you smile. You look up at him—just once more—and the sight fills you whole.

Then the light fades. You go limp in his arms.

He calls your name again, but you don’t hear it. The world folds inward—black and quiet.

┈┈・┈┈

The church wasn’t much.

A narrow, sunlit room with peeling paint and crooked pews. The air smelled faintly of wood polish. There was no music—just the soft hum of cicadas outside and the creak of the floorboards under your heels.

It was perfect.

Your mother sat front row, tissues clutched in both hands, whispering something to your father that made him chuckle under his breath. Tommy was beside them, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, trying and failing to keep a squirming little girl in her seat.

“C’mon now, darlin’,” he muttered as Sarah kicked her legs and reached toward the front of the hall. “Your daddy’s a little busy right now, alright? You’ll see him in a minute.”

Sarah let out a squeal that echoed through the church, a bright little sound that made Joel’s shoulders stiffen and then sag.

You laughed under your breath, watching him. His hands were clasped nervously in front of him, the tie around his neck slightly crooked. His hair was damp from sweat, combed back but already falling out of place. There was a flush high on his cheeks.

“I swear I listened when you told me to feed her. She jus’—” He sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching. “She don’t like sittin’ still. Guess that’s my fault.”

“She just wants her daddy,” you said softly.

Joel’s eyes flicked to you, warm and nervous all at once. “Well, can’t say I blame her for that.”

“You always this confident at the altar?”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Confidence or stupidity—hard to tell.”

There was a pause. Sarah let out another squeal and Tommy groaned, muttering something about ‘should’ve brought snacks.’ Joel grinned, shaking his head, then looked back at you with that same teasing glint.

“Still time to back out, y’know,” he said. “Ain’t too late to change your mind.”

You gasped, hand flying to your chest. “Excuse me?”

“I mean—not like that, darlin’. Jus’... y‘know I’m not exactly prime real estate.”

“Joel Miller…” you said, voice full of mock outrage.

“What?” he said, laughing now. “I’m jus’ bein’ honest!”

You took a step closer, your dress brushing the floor. The minister cleared his throat softly, but neither of you looked away. You reached up, caught his tie in your hand, and tugged him just enough that his eyes widened a little.

“Never,” you whispered.

He blinked, his breath catching. And then you kissed him.

The world went still for a moment. It was just the two of you—your hand fisted in his tie, his palm finding your waist, the rough scrape of his stubble brushing your cheek. He kissed you back, slow at first, then deeper when you smiled against his mouth.

Behind you, your mother and dad sniffled audibly. Tommy muttered something, but there was laughter in his voice.

When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

And when Joel finally whispered, “For as long as I got breath…”, you knew—this was how it was always meant to be.

┈┈・┈┈

You wake to the sound of wind and the slow, steady rhythm of breathing that isn’t your own.

Your lashes flutter open. Wooden beams. No patched roof. The air smells faintly of pine and smoke, warm from… a heater? For a moment, you think you’re dreaming. Then a deep ache blooms along your side.

You jolt upright—too fast. The pain punches through you. A strangled noise escapes your throat as you clutch your ribs. Bandages. Tight, clean, freshly changed.

That’s when you hear it again.

You whip your head toward the sound—instinct first, reason later—and shove back against the headboard, teeth bared, ready to fight through the pain if you have to.

“Hey—hey, easy, easy.”

That voice.

Joel’s sitting in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, that same rugged face you’ve seen a hundred times in dreams, weathered now by years and loss. The gray in his beard catches the light. His flannel’s frayed at the cuffs. Sleep wears on his face. He must’ve just woken up.

It’s all impossible. It has to be.

“Joel?”

His mouth parts just slightly, like he’s afraid to breathe wrong. “Yeah, darlin’. It’s me.”

You shake your head, trying to make sense of it, but the world feels warped. His eyes are the same—warm brown, flecked with gold—and that hurts worse than anything else. Because they look real.

For a long, unbearable moment, neither of you move. The room hums around you—wind through the cracked window, the faint thud of boots outside—but all you can hear is your heartbeat and the sound of Joel’s shaky breath.

You shift again, the pain in your side flaring white-hot. A groan slips out before you can stop it. Joel’s expression crumples.

“Stop movin’,” he mutters, half rising, hands twitching uselessly like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. “You’ll rip the stitches.”

You swing your legs over the bed, ignoring the protest in your ribs. He flinches like it physically hurts him to see you do it. He stands with you, crossing around the bed to get in front of you.

His jaw works, like he’s trying to find something to say.

But all that comes out is your name.

It roots you to the floor.

You blink hard, throat burning, and when you look up again, his eyes are wet. He tries to blink it away, to look like the same man who used to fix things, who used to steady you.

He says it again. Softer this time.

Your breath stumbles. There’s a tremor in his hand when he finally reaches out.

When his fingers brush your cheek, you flinch— from a strange mix of fear and disbelief. His hand’s rough, warm. He drags his thumb slow across your skin, tracing your jaw, your cheekbone, your nose.

Like a blind man who had just earned his sight back.

For a second, there’s nothing but the sound of both of you breathing—fast, uneven, disbelieving.

And then—

You take a step back. Another. Another.

Distance.

You hit the metal tray behind you, the clatter piercing through the air, and Joel’s brow furrows. “It’s alright,” he says, voice low, coaxing, like you’re some frightened animal.

You shake your head, breath catching. “No—no, it’s not.”

“Darlin’, it’s me—”

“Don’t.” The word rips out of you, sharp and trembling. “Don’t call me that.”

His mouth parts, but nothing comes out. His hand drops uselessly to his side.

You can’t breathe. The air feels too thick, the walls too close. Your body won’t stay still—your fingers twitch, your shoulders jerk. You can hear your pulse in your ears.

He was here. You wanted this. You wished for it, but now that it was here… it was all too much, him standing here, alive.

“I knew you died,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I knew and I still believed—"

“I didn’t,” he interrupts, desperate. “I didn’t die, darlin’. I—”

“Stop!” You press your hands to your temples, nails digging in. “Stop calling me that!”

“You’re shakin’. Lemme me—”

“No!” You stumble back, hand slamming into the cabinet. “You can’t—no—you can’t just—”

Your chest caves. Breath stutters. You can’t fill your lungs, can’t find air. The room tilts, the fluorescent light overhead flickering like a heartbeat gone wrong.

He’s reaching again, trying to catch your shoulders, but the touch only makes it worse. You jerk away, a strangled sound tearing out of you.

And then—

Bang.

The door slams open.

“Joel!” Tommy’s voice, rougher now, deeper, but still that same drawl that once filled your old house with laughter.

You stare at him. He’s got a mustache now. Older, broader. Wrinkles that line the corners of his eyes.

You make a small, broken sound in your throat. It’s too much—the sound of his voice, the sight of Joel, your world cracking open and mending together all at once.

Tommy’s eyes soften when he sees you, but his tone is firm. “Step outside, brother.”

“Hell no,” Joel snaps, stepping in front of you. “My wife’s panickin’, Tommy—”

You twitch at that word—wife—and your breath catches, shuddering.

Tommy lifts a hand. “Out. Now.”

“Tommy—”

“Joel.” His tone hardens. “Get out.”

The two stare each other down, that familiar stubborn silence passing between them. Joel’s chest heaves. His jaw flexes.

Then his eyes flick to you. Just once. And that look—raw, gutted—undoes something in your chest. He goes. But not without a fight in his stance, not without looking like every step toward the door costs him blood.

Tommy stays behind long enough to look at you. His smile’s thin, a shade of what it used to be. “Why don’t you sit down, huh? Maria’s comin’ over real soon. She’ll take care of you.”

You don’t even nod, just stare like those abandoned mannequins in the windows of clothing stores. He hesitates, looks like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t.

Then he leaves. The door shuts behind them with a soft click.

You stand there for a long time, trembling, until the sound of your breathing evens out. The air still smells like alcohol and metal. You press your back to the wall, sliding down until you’re sitting on the cold wooden floorboards.

You don’t cry. You just listen.

Through the crack of the door, their voices filter in—muted, low, but heated.

“You’re overwhelmin’ her, Joel. Can’t you see that?”

Joel’s voice, rough and unsteady, comes right after. “She knows me, Tommy. She—she looked at me. You saw it too. She knows me.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, dry. “Don’t mean she can handle you right now.”

“I ain’t some stranger, dammit! I’m her husband. That’s my wife. You understand? My wife. I thought she was gone. I thought—”

“You thought a lotta things, but that don’t change what’s in front of you. I get it.”

A pause. You imagine Joel’s face—the way he presses his lips together when he’s holding back something too big to say.

Then his voice again, lower. “You didn’t see her eyes, Tommy. I did. She remembered me. She didn’t forget.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“She belongs with me. She should live with me—get used to things ‘gain, get used to me.”

“The hell she should,” Tommy snaps. “That’s the worst idea I’ve heard come outta your mouth, and that’s sayin’ somethin’.”

“Why? Why the hell not? Y’think I can jus’—what—leave her sittin’ in some damn corner, pretendin’ like she didn’t spend almost half her life with me?”

Tommy doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches, filled with the sound of boots shifting on wood, wind against the windows.

When he does speak, his voice is steady. “’Cause she’s scared of you, Joel.”

The words land heavy. You can feel the air change on the other side of the door.

“She flinched when you touched her.”

Joel says nothing.

“She damn near stopped breathin’ when you got closer,” Tommy goes on, quieter now. “And not ‘cause she don’t care. It’s ‘cause she’s been out there, alone. Y’know what that does to a person.”

Joel finally mutters something, too low to catch.

Tommy sighs. “Y’think she had folks lookin’ after her all this time? Hell, for all we know, she’s been walkin’ ‘lone for years. One, two, five, ten—Christ, maybe since the whole damn thing started.”

A pause. Then Tommy again, voice soft but heavy.

“She ain’t the same person you lost. And neither are you.”

The words twist deep, where you don’t want them to reach.

Eventually, you hear the floor creak again—Tommy’s boots moving away, Joel’s slower behind him. The sound fades down the hallway, swallowed by the hum of your own thoughts.

You tilt your head back against the wall and stare at the ceiling light until your eyes blur.

He’s alive.

He’s here.

And you don’t know whether to thank God or curse Him.

┈┈・┈┈

To say you’re skittish is an understatement.

Tommy and Maria’s house feels too clean. Too normal. Every sound—every creak, every low murmur from the kitchen—puts your nerves on edge. You keep expecting someone to barge in and tell you to pack your things, that you don’t belong here.

The curtains remain half-shut, and you sleep on top of the blanket instead of under it, because the bed is too soft. The first night, you woke up gasping, the fabric bunched around your throat, the scent of cleanliness sharp enough to make your eyes sting.

Now you avoid it altogether. You sit on the edge, knees drawn up, staring at the wooden nightstand. You run your fingers over the lamp switch. The clock. The drawer handle.

Twenty years ago, these things were nothing. Background. White noise. Now they feel like relics from a life that belonged to someone else.

Beds. Nightstands. Floors that don’t creak from rot.

Hot water. Toothpaste. A door that locks from the inside.

You leave the room only the bathroom, since they bring you your food. Once, Maria knocked to tell you that there had been snow on the Christmas tree they just set up, and it was gorgeous with the lights, and you almost said yes to following her out there.

Almost.

But the second your hand touched the doorknob, something inside you froze. You mumbled an apology and stayed put.

They never complained. Not once.

Maria—she tries. She smiles at you when she offers you fresh bread, tea, small comforts. She has that kind of strength like she’s seen her share of ruin and decided not to let it show. You can see why Tommy married her.

He checks your wound every couple of days, his hands steady, his voice low. “Healin’ good,” he says. “Maria’s been keepin’ the bandages clean. You’re lucky she’s the one runnin’ the place.”

You nod. You never know what to say back.

He talks a lot, though. Tries to fill the silence with something easy. “Jackson’s different,” he tells you. “We got systems. Rules that keep folks fed, safe. We all pitch in.”

You hum under your breath, skeptical. “Sounds like a QZ,” you croak out before you can stop yourself.

Tommy chuckles, but his eyes narrow just slightly, like he knows what you mean. “Ain’t no QZ. No FEDRA. No soldiers. Nobody hoardin’ food. We look out for each other here.”

You study him a long time, trying to decide if you believe it. He must see the hesitation in your face, because he adds, quietly,

“I wouldn’t have stayed if it wasn’t what I said.”

He means it. You can tell.

Days pass. A week and a half. You fall into a rhythm, if you can call it that. You wake up, sit on the edge of the bed, watch the light crawl across the floorboards. You listen to the faint laughter that sometimes drifts from the street outside. You eat when someone leaves a plate at your door. You wait until night to move around.

Then one morning, Maria breaks it by knocking softly.

You’re sitting on the bed, fingers picking at the loose threads of the sheets, half-lost in thought.

When she opens the door, her face is lit by that calm, unshakable smile. “Got someone who wants to see you,” she says.

Your stomach tightens. Your hands flex, unflex. “Who?”

Her smile widens, but her eyes study you carefully, gauging every twitch of your face. “A visitor.”

You nod, pushing yourself up. The floor feels uneven under your bare feet. Your heart thuds in your throat. “Alright.”

She waits in the doorway until you follow her. The house smells faintly of coffee and wood polish. You pass the family photos hanging on the wall—Tommy with Maria, and beside them, a small boy with his father’s grin. You pause for half a second, staring.

A son. You hadn’t known.

Your pulse stutters.

Maria’s voice pulls you back. “You doin’ okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie.

Every step down the hallway feels heavier than the last. The closer you get to the living room, the louder your thoughts get. What if it’s Joel? What if he came here, decided he’d had enough of waiting? You can almost hear his voice already—low, stubborn, that Texas gravel tone saying your name.

No. You can’t do that. Not yet.

Maria stops at the doorway, her hand on the frame. She glances back at you, softens her voice. “Don’t worry. She’s kind. Sometimes.”

She.

The breath you were holding spills out, shaky and uneven.

Then you see her.

Sitting on the couch, her elbows on her knees, head down, fiddling with something in her hands—a knife, no, a pocket tool. Her hair’s brown and tamed now, no longer wild from the wind. The anger that once burned in those green eyes is gone.

It takes you a second to place her. That girl from the gas station.

Maria’s voice is light. “Ellie. I brought her.”

Right. Ellie.

She looks up then, blinking at you, and for a moment you both just stare.

Her mouth opens first. “Uh… hey.”

You nod once, your throat too tight for words.

She clears her throat, awkwardly rubbing her palms on her jeans. “You, uh… you probably don’t remember me. I mean, I guess you might. Back at the station, you were kinda…” She makes a vague gesture with her hands, grimacing. “Y’know. Your knife to my throat, my knife in your side, whole thing.”

“I remember.”

“Oh.” She blinks too, like she wasn’t expecting that. “Cool.”

Maria hides a smile, stepping back toward the kitchen. “I’ll let y’all talk.”

You and Ellie both look after her as she leaves, then at each other again.

The silence is prickly. Ellie shifts in her seat, taps her knee a few times, then blows out a slow breath. “I wanna… apologize.”

She says that last word like it’s a grater dragged across her throat.

You raise an eyebrow.

“For—uh—stickin’ you like a pig.”

Your frown comes without effort. “You stabbed me.”

“Yeah. Guess that’s another word for it. My bad.”

You just stare at her.

She scratches at her eyebrow, mutters, “You were sneakin’ around, and I was freaking the hell out, and I just—look, I didn’t know who you were, okay?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, maybe because her discomfort is so naked, maybe because she’s just a kid trying too hard to sound grown, you huff out something that almost sounds like a laugh.

“I’ll live,” you say quietly.

She sighs, quick and relieved. “Yeah, looks like it.”

Ellie seems to notice the change in your posture, how you loosen slightly, and leans back a little, studying you in that curious, unfiltered way teenagers do.

“So,” she says, drawing out the word. “You were… married to Joel?”

You stiffen. That one hits bone.

“Okay, too soon.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s—” You pause, gathering your voice back into something flat, neutral. “Yes. We were married.”

“Wow.” She whistles softly. “I mean, huh. You and Joel. That’s—” She stops, shakes her head, smirking. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothin’. Just. Hard to imagine him married. He kinda strikes me as the lone-wolf-and-whiskey type, y’know?”

“He wasn’t always.”

“Yeah?”

“He liked to dance.”

That makes her laugh—loud, surprised. “Bullshit.”

“He did. Badly.”

She snorts. “Okay, now I gotta see that someday.”

You don’t answer. You just look down at your hands, tracing the small scar near your knuckle. A moment passes. Then she shifts again, like she’s working up the nerve to keep going.

“So… you guys got, uh…” She squints. “What’s the word—divorced? Before the outbreak? You said ‘were married’.”

The question hits you like cold water.

“No,” you say softly. “No, we didn’t.”

“Oh.” She looks at you for a second too long, then nods slowly. “Just been a long time, huh?”

You exhale through your nose. “Yeah. Long time.”

Ellie is easy in a way you’ve forgotten how to be. She swears under her breath, uses her hands when she talks, doesn’t know how to sit still. She reminds you of… you, before the world before it burned down.

You find yourself leaning forward, asking her small things. How long she’s been with Joel. Where she came from. Whether she likes Jackson.

She answers, haltingly at first, then quicker, sharper. You learn she’s got a sense of humor that you enjoy. You understand it.

And then—

Ellie hesitates. Her gaze flicks toward the window, then back to you. “You… you must’ve known Sarah, then.”

The name slices through you like wire.

Sarah.

You blink, too slow, too hard.

“Sarah,” you echo, the syllables thick on your tongue. “Of course I do.” You can’t stop the small laugh that breaks out of you—shaky, a little too high. “God, how did I not ask? I didn’t even—she’s grown now, right? Almost forty. Jesus. Does she—does she still paint? Or play soccer? She always had that little pink ball she’d kick around the kitchen—drove Joel crazy, used to leave scuff marks all over the floor—”

You stop. Because Ellie isn’t smiling.

She’s staring at you.

And her whole face has gone still.

“Oh.”

Just that.

And you know.

Instantly.

Your mouth opens, but no words come. The world seems to narrow, sound folding in on itself. You can’t feel your hands. You can’t feel anything.

“No,” you whisper, but it’s barely a sound. “No. Not Sarah.”

Ellie doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just watches you, stricken.

You shake your head, your body already rejecting it, like maybe if you move fast enough, you can outpace the truth. “No, she—she’s just a kid. She is—she—”

You don’t finish. The words choke, collapse.

Something inside you caves in slow motion. The air leaves the room, the floor vanishes. You sink to your knees before you even realize you’ve moved.

You see Sarah’s hair, the way it stuck to her forehead when she ran. Her laugh. The way she used to look at Joel. The way she looked at you. The smell of pancakes on Sunday mornings. Her tiny hand tugging at yours when she wanted to show you something she’d drawn.

Gone. Forever fourteen.

Gone twenty years ago, while you were out there convincing yourself it wasn’t true.

You cover your mouth with both hands. The sound that breaks out of you isn’t human—it’s raw, keening, dragged from the deepest part of you that never healed.

Ellie’s eyes are wide. She moves before she thinks, kneeling beside you, uncertain, awkward. “Hey, hey, I’m—shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

You stumble backward, your legs barely obeying you. The room is too bright, too close. Ellie’s voice is muffled, like it’s coming from underwater. You don’t even hear what she’s saying anymore. You can only hear Sarah. Sarah laughing. Sarah crying. Sarah’s voice calling for you in the dark.

Your throat closes. You can’t breathe. You can’t see.

“She’s gone,” you whisper to no one. “She’s gone. Sarah’s gone.”

Maria appears in front of you, gentle hands hovering but not touching. “Hey—hey, slow down. It’s okay. You’re safe, you hear me?”

You shake your head. “No. No, I—she—” You choke, your chest collapsing under invisible weight. “She’s just a kid. She—she calls me—she calls me mama—”

Maria’s eyes soften, and that’s worse. You can’t bear it. Her pity feels like fire.

You hear Tommy’s boots pounding against the floor, his voice low but urgent. “What happened?”

Ellie’s voice, trembling. “I—I told her about Sarah.”

Maria glances over her shoulder, and Tommy growls. “Christ almighty.” He doesn’t look at you for long—maybe he can’t.

You hear Tommy leave with a string of curses, his boots thumping until he disappeared into the snow.

You press your palms over your face, rocking slightly. The room feels like it’s tilting. Every breath comes in sharp bursts, tearing your lungs.

“She’s gone,” you whisper, voice trembling. “She’s gone, and I didn’t—”

Your breath shudders out of you, and you clutch at the wall like it might hold you up.

Maria glances toward Ellie, and something passes silently between them—understanding, guilt, something like fear. Tommy curses quietly under his breath. “I’ll get him,” he says, and he’s gone before Maria can stop him.

Your voice breaks. You press your hands over your face, curling inward. “I wasn’t there,” you whisper. “I wasn’t there.”

Maria’s hand hovers near your shoulder, then pulls back. She looks helpless.

A sound—heavy boots, the door opening. You don’t have to look up. You know that sound. You could find it in a storm.

Joel’s frozen in the doorway, chest heaving. His eyes land on you. You see the recognition hit him like a hammer.

“Darlin’,” he breathes, his voice hoarse, wrecked.

You shake your head, stepping back.

He doesn’t listen. He never did. In three long strides he’s kneeling in front of you, hands hovering before settling on your shoulders. His touch is rough, too warm.

“Don’t—don’t touch me—” You push at him weakly. “She’s gone, Joel. She’s gone.”

He pulls you into his chest anyway, his arms tight around you as you struggle. “I know,” he says, his voice low, shaking. “I know, baby, I know.”

You pound your fists against him, but the strength’s gone from your body. “You don’t—”

“I do,” he cuts in, desperate. “I do.”

You stop fighting. His arms hold steady, the kind of hold that used to calm you down. You can feel the tremor in his hands, the way he keeps his face buried in your hair.

“She’s gone,” you whisper, smaller now. “Our girl. She—”

He doesn’t let you finish. He shifts, lifting you the best he can, one arm under your knees, the other at your back. You cling to his shirt on instinct, your body shaking as he carries you down the hallway. You can barely see through the blur of tears.

Joel shoulders the door to your room open and nudges it shut behind him with his boot.

He sets you down gently on the bed, but you push yourself away the moment your feet touch the floor. You back up, hands shaking, your breath sharp and uneven. “Don’t—don’t do that,” you rasp.

He goes quiet. The silence stretches. You can hear the whoosh of snow starting against the window.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “You wanna know what happened?”

You don’t answer, but he tells you anyway.

He talks like a man digging up a grave. His words come in fragments—him and Sarah on the couch, the sirens, the Alders, Tommy’s truck, the soldiers, the gun. His voice falters only once, when he says her name.

“\We were tryin’ to get out. Got stopped by a soldier. They told him—told him to take us down. I was holdin’ her when he fired.” He swallows hard, eyes shining wet. “She was scared. Cryin’. I told her I had her. That I wasn’t gonna let go.”

You stare at him, unmoving. Every breath feels like swallowing glass. “You held her,” you say, the words barely forming. “You—”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he murmurs. “I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t—” His voice breaks, and he turns his head, like looking at you hurts.

You sit on the edge of the bed, shaking. The words echo in your skull, each one heavier than the last. The room feels too small, the air too thick.

You look at him. His hands hang useless at his sides, his face drawn, hollow. You think of all the years he carried that weight alone. How you carried your own.

You reach out.

He hesitates, then closes the distance, kneeling in front of you again. You rest your head against his chest, the fabric of his shirt damp from your tears. His arms come around you, slow and sure.

You cry until you can’t anymore—quietly, your hands fisted in his shirt. He doesn’t tell you to stop. He doesn’t move to fix it.

Now it’s just the two of you again. Broken. Breathing. Holding on because there’s nothing else left to do.

┈┈・ ☣・┈┈

Joel didn’t give Tommy a choice to get you to move in with him.

He showed up the next day, the expression on his face enough to silence any argument before it began. Tommy stood there on the porch trying to say something that wouldn’t get his head bitten off. But when he looked at you—eyes blank, body barely holding itself upright—he just sighed, nodded once, and stepped aside.

The guest bedroom smelled faintly of cedar and dust, and cleaner than it should’ve been—like he’d gone through it himself and made it ready before he even brought you here. You didn’t thank him. You just sat down on the bed and stared at the wall until it blurred.

The first night, you cried so hard you made yourself sick. Joel stayed outside the door the whole time, boots heavy on the wood floor. He didn’t come in.

By the third night, he’d moved a chair into your room and sat there while you slept—if you could call it that.

Every memory twisted just enough to hurt. You’d wake up gasping, and Joel would already be there, and sometimes just murmur, “You’re alright,” though neither of you believed it.

By the end of the first week, he’d stopped pretending to sleep in his own bed. He just curled up at the foot of yours with a blanket and pillow, a quiet shadow. When you woke up sobbing, he was there. When you refused to eat, he was there, pressing a spoon into your mouth, his jaw tight with that quiet patience that looked more like punishment than care.

Never turned away when you cried from shame. Wiped your face clean. Tucked you in. Never said a word about it.

Tonight is like every one of those nights.

It starts before the sun sets. The light through the blinds looks too much like the color of fire, like the burning hospital, and something in your chest just snaps. You curl into yourself, hands gripping the blanket, and Joel’s there in a second, just coming off his patrol.

“Hey,” he says softly, like you might shatter if he breathes too hard. “Hey, now. Look at me.”

You don’t. You can’t. You’re somewhere else entirely.

He sits on the edge of the bed, careful, slow. “You’re safe,” he tries again. “You’re right here, darlin’.”

That word—it tears something open in you. You turn your face into the pillow and sob so violently your ribs ache. Joel just sits there. Then he moves closer, kneeling beside the bed, his hands braced on the mattress.

“It’s okay,” he whispers.

But it isn’t. It isn’t okay.

Your voice comes out hoarse, like you haven’t spoken in years. “She was scared.”

Joel freezes.

“She was—she was scared, and I wasn’t there.”

He swallows hard, the sound loud in the quiet room.

“I just know it.”

His jaw flexes, and his breath stutters. For a moment, he looks like he’s going to argue—but then he just lets out a sound that’s almost a laugh, only it’s broken right down the middle.

Joel drags both hands down his face, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until his knuckles go white. “I was supposed to protect her,” he chokes out. “That was my job. My one Goddamn job, and I failed.”

Your breath catches. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his arm.

He doesn’t flinch away.

“She was—she was so little,” you whisper.

He nods, eyes closed. His chest rises and falls too fast. “She was,” he breathes.

Neither of you speak for a while. You can hear the crickets outside. The faint, uneven hitch of his breathing.

When you finally speak, it’s a wish you didn’t plan to say.

“I wish Ellie’s knife killed me.”

Joel’s head snaps up.

“What?”

You meet his eyes—really meet them this time, even through the blur of tears. “That knife,” you say, voice breaking. “When she stabbed me—I didn’t think it then. But now…” Your throat locks. “It should’ve killed me. I can’t… can’t live in a world that took Sarah.”

He stares at you like you just reached into his chest and pulled out something he’d buried. His eyes glisten. His mouth opens, then closes again.

“Don’t say that,” he rasps.

“Joel—”

“Don’t,” he snaps, sharper now, voice cracking under the weight. “Don’t you ever say that. You hear me?”

You flinch. His hand shoots out before he can stop himself, gripping your wrist.

“I can’t lose you too,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “I can’t—I ain’t strong ‘nough for that.”

“You already lost me.”

“No. No, you’re still here. You’re breathin’. You’re here.”

Something inside you caves in. You don’t know which one of you moves first, but suddenly he’s holding you, arms around you tight enough to hurt, his face pressed to your shoulder. His whole body trembles.

You cling back. For the first time since you moved in, you hold him just as tightly.

He leans in until your foreheads touch again, his thumb brushing over the tear tracks on your cheek. There’s no logic in the way he looks at you—just devastation and recognition, like you’re both staring into the same pit and realizing you’ve been standing beside each other the whole time.

He stays that way until the trembling stops, until your breathing evens out, until the room softens around the edges. Then, quietly, he moves to the foot of the bed, to settle in like always.

But this time, when you reach out, your fingers find his sleeve.

He looks up, startled at first, like he’s not sure he felt what he did. Your hand stays there, curled into the fabric, your knuckles white.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

He blinks. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t go.”

The words come out small, almost childlike, and you hate how fragile they sound—but they’re true. Every piece of you feels hollow when he’s not near.

Joel’s throat works. He studies you like he’s trying to find the right answer in your face. “You sure?” he murmurs.

You nod, but it’s shaky. He still doesn’t move.

“I mean it,” he says again, voice rough. “You—don’t gotta say things you don’t—”

“I said don’t go.”

That’s all it takes. The bed dips when he sits beside you. You move without thinking—your hand on his shirt, then his chest, then his arm, like you’re checking to make sure he’s real.

He doesn’t stop you. You pull him closer.

He hesitates, every muscle in him tight, like he’s fighting instinct. His hand hovers in the air for a moment before it lands gently at your waist.

You tug him down until he’s lying beside you.

You can hear his heartbeat, feel the heat of him under your fingers. The two of you are stiff at first—two unfamiliar bodies trying to remember something that used to be second nature.

You don’t know what you’re doing. Neither does he.

He exhales against your temple, like he’s afraid the air itself might hurt you. You breathe him in, and it feels like something old and safe and terrifying all at once.

His hand finds yours under the blanket. His thumb moves, back and forth, the smallest stroke. You don’t realize you’re crying once more until he brushes one away with his knuckle.

He whispers something you can’t quite catch. Maybe it’s your name. Maybe it’s hers. You don’t ask. You just trace the rough line of his throat, the scars on his hand, the dip of his collarbone. He does the same, learning you by touch—your shoulder, your hair, the hollow at the base of your throat.

It’s clumsy, reverent, too gentle for how much it hurts.

You both crack there—slow, like spreading a fracture through glass. Thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw, his nose skimming your cheek, your jaw. He tucks you in against his chest. You listen to his heart until it steadies.

And this new ritual continues.

Time folds in on itself—weeks slide past like snowmelt, impossible to hold. You stop counting by days or calendars; you measure life instead by the smallest things.

The sound of boots at the door. The shape of his hand around a hammer, around a map, around the edge of your world.

By late November, you’ve grown familiar to the smell of coffee, sharp and earthy. He always makes two cups, one waiting for you by the sink. You don’t always drink it. Some days you only stand there, palms around the mug, letting the heat soak into your fingers until it cools.

He pretends not to watch. Sits at the table with a stack of repair notes or a half-folded map, eyes flicking up just long enough to catch you breathing. Sometimes you think he’s waiting to see if you’ll join him. You rarely do.

Instead, you spend time washing dishes. Folding blankets. You cook, sometimes—only simple things. Never what Sarah loved. Not the pancakes she’d drown in syrup, not the chicken stew she’d claim was “better than school lunch.” You can’t.

The world outside turns whiter, the light shorter each day. Ellie drifts in and out of the house, mostly keeping to the garage. You learn she’s been staying there. She has her own rhythm—friends, her girlfriend. It’s soft, watching her have something sweet.

Some days, Joel tries to coax you outside. Mentions the farmers’ meetings, the community dinners, the patrol schedules. You always shake your head.

“Maybe next week,” you say

He nods like he already knew. But he keeps asking.

And he keeps bringing things home. A pressed flower. A basket of foods you loved. A novel he found in the old library, the corners worn soft. He never makes a show of it. Just leaves them on the counter.

Sometimes you thank him.

Sometimes you just stare at the gift, fingertips brushing its edge, shock and disbelief running through your system.

Then one morning, the sky pale with early snowlight, you wake up to the house quiet. You move through the rooms on autopilot—bare feet against cold floors, the air sharp in your lungs.

You’re about to shower, something you’ve started looking forward to. You love the feeling of water washing away the ache, if only for a little while.

But when you open the drawer for clothes—nothing. Every shirt, every pair of jeans you’ve gathered from Maria and Tommy over the past few weeks is gone, tangled in the bottom of the basket. Unwashed.

You curse softly under your breath.

Passing through the kitchen, you spot a folded note on the counter. Joel’s handwriting—blocky, uneven.

Went to help at the barn.

Didn’t get to the laundry yet. My bad.

You can borrow whatever of mine you need.

—J.M.

You stare at it for a long time, thumb brushing over the edge of the paper. The thought of him doing your laundry hits you sideways. You can picture it too easily: at the sink, sleeves rolled up, that furrow between his brows.

Your face warms. You forgot he’s been the one washing your clothes. Your shirts. Your jacket. Your jeans.

Your bras.

Your panties.

God, you were married to the man for almost 15 years, yet now you were getting bashful and flushed over the fact that he was touching your underwear. You cursed your mind.

The note ends with a postscript, scribbled small:

Stay warm. Water heater’s touchy again—let it run first.

You let out a quiet, reluctant smile.

You take a shower. The water sputters and steams, hot enough to sting. You stand under it longer than you should, until the mirror fogs and your skin glows.

When you step out, the air bites against your damp hair. You wrap yourself in a towel and pad barefoot to his bedroom. The floorboards creak like they recognize you. The dresser drawers are stiff; they don’t like being opened. You rummage through the top one, the smell hitting you before your fingers even find it—cedar and faint tobacco.

Soft flannel. His.

You pause, thumb running over the collar, the worn edges. You haven’t worn Joel’s clothes in years—a whole lifetime has happened since. But the muscle memory is still there; you remember exactly how the fabric has been mended to shape.

You hesitate anyway.

“Jesus,” you whisper to no one. “You’re ridiculous.”

You slip it on.

The sleeves hang long, brushing your wrists, the fabric rough. It still smells like him, even washed. You close your eyes and breathe, until it almost hurts.

And suddenly you’re back there. In that other life.

The early mornings. The arguments about stupid shit. The way he’d leave his boots by the door and say, “I’ll get ‘em later,” and you’d roll your eyes and pick them up yourself. The nights when he’d come home late, exhausted and half-awake, and still manage to find you in the dark.

You don’t mean to move, but you do—backward, step by step, until your knees hit the edge of the bed. His bed. You fall onto it, the mattress giving beneath you. You press your face deeper into his pillow, chasing that comfort.

“Goddamn you,” you whisper into the cotton.

But what you mean is thank you.

It’s like being wrapped in him. And God, you’re terrified of what it means. Not of him—never of him—but of this. Of the way he lingers in everything.

He lingered on everything. Your soul, your life, your heart. Your body on those cold winter nights, him between your in a way only a lover knows how. Your body as you pinched and stroked you to ecstasy like it was his sole purpose.

Your breath hitches, and your fingers twitch against the fabric. You shouldn’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than this—or so you tell yourself. But your resolve frays like threadbare cloth.

Your hand moves before you can stop it, tentative at first, grazing the hem of his flannel. A shiver runs through you, sharp and electric.

No, you think, biting your lip hard enough to sting. Don’t do this.

But his voice echoes in your mind, soft and teasing, unraveling you.

C’mon, darlin’. Let go for me.

You’re lost in him, in this need whispered against your skin.

Your hand drifts lower, fingertips grazing the skin just above your knee. The touch is feather-light, testing.

You part your thighs, with cool air kissing your slick heat; you’re already drenched. When’s the last time you let yourself feel this? Years, maybe. Survival doesn’t leave room for want.

You slide through your folds, parting them, circling the swollen ache that built so quickly, just off his smell.

Please, Joel. Touch me. I’ve been so cold.

One finger slips inside, then another. The stretch is perfect, but not enough. You curl them, searching, and when you find that spot, your breath stumbles out in a broken moan.

You take me so good, baby. Always have.

You nod against the fabric, and then hastily pull the buttons undone down to your navel, and you push one side aside with trembling fingers.

Your breast spills free—flushed, nipple peaked tight. You cup it, thumb flicking with your nail once, twice, then pinching hard enough to make your breath hitch. The sting shoots straight to your cunt. You roll the nipple between finger and thumb, tugging until your back lifts off the mattress.

You move your head to the side, the collar in front of your nose, and you stay inhaling him while you fuck yourself on your fingers, deep, steady strokes that match the pulse in your ears.

The rhythm turns frantic. Wet sounds fill the small space, obscene and perfect. You add a third finger; the burn is exquisite. You imagine his weight pinning you down, hips snapping, voice rough in your ear.

You want me to come in the pussy I put a ring on?

You come with a muffled cry, body shuddering. Your walls clamp down, thighs trembling. Pleasure crashes in sharp, endless waves, your fingers still buried deep, slick coating your hand and the inside of your thighs.

The world narrows to the pulse of your heartbeat, the ragged rhythm of your gasps. Slowly, the waves ebb, leaving you trembling in their wake. Your hand falls away, slick and heavy, resting against your exposed breast. You don’t move to cover yourself.

The room is quiet again, save for the soft creak of the bedframe beneath your weight and the faint chirping of morning birds.

Your chest heaves, each breath a struggle. Staring at the ceiling, your eyes tracing the cracks as your mind catches up to your body. The pleasure lingers, but it’s drowned by the slow creep of something else.

Guilt, maybe.

You close your eyes, willing the thought away, but it lingers like the scent on the pillow, like your next thought:

You might be falling in love with your husband again.

┈┈・ ☣・┈┈

He was early.

You spotted him through the restaurant window, standing under the awning with one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other rubbing along his jaw. He looked… nervous. The sight did something funny to your stomach, seeing this broad, quiet man fidgeting like a teenager on prom night.

When he caught sight of you walking toward him, he straightened so fast it almost made you laugh. His hand dropped from his face, and a faint, almost shy smile tugged at his mouth.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and rough, that easy southern drawl curling around the word. “You look—uh. Nice.”

You smiled. “You too.”

He was wearing his usual—plaid shirt, denim jacket, jeans—but somehow it worked differently tonight. Maybe it was the effort. The way his hair was combed down, neat but still a little messy near the edges, or the fact that his boots looked like he’d actually wiped them off before coming.

The hostess seated you near the window. The two of you sat across from each other, menus up like shields, both pretending to read while you waited for the other to speak first.

“So,” Joel started after a few moments, clearing his throat. “Uh—”

You looked up. “Uh?”

“I should probably jus’—jus’ say this upfront.”

You set your menu down, a small smile forming. “Okay.”

He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the table once before curling into a fist. “I got a kid,” he blurted. “Her name’s Sarah. She’s one. Almost two.”

He paused, eyes flicking between you and the salt shaker.

“She’s… well, she’s my whole damn world. I jus’ don’t wanna waste anyone’s time pretendin’ otherwise.”

He said it like he was bracing for a hit. His shoulders were stiff, jaw tight. You could tell it wasn’t something he said often—probably something he practiced in his head on the way here.

“You love her.”

He let out a breath, softer than a sigh. “Yeah. More’n I thought I could love anythin’, to be honest. It’s jus’ been me and her since—well, since birth.” His lips twitched, almost a smile. “So that’s kinda my life. I work, I come home, I make sure she eats somethin’ other than pancakes, and I pass out by nine. Not real excitin’.”

You grinned. “You sound like a good dad.”

That stopped him. He blinked, mouth opening like he didn’t quite know what to do with the words. “You ain’t—uh—you’re not scared off?”

“By a good dad?” you teased. “No. I think that’s actually kind of attractive.”

His ears went a little pink. He looked down, rubbed the back of his neck. “Well,” he murmured. “That’s a first.”

After that, the tension broke.

You asked him about his work—how long he’d been building houses—and his face lit up when he talked about it. He told you about learning carpentry, working with his brother Tommy. You told him about your job, about the people you worked with, the work politics he’d probably hate.

And then somehow the conversation drifted back to Sarah.

“She’s wild,” Joel said, shaking his head with a fond smile. “Got more attitude than I do. Last week she told Tommy he was ‘too old’ to play hide and seek.”

You laughed, and he grinned wider, encouraged.

“She’s obsessed with dinosaurs right now. Keeps askin’ me if there’s any still walkin’ ‘round Texas. I told her, no, but she says maybe there’s one hidin’ in the Hill Country.”

“She sounds smart.”

“Too damn smart, sometimes.” He took a sip of water, then added in a quieter voice, “Her mama—well. She ain’t ‘round. So I’m jus’ tryin’ to figure it out best I can.”

You didn’t press. You just nodded, the silence that followed soft.

Between courses, you caught him watching you once or twice—quick, flickering glances that he pretended didn’t happen when you met his eyes. He asked if your food was good, made a few jokes about the size of the portions, grumbled when the waiter brought him a fancy small plate that “wouldn’t fill a bird.”

It was nice. Simple.

By the time the check came, you felt lighter. The awkwardness from the start had melted into something easy, something warm. You tried to grab for your wallet, but Joel was faster, already sliding his card onto the tray.

“Joel—”

“Nope.”

“C’mon, at least let me—”

“Darlin’, don’t even try.”

You stared at him, fighting a smile. “Darlin’?”

He froze, caught off guard by his own mouth. “Oh. Uh—slipped out. Sorry.”

You laughed. “Don’t be.”

He looked down at his plate, hiding a grin.

When you stepped outside, the night was cool and damp. Streetlights hummed overhead, and the air smelled like rain waiting to happen. Joel walked beside you, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, close enough that your sleeve brushed his once or twice.

At your front door, he stopped.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “I had a lotta fun tonight. Really did.”

“Me too.”

He shifted, eyes darting between you and the porch light. “If you wanna… maybe—I don’t know—keep goin’. Not tonight, I mean—well, maybe tonight, but not like that—jus’… I mean, if you wanna see me ‘gain.”

You tried, you really did, but the laugh bubbled out anyway again. He went red to the ears.

“Sorry,” you said between breaths. “You’re just—”

“Terrible at this?”

“Adorable,” you corrected.

“Ain’t heard that one ‘fore.”

You stepped closer, your voice quieter. “Then I guess you were overdue.”

And before he could come up with another flustered thing to say, you leaned up and kissed him.

It was gentle, brief, testing. His breath hitched, the soft scratch of his stubble grazing your chin. But then he kissed you back, slow and certain.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling without meaning to.

“You wanna come inside?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He hesitated, mouth curving into something between a grin and a question. “Sarah’s with Tommy.”

You blinked, and shook your head at your mind. “Right. So you should probably—”

“I’ll jus’ pay him more,” he said quickly, like it was the easiest decision in the world.

That made you laugh. “You sure?”

He looked at you, really looked at you, eyes soft and steady. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

You stepped back, opened the door. He followed you in.

The click of the lock behind you sounded louder than it should have. The rain started to fall outside, soft against the windows.

And that, was the start of it all.

┈┈・ ☣・┈┈

Lights wind around the lampposts, glowing gold through the frost, and you swear the whole town smells faintly of cinnamon and pine.

The crowds gathered around the tree—families, couples, kids running around with half-eaten cookies and sticky fingers. The fire pit crackles, throwing warmth into the cold night. You stand beside Tommy, watching Maria up on the platform giving a short speech about community, about making it through another winter together.

Tommy’s got Benji in his arms. The kid’s nodding off, head tucked under his chin, thumb hanging loose from his mouth. His curls are sticking up in every direction.

You lean a little closer, smile softly. “He’s about two minutes from a faceplant.”

Tommy grins, voice low so he doesn’t wake the boy. “Yeah, he’s a fighter though. Ain’t givin’ in easy.”

Benji stirs, blinking up at you with heavy-lidded eyes. You offer your arms without thinking. “Want me to take him?”

Tommy looks between you and the sleepy kid, then chuckles. “Hey, bud, wanna go over to Aunt, huh?”

Aunt. You’re not even sure he realizes he said it until your throat tightens. You just nod, arms open, and Benji reaches for you without hesitation.

He’s warm and smells like sugar. His little hand curls into your jacket as his head droops against your shoulder. You sway a little, rocking him out of habit you thought you’d forgotten.

Tommy watches, something soft flickering in his expression. “You always were good with kids,” he says.

You smile, brushing a curl from Benji’s forehead. “Guess it’s like riding a bike.”

“Yeah,” Tommy murmurs. “One hell of a bike.”

You don’t respond. Your eyes trace the curve of Benji’s lashes, the faint freckles under his eyes. He’s got that same Miller look—those brown eyes, that furrow even when he’s half-asleep. You’ve seen it in Tommy. In Joel. In Sarah.

Your chest tightens. You look away before Tommy can see the wet shine starting in your eyes.

Maria’s speech winds down, her voice softening into a smile. The crowd claps. Maria steps off the platform, her eyes finding Tommy and Benji immediately.

“There’s my boys,” she says, coming over.

She holds her arms out for Benji. He mumbles something sleepy, reaching one hand back toward you before his head falls against Maria’s shoulder.

“Out cold,” she whispers, smiling.

You nod, hands feeling strangely empty once he’s gone.

The music starts again—a few people strumming guitars, someone singing off-key but earnest. Around you, people start exchanging small, wrapped gifts. You’d almost forgotten you brought yours.

“Hey,” you murmur, reaching into your coat pocket and pulling out the little parcel. “This is for Benji.”

Tommy takes it, grinning as he peels back the paper. Inside is a tiny carved horse, the wood polished smooth, the details careful—each line of the mane precise. You spent weeks finding it, trading with an older man in the workshop who’d carved it by hand.

“Look at this,” Tommy says, awe threading through his voice. “You serious? You got this for him?”

You shrug, a little bashful. “He’s obsessed with the ones you keep in the barn. Figured he needed one he can keep in his pocket.”

Maria smiles, kissing her son’s temple. “He’s gonna love it.”

You hand her two more small bundles—one for each of them. A new leather glove set for Tommy, stitched tight and warm. A scarf for Maria, deep green, softer as anything you’ve felt in years.

Tommy whistles low. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

They glance at each other. That wordless kind of look. Then Maria reaches behind her coat and pulls out a square, neatly wrapped in cloth.

“This one’s from us.”

“You didn’t—”

“Jus’ open it,” he says, voice low.

The paper rustles softly. You fold it back, careful with the corners. Then your breath catches.

It’s a photo.

A real, glossy photo in a simple wooden frame. The edges yellowed with age but the image clear.

You and Joel—both asleep, tangled up on a sunlit porch. His arm draped across your waist. Your head resting against his chest. Sarah’s in the background, hands on her hips, grinning at the camera like she’s in on a secret. And in the far corner, barely visible in the reflection, a familiar shadow—Tommy, holding the camera.

Your throat closes.

You trace the edge of the frame with your thumb. “Tommy… how—”

“After the outbreak,” he says quietly, staring into the fire instead of at you. “First couple years. Went back to Austin. Most of it was gone, but the photo box was still there. Been keepin’ it safe.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until the tears blur the image in your hands. You blink fast, but it doesn’t stop the ache building in your chest.

“I thought they were all gone,” you whisper.

Tommy shrugs, smiling a little.

You step forward and hug him. Tight. Your arms around his shoulders, the photo pressed between you so you don’t drop it. He hesitates, then holds you back just as firmly.

Maria watches with a soft smile, Benji sleeping peacefully against her.

You pull back eventually, eyes red, voice rough. “Thank you,” you murmur.

Tommy’s face is all soft lines. “Go eat. You look like you’ll fall into the fire otherwise.” He grins and gestures toward the Tipsy Bison like he’s offering you heaven on a platter.

It smells like cinnamon and cheap liquor and something toasted that turns your stomach into guilty wanting. You thread through people, keeping the picture safe against your ribs. The crowd moves slow; laughter spills from somewhere, and someone is playing the guitar off-key and everyone loves it anyway.

A man steps in front of you—too close, his breath warm with old-cologne regret. He’s around your age, maybe a decade younger if you squint, wearing a patched jacket and confidence like it’s a badge.

“You lookin’ lonely,” he says, grin crooked. “Mind if I—”

“I’m not,” you say. Your smile is small and final. You tuck the word away and step to the side to keep the crowd moving. You make it to the bar, and order your drink. It comes quickly.

He doesn’t take the hint, following you. “Come on, lighten up. I’ve got a bottle with your name on it.”

“Not interested,” you say, firmer. The drink in your hand clinks. You can feel the edges of the photo under your palm like a talisman.

He laughs like you’re the joke. “Someone’s touchy. You look like you could use a good time.”

“Or maybe you could use a lesson,” you say. “Either way, back off.”

People nearby glance. A woman in a knitted hat gives you a sympathetic look; a boy laughs and points. The man’s jaw tightens. He takes a step closer until his fingers brush your arm.

“Don’t,” you say. Loud enough now. Heads turn.

He bends, leans in. “I said—”

You lift the cup and pour. The liquor arcs, wet and immediate, over his face. His hair plastered flat, his mouth opens in surprise, then anger.

“Jesus—” he spits, hand flying to his face. His laugh is gone. He wipes at his eyes, fury hot and immediate.

“Don’t touch me,” you snap. “Don’t touch any woman who doesn’t want it. Fuck off asshole.”

He glares at you, anger thick enough to taste.

The he moves.

Your body reacts before your brain: the shove, the pressure of a palm against his chest to put distance between you and the hand that hovered too long. Something clamps down on your neck—hard—and cold fingers braided through your hair. Pain flares hot along your scalp as he pulls. Instinct roars, everything narrowing to the shape of the man’s face.

You twist, ready to break his nose, but you doesn’t get the chance.

A blur of motion—then the man’s body jerks sideways. He hits the ground hard, air leaving him in a grunt.

You stumble away from the sudden relief of pressure on your head. You cradle it, and look over your shoulder with harsh breaths.

Joel’s there.

Not the quiet Joel. Not the ‘coffee in the morning’ Joel. Not the Joel who sleeps in your bed, holding you tight. This is something else. A version of him pulled straight out of the man you met at the gas station—feral and unfiltered. His chest heaves once before he moves again, towering over the man.

“Get your fuckin’ hands off my wife!”

The words tear out of him, raw, louder than the music, louder than the people shouting. And then he’s on him.

Fists. Over and over. Flesh hitting flesh, the sound thick and wet. Someone screams his name.

Joel doesn’t hear. He’s somewhere else: lost to the sound of his own heartbeat, to the cruelty of a world that took too much from him and dared to reach for you.

“Joel!” you shout, pushing through the people trying to pull him off. “Joel, stop!”

He doesn’t.

You grab his shoulder, hard, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket.

That gets him. His fist hangs midair, knuckles split, breath ragged. He turns. His eyes—they’re wild. Like he doesn’t even recognize where he is.

Then he sees you.

The rage drains fast, leaving him pale. His hands fall. He looks down at the man beneath him, half-conscious, face bleeding into the floor. The silence that follows is brutal. Everyone’s staring. No one moves.

Joel’s chest rises and falls, too fast. Then he stands, his hands—bloodied and shaking—on your face.

“Hey. Hey, look at me. You okay?” His voice cracks halfway through, the old, broken edge of it cutting through everything else. His thumbs brush your cheeks, leaving streaks of red. “He hurt you? Tell me if he did.”

You shake your head, swallowing hard. You’re fine. You were fine. You always were.

He growls something at your lack of words, looking around the crowd before tucking you against his side and his hand steady at your back. You can hear the crowd murmuring, whispers darting like fish through water.

Exiting the Tipsy Bison, you spot Tommy’s face through the haze—brows drawn, mouth tight. Maria’s beside him, arms crossed, listening to someone whisper in her ear. Her expression doesn’t change.

You hold your photo tighter. You stare straight ahead, past the people, past the lights.

The fear comes slow.

Maybe Joel did love you once. Maybe he still did. But you can’t stop thinking about what love costs now. What it demands.

He doesn’t speak until you’re well past the town square, the noise fading behind you. The snow crunches under your boots, slow and steady, the kind of silence that feels heavier than shouting.

Then you pull away.

“Stop,” you say.

He does, immediately. Turns to you in the middle of the empty street, breath clouding in the cold. Snow gathers in his beard, catches on his lashes. He looks older like this—softer really, though the blood on his hands hasn’t dried yet.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “If I scared you. I didn’t mean to. I’m—so sorry, darlin’.”

You shake your head, words shaking with your breath. “No. It’s not that. I just—” You press a hand to your chest. “I can’t do this anymore.”

His brow furrows. “Can’t do what?”

“This,” you say. You motion between you, your voice thin. “You. Me. The way you—look at me like I’m still…” You stop, shaking your head. “Like we’re still the same people.”

He steps closer, hand half-raised, hesitant. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“You scare me, Joel.”

The words hang there, suspended. You can see the way they hit him, like a punch he doesn’t block.

He blinks. “What?”

“You scare me,” you repeat, quieter now. “Not because of what you did. But because you think you owe it to me. Like I’m still yours.”

“You are mine.”

You close your eyes. The snow’s starting to fall harder, catching on your lashes. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

He shakes his head, steps forward again, pleading. “I didn’t mean to lose control. I jus’—he touched you, and I saw red. I couldn’t—hell, I ain’t proud of it, but I’d do it ‘gain if it meant—”

“Joel.” You interrupt, firm. “Just stop.”

He freezes mid-sentence, mouth still open like the air left him.

You take a step back. Then another. “You keep saying you’re sorry, but you’re not. You’re still justifying it. You think it’s love, but it’s not. It’s fear. It’s control. You think if you hold on tight enough, you won’t lose me again.”

His chest rises and falls, ragged. “You don’t understand—”

“You were my husband,” you say, your voice shaking now. “You were the best thing I had. And then the world ended, and I lost you. I learned to live without you. To fight. To protect myself. And now—now you’re back, and I don’t know how to breathe with you around, yet at the same time I can’t. You smother me, Joel.”

“I ain’t tryin’ to smother you, I’m tryin’ to keep you alive.”

“I don’t need you to keep me alive,” you fire back. “I already did that for twenty years without you.”

He takes a step closer, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to not care ‘bout you. You understand? I don’t know how to turn that off. I’ve already lost everythin’ once, I can’t—”

“But you aren’t my husband anymore.”

He stops cold.

The snow falls thicker now, lazy flakes settling in his hair, catching in his lashes. His breath comes out uneven, fogging the air between you. He looks at you like he’s trying to recognize a face in a dream—one that keeps slipping away every time he blinks.

“No.”

“Joel—”

“No.” He shakes his head hard, eyes wide, something wild behind them. “Don’t say that. Don’t—don’t do that to me.”

You step forward, voice soft. “Joel, listen to me—”

“You don’t get to just say that like it’s some Goddamn fact. Like it ain’t—” He cuts himself off, running a hand down his face, the motion trembling. “Y’think I can jus’ stop bein’ your husband ‘cause the world went to shit?”

You feel your throat close. “That’s not what I—”

“‘Cause I never stopped.” His voice cracks, raw and broken. “Not for one second. Every day, I—” He presses a fist against his chest, like he’s trying to hold something in. “I woke up, and I thought of you. I went to sleep thinkin’ of you. When I saw—when I saw Ellie—I thought, ‘you’d like her,’ because I still—still thought about what you’d like.”

“Joel…”

He’s breathing hard now, his voice shaking. “Y’think I don’t know what I am? What I’ve done? Y’think I don’t hate myself every time I look in the mirror? But I never—” He stops. His jaw clenches, and then, in a shaky motion, he reaches for the zipper of his coat.

“Don’t—stop—”

But he’s already pulling it open, shoving the heavy fabric aside. His fingers dig under his flannel, and when something comes out, something holding on a thin chain.

The moonlight catches it. A dull glint of gold. A wedding band, pressed against his chest like a second heartbeat.

You go still.

Your throat burns, but no sound comes out.

“I didn’t wear it for twenty-somethin’ years, carried it ‘round in my pocket,” he says hoarsely. His eyes glisten, fixed on yours. “Couldn’t. Didn’t feel right. But when I found you ‘gain, when I—when I saw you—” His hand trembles as he grips the ring. “I started wearin’ it ‘gain.”

You stare at him, lips parting, chest heaving with too many emotions at once.

“I thought of you every day,” he says, voice rough as gravel. “Beat myself bloody over losin’ you and Sarah. Over not savin’ you. And now you stand here and tell me I ain’t your husband.” His voice cracks. “How the hell am I supposed to live with that?”

You want to speak. You want to tell him that this isn’t fair. But when you open your mouth, nothing comes out.

Because your hands are already moving.

You reach up, fingers shaking, fumbling at your collar. The chain catches against your skin as you pull it free, and the air leaves your lungs when you pull our your own glint of gold.

Joel’s breath stutters. He takes a half step forward, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he gets too close. His lips part, trembling.

“You… you didn’t have it, when you left. How did you—”

“I couldn’t let it go.”

He makes a sound—half sob, half gasp—and suddenly he’s moving.

The distance between you collapses in a heartbeat. His arms are around you before you can breathe, before you can think, and then you’re both crashing together like you’ve been pulled by the same gravity. His mouth finds yours, desperate, broken, and you respond just as fiercely, clinging to him like he’s the only thing holding you upright.

The picture slips from your hand, falling face-down into the snow. You don’t even notice.

You taste salt—tears, his or yours, you can’t tell. His hands are in your hair, on your back, clutching, trembling. Yours are pressed to his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under your palms, the metal of the ring chain warm against your fingers.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling in the freezing air.

“Please,” he mutters against your lips, his voice trembling like the rest of him. “Don’t—don’t go.”

“No,” you whisper back, voice rough, almost lost in the wind. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He chokes again, pulling the picture from the snow with shaking hands. His eyes go wide and hollow for a second, taking in what it is, before the sound escapes him—low, guttural, broken.

“C’mon,” he says hoarsely, tugging you toward him. “Let’s go… home.”

“Okay.”

He pulls you in close again as he guides you down the snow-lined street toward home. Rancher Street comes into view, quiet and empty, the glow of porch lights soft against the dark.

Inside, the house smells faintly of woodsmoke and something sweet. You see light spilling from the garage; Ellie’s there.

Joel sets the picture frame down gently on the entry table, reverent almost, before his attention snaps back to you. He steps forward, pressing you harshly against him again. A kiss, long and desperate, his hands clutching at your arms, your shoulders, like he’s relearning your weight against his.

You reach to his side, and he lets out a sharp wince against your lips. He curses softly, half-grunt, half-groan. “Joel—” you start, moving to check, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t care. Keep goin’,” he insists.

He leans in again, brushing against your lips, but you step back, firm. “No. Joel, c’mon. Sit.”

He huffs, muttering, but follows your gesture, settling onto the couch where you point. You rush to the kitchen, retrieving the small medical kit you know is there. When you return, he’s already watching you, breathing a little faster, eyes shadowed with something between exhaustion and longing.

“Take it off,” you instruct softly.

He frowns but complies without argument, peeling off the heavy winter coat, then the flannel, then the shirt beneath. Now bare to the waist, he’s different. The chest beneath your hands is broad, scarred, marked by years you don’t need to ask about. Hair dusts his shoulders and chest. His wedding band glints at the center, catching the firelight.

Your fingers move to the red mark forming along his ribs. You hiss softly, careful, cleaning and pressing gently. He leans into you, eyes closed, letting the quiet comfort of your care anchor him.

“You need to be careful. You aren’t young anymore, can’t heal at the same rate. We can only hope that it just stays a bruise and not something really bad.”

He doesn’t answer with words, just tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. Then, without thinking, his hand brushes a strand of hair back from your face.

You feel it deep in your chest. The brush of his fingers lingers longer than necessary, a gentle weight that makes your pulse catch.

You can tell he’s unsure what to say, and for once, it’s the same for you. Just the storm, the couch, the soft clink of mugs.

Joel’s thumb traces along your jaw, quiet, careful. He’s watching you, and it makes your chest ache.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” you finally whisper, voice soft, almost swallowed by the roar of the snow.

You shift closer, letting your forehead rest against his. There’s something in the way he exhales, a tension you’ve both been holding for months, released in the brush of skin to skin.

There’s a beat of silence, and then another. Neither of you moves. The room shrinks until it’s just you, him, and the heat simmering between your bodies.

You finally tilt your head up, catching his eyes.

Both of you know what the other wants. Words aren’t needed in a relationship like yours and Joel’s.

“I… are you sure?” you still check. “It might be too much. And your side might be—”

“Darlin’.”

“Yes?”

He leans up to press a quick kiss to your temple. “Stop talkin’.”

You smile just a fraction. He drags you down to be on the couch with him. Then, slower than you expect compared to before, he lowers his head, lips brushing yours—soft, tentative.

Your body responds instantly. Your hands roam from his back to your chest. He moans softly, lips parting, teeth grazing, tongues brushing, and you taste him like you’d dreamed of for countless nights.

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he responds in kind, his grip firm on your waist, his body pressing into yours.

The kiss turns into a tug-of-war, pull and counter-pull, lips and hands claiming, taking, giving in equal measure.

In the midst of it, you find yourself on his lap, heart pounding. It’s been years since you’ve experienced anything like this, and your body recalls only fragments.

Your cheeks flush, and you give him a shy, light peck on the lips.

Joel pauses briefly, pulling back just enough to study your face with concern and intensity. “Hey… are you ‘kay?” he asks, his voice low and gentle.

“I’m fine,” you reply, slightly breathless, hands resting on his shoulders. “It’s just… been a while.”

His lips curve into a small, crooked smile. “You’re ain’t alone in that.”

Relief washes over you, comforting you like a warm blanket.

Joel’s hands steady your hips, guiding you as you press against him. Your hips move together, a desperate rhythm. The couch creaks faintly beneath you, but neither of you notices.

Your hands slide up to his neck, fingers threading into the hair at his nape, and he lets out a low, shuddering breath. His eyes darken, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, almost to himself, his voice rough with awe. “Look at you.”

You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, but there’s no room for embarrassment. The rhythm slows, and he leans back and before you can process it, he’s easing you off his lap, guiding you to lie back.

He kneels between your legs, his movements unhurried. His fingers find the hem of your jacket and shirt, and he pauses, looking to you for permission. You nod, and he peels the fabric away, exposing your skin to the cool air. His hands move to your jeans next, unbuttoning them. You lift your hips, helping him slide them off, leaving you in just your panties and bra.

Joel sits back on his heels, his eyes raking over you. He huffs out a breath, a low sound that’s half awe, half restraint. His fingers trace a slow path over the fabric covering your slit, and you both shiver at the contact.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “One thing I forgot was how pretty you looked in these. How fuckin’… soft.”

You whimper, the sound escaping before you can stop it. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and his expression shifts to something almost pleading.

“Touch yourself. Wanna see.”

You hesitate for a moment, but his gaze is patient, urging you on without pressure. Slowly, you slide your fingers down, pulling your panties to the side. You touch yourself, tentative at first, moving through slick, then with more confidence as you feel his eyes on you.

Joel groans, a deep, guttural sound. His hand moves to the front of his jeans, unzipping them but not pulling them down, just enough to let his bulge sit heavy in his boxers. You swallow hard, your eyes flicking to the outline of him, your fingers faltering.

“Keep goin’,” he murmurs, his voice strained. “Need somethin’ pretty to watch. My cock… it don’t work the same no more, but you—” He breaks off, his hand palming himself through the fabric. “You’re doin’ so good.”

His words sink into you, warm and safe, fueling the fire. You circle quicker, your fingers finding a rhythm, and Joel’s breath grows uneven.

He shifts, pulling his boxers down just enough to free himself, his soft cock in his hand as he begins to stroke slowly. The sight makes your breath hitch, and you reach behind to unclasp your bra, letting it fall away. Your skin prickles under his gaze, and a flicker of insecurity creeps in.

“I’m… sorry,” you mumble, eyes dropping. “My body’s not what it used to be.”

Joel’s hand stills, and a low growl rumbles from his chest. “Get that the fuck outta your head,” he says, his voice sharp but not unkind. “I ain’t a catch, darlin’ no more. Look at me—gray hairs, creaky knees. But you? You’re still everythin’.”

You moan softly, emboldened, and slip a finger through your folds, the stretch drawing a shudder through your body. His gaze darkens, his strokes growing firmer as his cock hardens, springing up against his soft belly.

Without warning, Joel leans forward, his hands finding your waist. “C’mere,” he says, and before you can protest, he’s standing and pulling you up with him, and promptly bent down to put you over his shoulder with a grunt.

You gasp, your center of gravity thrown off.

“Joel, don’t show off!” you say, swatting at his back.

He chuckles low, and gives your ass a smack as he climbs the stairs. “Don’t matter if I’m sixty or thirty-six, darlin’. I’m makin’ sure you don’t lift a damn finger.”

The world tilts back to normal as he sets you down on his bed with a huff. He steps back, eyes raking over you, then lies back on the bed, his hand brushing his lips as he looks over at you.

“Sit,” he says, his voice low and commanding.

Your cheeks flush, and you hesitate, glancing down at yourself. “I’m… I’m too heavy,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

“’Gain with this? Sit, darlin’. I ain’t askin’.” His hand reaches for yours, and the certainty in his voice pulls you past your hesitation.

You slip your soaked panties off and move to hover over his face, your thighs framing his head, your own gaze drawn to his hardened cock, now fully erect and resting against his stomach. Joel’s hands grip your hips, and with a low growl, he pulls you down, his tongue finding you with familiar skill that makes you gasp.

The heat of his mouth, the way he works you, makes you wetter than you thought possible.

Your eyes drift to his cock, and you lean forward, your breath catching as you take in the sight of him. Tentatively, you reach out, your fingers brushing against the ridges, and Joel groans against you, “Keep touchin’ me.” he mumbles into you, his voice muffled.

You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, matching the rhythm of his tongue. “You’re so good,” you whisper, barely aware of the words spilling out. “Joel, I—”

His hands guide your hips, urging you to move faster, and you comply, grinding harder against his mouth as your hand works him in tandem. Suddenly, a thought crosses your mind, and before you can shy away, you lean forward further, taking him into your mouth, and Joel’s hips buck slightly, a choked groan escaping him.

You hum around him, the vibration drawing another groan from deep in his chest. Pre cum fills your mouth, and you kitten lick at the tip. You can feel Joel’s thighs tense around your head, his groans against your pussy groaning.

The rhythm between you grows frantic, you sucking deep with hollow cheeks, his tongue entering and exiting.

“Joel—” you gasp, pulling back just enough to speak. “I’m close—oh fuck—shit, shit, shit!”

He doesn’t respond with words, but his tongue moves with renewed purpose, pushing you closer to the edge. The tension in your core snaps, and you come undone, a wave of pleasure crashing through you as you cry out, your body trembling against his mouth.

You ride it out, hips moving instinctively, chasing every last pulse of sensation until your breath steadies and you slump forward.

Joel’s hands are gentle now, easing you off him as he shifts beneath you. Before you can catch your breath, he flips you onto your side with a swift, the sudden change making your head spin. You laugh, breathless and a little indignant.

“Joel, you gotta stop manhandling me like that.

He chuckles, his eyes glinting with mischief, his cock pressed flush against your ass. “What, you don’t like it?” he teases, leaning over shoulder, his hand braced on your side. “Thought you’d be used to me by now.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Joel’s gaze locks on yours, and he moves closer, notching himself against your sopping core. This feels different—different to all the touching and kissing and sweet gestures. Like the years apart have carved out a space that only this moment can fill. .

You turn your head, looking over your shoulder, and the sight of him—his weathered face, the gray in his stubble, the liver spots on his face, the unguarded emotion in his eyes—hits you like nothing before. Tears prick at your eyes, unbidden, and your voice trembles as you speak.

“I’ve missed you.”

He groans like you stabbed him.

“...I love you.”

He lets out a sound that’s half pleasure, half pain, and pushes into you slowly, filling you with a tenderness. “I love you too,” he says, his voice rough with emotion, cracking slightly on the words. “Always have. Always fuckin’ will.”

Your lips meet over your shoulder, the kiss sloppy and desperate, but neither of you cares. It’s love, pouring into every messy press of lips, every shared breath.

His hands find yours, fingers lacing together, grounding you as he moves, slow and deep, each thrust a reclamation of what you’ve both lost.

His forehead rests against your shoulder, and you feel the tremor in his grip. “Missed you so damn much,” he murmurs, like a secret meant just for you. “Thought I’d never get this ‘gain.”

“Me too,” you whisper, your voice thick with tears. “I didn’t think… I didn’t know if we’d ever—”

“Don’t think all that,” he cuts in softly, his lips brushing your shoulder. “We’re here now. That’s what matters.”

You nod, and let the moment carry you. His movements grow steadier, more purposeful, and you match him, like when things were simpler, when it was just you and him against the world.

His hand slides up your side, resting over your heart, and you feel its frantic beat under his palm, mirroring his own. Eventually, his hand holds your ring, holding so tight your worried it might snap off, but all you can focus on is the pleasure and the cold sting of his own ring against your back.

You feel the tension coiling in your core, and Joel’s movements falter slightly, his own release building. “Your close…” he simply notes, his lips brushing your ear.

“Yes…” you breathe, your voice trembling. “You?”

“Fuck, yeah,” he mutters, a faint chuckle in his voice, but it’s laced with something else. “Together, alright? Stay with me.”

His hand moves to your cheek, turning your face so he can look at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes undoes you. You move together, faster now, chasing the edge together.

You cry out, your body trembling as the pleasure overtakes you, and Joel groans, deep and guttural, his grip tightening as he spills into you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder. His cum fills you warm and sticky.

Your bodies shudder together. You’re both gasping, clinging to each other, the intensity leaving you both raw and exposed.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, staying tangled together, his arms wrapped around you, your fingers still laced with his. The silence is comforting, a space where words aren’t needed.

Joel shifts slightly, his breath still uneven, and reaches for his handkerchief on the nightstand. “C’mere,” he murmurs, his voice soft but steady. He gently wipes the sweat from your skin, his hands careful and deliberate. You lean into his touch, your body relaxing under his care.

“You okay?” he asks, his eyes searching yours, concern etched into the lines of his face.

“More than okay,” you whisper. “You?”

“I’m good.” His thumb lingers on your cheek, and for a moment, the world feels soft, safe, just the two of you.

His eyes search yours, and then, something sparks behind them.

He sits up with a sudden burst of energy, slipping out of you gently. “Sit with me.” He gestures to the edge of the bed, his voice gentle but insistent. Your dazed, but you still follow him, pulling the covers with you. You wrap yourself and Joel underneath the sheet, pressed flush against each other.

No words are traded, no noise, nothing but feelings.

Joel’s hand moves to the chain around his neck. He tugs it, snapping it free. He holds your gaze, then reaches for your neck. You swallow hard, your heart pounding, but you nod, giving him permission. He tugs, and the chain breaks with a quiet snap, falling away.

He unspools the rings from their respective chains, tossing the broken metal over his shoulder without a second glance. He stares at them, his eyes glistening, and you feel your own throat tighten.

“What are you doing.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Are you going to make me guess?”

Mwah!

“Joel…”

Mwah!

You giggled this time, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and a smile. “Joel.”

Mwah! Mwah!

“Oh my God! You’re gonna ruin my hair!”

He didn’t stop. He kissed you once more—loudly, obnoxiously—right on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely fight him off.

“Joel, what are you doing with our rings?”

He looks down at them, tracing the gold edge.

Then he began to speak, low and raw.

“I loved you ‘fore everythin’, y’know?”

“I know baby.”

“I loved you in every sunrise I saw without you, every quiet night I spent thinkin’ of you. I loved you through fear, through anger, through losin’ myself trying to find you ‘gain. And I… I still love you. Always have, always will.”

Tears spring to your eyes, and you hide your face against his shoulder.

“I never stopped,” you whisper. “Not once.”

“I know darlin’.”

His hand lifts yours, and together you trade rings—his for yours, yours for his—as a silent acknowledgment of every scar, every loss, every year separated.

“I vow,” he continues, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it, “To keep findin’ you. To stand with you through the shit, through hell. Ain’t ever let you feel alone, not ‘gain. You are my heart, my home, my life.

He swallowed.

“My wife.”

You reach for his hands, steadying them in yours. “And I vow… I vow to love you. To stay by you side, never let something come in between us again. I will walk with you, always.”

You smiled wider than you have in years.

“My husband.”

The rings slip onto fingers that know each other so intimately.

You pull each other close, pressing foreheads together. And then, finally, lips meet—slow, then urgent, sure. A kiss that stitches together all the lost time.

And you knew—this was how it was always meant to be.

Ah yes, tragic lovers. My favorite hehe

Tag list (just for this fic):

@spookychaossuit, @joeldjarin

˚.⋆𓂃𓊝 / / all work and designs are owned and copyrighted by @followyourfleart (©2023-2026). all rights reserved.

[stylesispunk]

WOWOWOWOWOW so beautifully written

[joelssimp]

A WHISKEY AND A SMOKE | CHAPTER 02

W: NURSE JOB IN THE 20'S, ALCOHOL, MENTION OF THE GREAT WAR, SLOW BURN.

11.1K WORDS

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CHAPTER 02 - GARRISON NIGHT

MARGARET'S POV

Birmingham had already learned to test me when I had the will to open my eyes after a full night of shallow sleep and too many thoughts.

It began before breakfast with Mrs. Hodge knocking on my door like the house was on fire.

“Nurse Allen.”

I opened my eyes to a room still half-dark, throat dry, body heavy in that mean way poor sleep leaves behind. For one confused second, I thought I had been back in London. Then the chimneys beyond the window came into focus, black against a bruised morning sky.

Birmingham.

“Nurse Allen,” Mrs. Hodge repeated through the door. “You’ll be late if you mean to lie there contemplating the ceiling.”

“I’m awake,” I called with a voice that sounded like I had swallowed ash.

“That remains to be proven.” She replied.

Her footsteps moved away.

I lay still for another few seconds and listened to the house. Floorboards, pipes, a woman coughing below, a kettle beginning its complaint in the kitchen. No gunshots, or shouting. No men calling for stretcher-bearers.

A civilized morning, then.

My journal sat open on the desk where I had left it. The last line stared at me from across the room.

I wondered, as Birmingham dragged me under, whether that had been my first lie in this city.

I closed it before I could read anything else.

There was little dignity in the way I washed that morning. Cold water with soap that smelled faintly of lye. My hair pinned tighter than comfort allowed because tired hands made careless nurses, and careless nurses killed people. I dressed in my uniform by candlelight, checked my cuffs, then placed Charles’s photograph face-down in the drawer of the desk.

I stood there afterward with my hand still on the handle.

“Forgive me,” I whispered.

Then I shut the drawer and went downstairs.

Mrs. Hodge gave me porridge, tea, and a look that suggested she knew exactly how little I had slept.

“You’ll eat,” she stated.

“I intended to.”

“Intentions are for girls who faint before noon.”

“I don’t faint.”

“See that you don’t.”

I ate because she watched me until I did. The porridge had lumps in it and the tea was too bloody strong, which made both useful. By the time I stepped into the street, my stomach was warm and my head had stopped floating quite so far from my shoulders.

The city looked uglier in the early light. Honest, perhaps. Without darkness to smooth the edges, Birmingham showed its soot stains, its broken cobbles, its men with red eyes and women already carrying baskets too heavy for one arm. Smoke rolled low between buildings. The factory whistles sounded before the church bells did.

I found the hospital without getting lost this time. That felt like a private victory.

Mary was waiting near the nurses’ entrance with a cigarette tucked behind one ear and a piece of bread in her mouth.

“You look terrible,” she said pointing to my face.

“Good morning to you too.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

I looked down with no intention to lie to her “Briefly.”

“That means no.”

“It means briefly.” I repeated it.

She gave me a look, then tore the bread in half and handed me the smaller piece.

“I ate already.”

“I didn’t ask.” Her smile suggested she was having fun with me now.

I took it anyway.

Edith appeared behind her, already in uniform, cap perfect, face composed into its usual dissatisfaction with the world. “You’re both blocking the door.”

Mary stepped aside. “Nurse Allen slept briefly.”

“Most of us do.”

“She means not at all, by the way.” Mary grinned.

Edith looked at me properly. Her gaze paused on the shadows beneath my eyes but did not linger in a way that humiliated me. “Don’t cut bandages with those hands if they start shaking.”

“They won’t.”

“That wasn’t pride asking. That was instruction.”

I held her gaze. “They won’t.” I said more firmly.

She nodded once. “Good.”

The day began hard and did not soften.

Receiving was a different beast from women’s surgical. Louder and faster somehow. Less patient with the illusion of order. Men came in from factories with crushed fingers, burns, cuts, coughing fits, broken ribs from falls they claimed were accidents and bruises whose shapes told better stories. A boy of fifteen arrived with a hand sliced open from a machine belt, trying not to cry while his supervisor complained about lost time. An old woman was carried in by her daughter with pneumonia thick in her lungs. Two policemen brought a drunk whose scalp had split against the pavement, and he sang while Mary held him still.

Ten in the morning, I had blood under one thumbnail despite scrubbing hard enough to sting.

Noon, Matron Hawthorne had watched me set a splint, dress a burn, and calm a child by letting her count my buttons while Edith cleaned grit from her knee.

By two, I had stopped being new.

Or perhaps I had stopped caring whether anyone thought I was.

A man came in near half past three with a gash across his forearm and an attitude large enough to require its own bed.

He was broad, red-faced, and sweating through his shirt, with two other men half-carrying, half-dragging him into receiving. Blood had soaked the towel wrapped around his arm. It dripped onto the floor in dark spots that would be my problem later if no orderly reached it first.

“Doctor,” he barked the moment he saw me.

I stepped toward him. “Sit down.”

“I said doctor.”

“I heard you. Sit down.” My voice came out sharp.

His friends laughed under their breath. The man did not.

“Where’s the doctor?”

“Busy.”

“I’m not having a woman sew me up.”

Mary, standing behind me with a basin, went very still in that dangerous way cheerful women sometimes did before they committed violence.

I held out my hand. “Let me see your arm.”

He pulled it back. “Are you deaf?”

“No.”

“Then fetch me a doctor.”

I looked at the towel, the angle of his wrist, the blood still coming too freely but not pulsing. “You’ve cut through skin and muscle. You’re bleeding steadily, which means you either let me look at it now or you keep sitting there making speeches until you’re weak enough to stop arguing. Your choice.”

His face darkened at my words.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” His sweaty face broke into an anger loud enough for him to bark those words.

“Nurse Allen.”

“That supposed to mean something?”

“It will if you lose use of that hand because you were too proud to be treated by someone wearing an apron.”

One of his friends snorted. The patient turned on him.

“You think it’s funny?”

“I think you’re bleeding on your boot, Frank.”

Frank looked down.

He was, in fact, bleeding on his boot.

I held out my hand again.

He stared at me for several seconds. Men like him made an art of taking up space. Shoulders wide, jaw forward, voice built for rooms where nobody told them no. I had known soldiers like that. Officers too. They were usually the loudest until the wound began to hurt properly, or the fear of loosing a limb struck them.

At last, he shoved his arm toward me.

“There,” he snapped. “Happy?”

“I’m rarely happy during work hours.”

Mary made a small choking sound behind me.

I unwrapped the towel.

The wound opened ugly and deep across the outside of his forearm, ragged at one end where whatever cut him had torn rather than sliced. Glass, perhaps, or metal. It needed cleaning, exploring, stitching. Painful work if done properly.

“That’ll need sewing,” I said.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Get a doctor.”

“A doctor will say it needs sewing, then either do it worse than me or ask me to do half of it while he takes credit.”

Mary turned away sharply. Her shoulders shook.

Frank looked between us. “You mouthy for a nurse.”

“You’re observant for a man losing blood.”

That time his friend laughed outright.

Frank glared at him, then at me. “Do it, then.”

“Mary, carbolic, suture tray, clean cloths, please.”

“Already coming.”

I cleaned the wound while Frank cursed so creatively that even Edith looked impressed when she passed by the doorway.

“Hold still,” I said.

“It bloody hurts.” Frank said as if asking for mercy.

“It will hurt more if you keep jerking away.”

“You enjoying this?”

I kept my eyes on his arm while speaking to him “Not particularly.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

I glanced up at him now. “If I were enjoying it, you’d know.”

For the first time, Frank shut his big mouth. His friends exchanged a look. Mary lowered her face over the tray, lips pressed together.

Stitching flesh was simple once one accepted the brutality of it. Needle through skin, pull, tie, repeat. Make the edges meet cleanly, give the body a chance to remember itself whole. I had done it in candlelight, in mud, in rooms where men screamed, in tents where flies gathered faster than prayers.

Frank watched the needle go in once, then looked at the ceiling and did not look down again.

“You served?” he asked after a minute, voice tighter now.

“Yes.”

“France?”

I made a humming sound also saying yes. His jaw worked.

The room changed around that confirmation, as it often did. France had a way of making even foolish men reconsider the shape of a woman. Some respected it. Some others resented it. Most did not know what to do with the thought of us there, sleeves rolled, hands inside wounds, listening to boys die for a country that would later tell its nurses to be grateful for orderly employment.

Frank swallowed. “My brother didn’t come back.”

I tied another stitch with my heart going colder at his words. “I’m sorry.”

“He was twenty.”

I paused long enough to meet his eyes. “A lot of them were.”

The hardness in his face cracked a little. Not enough to make him gentle, but enough to make him human.

I finished the last stitch and wrapped the arm with clean gauze. “Keep it dry. Come back if the redness spreads, if you develop fever, or if pus forms. Do you know what pus looks like?”

“I’m not stupid.”

“You refused treatment from a nurse while bleeding onto your own boot. I prefer to check.”

Mary made another sound repressing a laugh. Frank stared at me, then gave a short laugh despite himself. “Christ.”

“Close enough. Keep it elevated tonight.”

He stood, flexed his fingers when I told him to, and seemed annoyed that they still worked.

At the door, he stopped and looked back.

“You did that well.”

“I know.”

His mouth twitched. “Right.”

After he left, Mary leaned against the counter and laughed until Edith told her she was useless.

Matron Hawthorne appeared shortly after, because of course she did. I had learned already that the woman could sense disorder through walls.

“Nurse Allen.”

“Yes, Matron.”

“Did you tell a patient a doctor would stitch worse than you?”

I wiped down the tray with deliberate care. “I may have suggested a range of possible outcomes.”

Mary coughed.

Matron looked at her, and suddenly the nurse by my side became fascinated by the floor.

Then Matron turned back to me. “Was the wound properly cleaned?”

“Yes, Matron.”

“Stitches even?”

“Yes.”

“Patient retained full movement?” Her left eyebrow shot up.

“Yes, Matron.”

“Then be less entertaining next time.”

“Yes Ma'am.”

She left without another word.

Mary leaned close. “That means she’s proud.”

“If that woman is ever proud, I imagine birds fall dead from the sky.”

Edith, passing with a stack of forms, said, “Only small ones.”

***

The days found their shape after that.

Hospital. Boarding house. Poor sleep. Work again.

I learned the corridors by sound before sight. Which floorboard creaked near the supply room. Which bell meant urgency and which meant Mrs. Barlow just wanted tea. Which doctor walked as if the building owed him respect. Which orderlies could be trusted with a patient in pain and which needed to be watched. I learned Mary sang under her breath when changing bed linens. Edith kept peppermint lozenges in her pocket and pretended they were medicinal when children cried. Matron Hawthorne could appear silently behind anyone doing anything wrong, an ability I suspected came from years of disappointment sharpened into instinct.

Birmingham learned me too.

Patients began asking for the London nurse, though some said it like accusation and some like hope. Frank returned twice for dressing changes and never once asked for a doctor. Mrs. Barlow announced to anyone within hearing that I was “too thin and too sharp, but useful.” Clara Evans’s infection began to settle after a few days. Mrs. Ellis survived surgery, feverish and weak, but alive enough to curse softly when Mary tried to feed her broth.

I slept in fragments.

The city would quiet, my body would fail at last, and then some sound would tear through the thin walls of Mrs. Hodge’s boarding house. A shout, or a slammed door. A man laughing too loudly in the street followed by a motorcar backfiring. Sometimes there were gunshots. Far off most nights. Close enough on others that even Mrs. Hodge paused in the hallway with her candle held still.

I smoked more than I admitted to anyone.

My journal filled.

19th March, 1921. Birmingham coughs in its sleep.

21st March, 1921. Mary says I look less like I’m planning my escape. Edith says this is because I now look too tired to manage one.

22nd March, 1921. Charles would have been twenty-six next month. I remembered while dressing a burn on a child’s hand and had to ask Mary to pass me gauze twice because I could not remember the word.

24th March, 1921. John Shelby has not appeared again. This seems wise of him.

I told myself I did not look for flat caps when walking past certain streets.

Then, on a Thursday evening after nearly two weeks of work, Mary threw my coat at me.

I was sitting in the changing room, rubbing the heel of my hand into the knot at the back of my neck while Edith untied her apron beside me. The day had been long, wet, and full of infected lungs. My head hurt from carbolic and too little sleep.

“Put that on,” Mary said.

I caught the coat before it hit the floor. “Why?”

“Because we’re going out.”

“No.”

“You didn’t even ask where.”

“I found it unnecessary.”

Edith smiled faintly at her locker.

Mary planted both hands on her hips. “You cannot go from hospital to boarding house to hospital until you die.”

“That sounds efficient.”

“That sounds miserable.”

“I’m fond of routine.”

“You’re fond of hiding inside it.”

I looked at her.

Mary’s expression softened, though she did not apologize. I suspected she was the sort who saved apologies for actual wounds.

“It’s one drink,” she said. “Maybe two if the first doesn’t kill us. Harrison and Peter from cleaning are coming.”

“That is meant to persuade me?”

“They’re harmless.”

“Men described as harmless rarely are.”

“Harrison’s so nervous around women he apologised to a mop yesterday. Peter thinks charm means having both eyebrows intact. You’ll be safe.”

Edith closed her locker. “She’s going to keep asking.”

“I know.”

“She once asked Matron to come dancing.”

Mary lifted her chin. “And one day she’ll say yes.”

“The day after judgment.”

“Fine.” Mary looked at me again. “Come out because I’m asking, because you’ve earned an evening where nobody bleeds on you, and because if I have to listen to Harrison talk about floor polish without another woman beside me, I may commit a crime.”

I sighed.

Mary smiled before I answered. “That’s yes.”

“That was air leaving my body.”

“That’s how yes begins.”

I should have refused. I knew that. My room waited with its candle, its desk, its photograph turned face-down because some nights I could not bear Charles looking young while I got older without him. My books waited. My journal waited. A cigarette by the window waited.

I was tired of things waiting.

“One drink,” I said.

Mary clapped once.

Edith looked at me as if I had chosen poorly, though not without sympathy. “Don’t let her order anything sweet. She has no judgment.”

“I have joy,” Mary said.

“You have a fondness for syrup.”

“Same thing after dark.”

We left the hospital as the evening settled thick over the streets. Rain had fallen earlier and left the cobbles slick. Lamps glowed in puddles. Men in work clothes moved toward pubs in small groups, hunched and hungry for warmth, beer, noise, anything that let the day loosen its grip on their backs.

Harrison and Peter were waiting near the side gate.

I had seen them often enough in corridors, pushing buckets, scrubbing floors, carrying away the evidence of illness with the quiet dignity of men paid poorly for work no hospital could survive without. Harrison was tall and narrow, with sandy hair, ears that turned red when Mary said his name, and hands chapped from soap. Peter was shorter, dark-eyed, and handsome in a way he seemed painfully aware of. He leaned against the gate as if posing for a portrait nobody had commissioned.

“Nurses,” Peter said, sweeping off his cap.

Mary looked at him. “Don’t start.”

“I was being polite.”

“You were being theatrical.”

Harrison smiled at me nervously. “Evening, Nurse Allen.”

“Margaret, if we’re outside the hospital.”

His ears reddened at once. “Margaret. Right.”

Peter’s gaze moved over me, curious but not vulgar enough to make me regret coming. “London nurse joins us at last.”

“For one drink.”

“That’s how many good evenings start.”

“It is also how many mistakes start.”

He grinned. “Depends on the drink.”

Mary hooked her arm through mine before I could reconsider. “Come on. Garrison’s not far.”

“The Garrison?” I asked.

Harrison glanced at Mary.

I felt it. The small exchange. The way Peter looked down the street and then back with too much casualness.

Mary kept walking. “It’s a pub.”

“There are many pubs.” I tried with my voice small.

“This one’s lively.”

“That’s an evasive answer.” Peter noticed it

“It’s local.”

“Mary.”

She sighed. “I know what you're thinking. It’s Shelby.”

My steps slowed.

Peter, walking backward ahead of us, lifted both hands. “Harmless if you don’t owe money.”

“That’s the standard?” I asked.

“In Small Heath, yes.”

Mary squeezed my arm. “We can go elsewhere.”

I thought of John Shelby outside the hospital gates, tipping his cap as if he had not belonged to a family people lowered their voices to name.

“No,” I said. “The Garrison is fine.”

Mary looked at me with open suspicion. “That sounded too brave.”

“I’m told Birmingham doesn’t reward softness.”

“That was Matron. She says things like that because she eats nails for breakfast.”

We turned another corner, and the Garrison came into view.

It was warmer-looking than the street deserved. Amber light spilled from its windows onto the wet pavement, cut by moving shadows inside. The sign above the door was simple letters spelling its name. Laughter rolled out each time someone entered or left, along with smoke, beer, and a burst of piano that stumbled into song before being swallowed by voices.

At first glance, it looked harmless.

That was the most dangerous thing about it.

Inside, heat struck my face. The pub was crowded, thick with men in caps and women with flushed cheeks, factory workers, bookmakers, girls laughing too loudly, old men hunched over pints as if each glass held a private treaty. Cigarette smoke hung low enough to sting the eyes. Somewhere near the back, a piano fought for survival beneath singing voices.

Mary guided us to the bar with the confidence of someone who knew where to place her feet in any room.

Harry, the barman, according to Peter’s whisper, looked us over and gave Mary a nod.

“Usual?”

“Not tonight.” Mary turned to me. “What are you drinking?”

I looked at the bottles behind the bar. “Whiskey.”

Peter’s brows went up. “Straight in, then.”

“Irish,” I said to the barman. “Please.”

Harry’s mouth twitched. “You hear that, boys? London wants her drink the best way.”

A few men at the bar glanced over.

I looked at Harry. “London can hear as well.”

Mary made a small strangled sound beside me. Harry laughed and reached for a bottle. “Irish it is.”

The glass came small, the whiskey gold and sharp-smelling. I lifted it, breathed once, and took a mouthful.

It burned beautifully.

My eyes watered as I refused to cough.

Peter watched with admiration. “Bloody hell.”

Mary patted my arm. “There’s a girl.”

“I’m twenty-three.”

“There’s a woman, then.”

Harrison, who had ordered beer and seemed unsure whether to hold it or apologize for it, leaned close enough to be heard over the noise. “Do you like Birmingham any better now?”

I glanced around. A man shouted at the piano player. Someone laughed near the fireplace. A woman in a green dress slapped a hand away from her waist without missing a note of whatever song she was singing.

“I like the whiskey.”

“That’s a start.”

Peter rested one elbow on the bar. “And the company?”

“The company has yet to prove themselves.”

He grinned, emboldened. “You always this hard to impress?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’d hate easy work.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Peter, she stitched a man’s arm while insulting him last week. Don’t start battles you can’t afford.”

“I’m not starting a battle. I’m offering peace.”

“With your face?” Harrison muttered.

Peter looked wounded. “My face has done well for me.”

“Your face got you slapped by Annie from laundry.”

“She misunderstood me.”

“She understood enough.”

For the first time that evening, I laughed without catching myself first. The sound left me before I could inspect it. Small, surprised, entirely mine.

Mary looked pleased enough to be irritating.

“There she is,” she said.

“I was here already.”

“No. That was the hospital version.”

“There are versions?”

“At least four.”

“That seems excessive.”

Peter leaned closer. “What’s this version called?”

“Tired,” I said.

“Pretty name.”

Harrison laughed into his beer.

The whiskey settled warm in my stomach. I had not realized how cold I had been until that heat began to spread. Around us, the pub loosened in degrees. Men sang with arms thrown over shoulders. A woman danced between two tables, skirt swaying, cheeks pink. Coins clattered. Glasses struck wood. The whole room breathed smoke and noise and something close to life.

I had forgotten pubs could feel like that.

Before France, Charles and I had gone dancing once in London. He had stepped on my foot twice and blamed the floor both times. I had laughed so hard my side hurt. He had looked at me afterward as if the sight of me happy had startled him.

The memory came, but gently for once.

I took another sip of whiskey.

Peter noticed the shift. “Do you dance, Margaret Allen?”

Mary groaned. “Don’t.”

I looked at him. “Rarely.”

“That’s almost yes.”

“Everyone in Birmingham hears what they want, it's impressive, truly.”

“Only way to survive.” He held out his hand. “One song.”

“No.” I said hiding behind my whiskey.

“One terrible song.”

“No.”

“One half-terrible song.”

Harrison shook his head. “Leave the woman be.”

Mary watched me carefully, perhaps expecting refusal, perhaps hoping I would surprise her.

The piano changed tune. Something quicker. Rough at the edges, easy enough for drunk feet to follow.

I looked at Peter’s hand.

A sensible woman would refuse. A grieving woman might refuse. A nurse who had slept poorly and worked herself to the bone all week should certainly refuse.

I placed my glass on the bar.

“One song,” I said.

Peter’s face lit up. “I knew London had mercy.”

“Don’t waste it.”

He led me into the cleared space near the piano, where three couples were already moving with more enthusiasm than grace. Peter could dance better than I expected. He held me correctly, close enough for the music, not close enough to make a point of it. I let him turn me once, then again, skirt brushing my calves.

For a few minutes, I allowed the room to blur.

Not disappear. I knew better than to ask that much from whiskey and music. But blur, yes. The hospital loosened from my shoulders. Mrs. Hodge’s room grew smaller in the distance. France retreated to some corner where it could watch without speaking. I followed Peter’s steps, corrected him once when he nearly led me into a chair, and laughed when he bowed in apology with ridiculous seriousness.

“There,” he said over the music. “You can have fun.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Secret’s safe.”

“It won’t be if you keep looking so proud.”

He spun me a little too sharply.

I stepped back, caught myself, and collided against someone solid.

A hand closed around my elbow. Firm, quick, and just enough to steady me, not enough to restrain.

“Careful,” a familiar voice said.

I turned.

John Shelby smiled down at me.

Of course he did.

The pub seemed to tilt its attention before anyone moved. It was subtle at first. A conversation near the bar thinning out, or a pair of men at the table behind John sitting a little straighter. Mary’s face across the room changing so fast it almost frightened me.

John’s hand remained at my elbow.

I looked at it.

He let go at once and lifted both hands. “Didn’t want you falling.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“And dancing with Peter from cleaning part of your plan?”

Peter, still beside me, went stiff enough to count as furniture. Coward.

“You know Peter?” I asked.

John’s grin widened. “Everyone knows Peter.”

Peter swallowed. “Evening, John.”

“Peter.”

There was no threat in the way John said it. That made it worse, somehow. The absence of threat had its own authority.

Two men stood behind him.

The first was broad, older, with a moustache and a face flushed from drink or temper. His eyes moved over me with open irritation, taking in the uniform coat beneath my evening one, my London posture, Peter’s hand hovering uselessly nearby. Arthur, I guessed before anyone said his name. Mary had warned me in pieces. Worse when drunk.

He looked as though he was never very far from it.

The second man stood half a step back, and the room changed around him.

He did not need to be the tallest. He was not the loudest. He did not push forward or smile like John. He simply stood there in a dark suit and flat cap, cigarette between his fingers, pale eyes fixed on me with an attention so complete it felt almost physical.

Thomas Shelby.

I knew before John turned his head.

“Tommy,” John said, and there was something in his voice now. Amusement, yes, but caution threaded through it. “This is the London nurse.”

Thomas Shelby’s gaze did not move from mine.

“The one from the station,” he said.

His voice was quiet.

That was the first thing I noticed. In a room built from shouting, he made quiet do the work.

My pulse gave one hard beat.

I hated that.

“The station has many people in it,” I said.

John laughed under his breath.

Tommy took a drag from his cigarette, eyes still on me. “Not many arrive and insult my brother before tea.”

“I didn’t know he was your brother.”

“Would that have changed anything?”

“No.”

John laughed properly then. “Told you.”

Arthur’s mouth twisted. “She’s got a tongue on her.”

I looked at him. “I was born with one.”

Mary appeared at my side before Arthur could answer, breathless without looking like she had hurried.

“There you are,” she said brightly, too brightly. “Margaret, I think we ought to get back. Early shift tomorrow, remember?”

“I remember.”

Her hand touched my wrist in warning.

Peter stepped away as though grateful to be released from the center of the room.

John looked at Mary. “Nurse Doyle.”

“John Shelby.”

“You keeping her out of trouble?”

“I’m trying to.”

“I don’t require keeping,” I said.

Mary’s fingers tightened once.

Tommy’s eyes flicked to her hand on my wrist, then back to me. He noticed everything. I felt that at once and disliked how quickly I knew it.

“You work at the hospital,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Matron Hawthorne still terrifying everyone?”

“Only those with sense.”

A faint movement touched his mouth. Almost a smile, if one were charitable.

Arthur snorted. “You always answer back?”

“When spoken to.”

“That’s answer enough.”

I turned to him fully. “Then you may stop speaking.”

The air changed, as if I committed a crime. Even John went still.

Mary whispered my name in warning, “Margaret.”

Arthur’s face darkened all at once. “You know who you’re talking to?”

“No,” I said honestly. “But Mary has been trying to educate me.”

John rubbed a hand over his mouth, poorly hiding amusement.

Tommy did not laugh. He watched me like one might watch a match burn close to spilled spirit.

“I’m Arthur Shelby,” the older man said.

“Margaret Allen.”

“I didn’t fucking ask.” Arthur snared as he took one step forward.

Tommy spoke before Mary could drag me bodily toward the door.

“Arthur.”

One word. Low and full of authority.

Arthur stopped.

It was not obedience exactly. It was habit sharpened by family and command. He looked at Tommy, jaw working tight, then stepped back with a curse under his breath.

Tommy’s gaze returned to me. “You’re brave for someone new to Small Heath.”

“I’m tired. People often mistake the two.”

There. That faint almost-smile again.

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Tired.”

“Yes.”

“Then why come to the Garrison?”

I could have said Mary asked me. I could have said I only came for one drink, or that I did not know the place belonged to his family, though by then I suspected every chair and shadow in it had some tie to the Shelby name.

Instead, I looked around the pub. Saw the smoke, tables, the men pretending not to listen to our exchange, and the women watching with sharper eyes than any of them. The piano player holding his hands above the keys, uncertain whether music was allowed to continue.

“Because hospitals are full of the dying,” I said. “I wanted a room full of people pretending they aren’t.”

All three brothers had a different reaction to my words. John’s expression shifted into understanding. Arthur’s irritation faltered for half a second, confused by honesty where insult should have been.

Tommy grew very still.

His eyes did something then. Lowered, briefly, to the glass of whiskey I had left at the bar. Back to my face, just past the tiredness, perhaps. Past the sharpness I always show. Men looked at women all the time, but this was not quite that. He looked as if he was reading the cost of every word and finding the numbers familiar.

“You served,” he said.

“I nursed.”

“In France.”

“Yes.”

The pub around us was too loud and too quiet at once.

Mary’s hand left my wrist. Maybe because she trusted me, or maybe because she knew pulling me away now would make things worse.

Tommy lowered his cigarette. “Then you’ve earned your whiskey.”

“I paid for it.”

“I didn’t say you hadn’t.”

Strong personalities met strangely. That was my thought, sudden and clear. Some people argued to overpower. Some other argued to test the walls. Thomas Shelby, from what little I could see, did neither. He placed a sentence down and waited to see whether I stepped around it or cut through.

I did not yet know what that made him.

Dangerous seemed too simple.

Peter, poor man, cleared his throat. “We were only dancing.”

Arthur looked at him. “No one asked you.”

Peter shut his mouth immediately.

I glanced at him, then at Arthur. “He was just stating the fact.”

Arthur blinked. “What?”

“We were dancing. He asked, I agreed. Nobody committed a crime unless dancing has become illegal in Birmingham since I arrived.”

John let out a delighted sound. “Christ, Tommy, can we keep her?”

Mary closed her eyes.

Tommy looked at John. “No.”

The answer came too quickly.

Something warm and ridiculous sparked under my ribs. Amusement, mixed with the whiskey and lack of sleep.

“Wise,” I said. “I’m expensive to maintain.”

John grinned. “Knew it.”

Arthur muttered, “This is fucking stupid.”

Mary seized the opening. “Right. We’re leaving.”

“Already?” John asked.

“Yes.”

“She’s had half a drink.”

“She has an early shift.”

Tommy looked at my almost untouched whiskey on the bar. “Finish it.”

Mary stiffened by my side and I looked at him.

It was not quite an order. Too quiet for that. Too sure of itself to be anything else.

“I don’t take instruction off duty,” I said.

His eyes held mine.

“No,” he said. “I don’t suppose you do.”

Then he stepped to the bar, picked up my glass, and brought it to me.

He simply held it out with the same expression he wore the whole night.

The room watched.

So did I.

His fingers were clean but scarred faintly along the knuckles. His cuff sat neat beneath his jacket. The cigarette smoke clung to him, but beneath it was another scent, soap perhaps, whiskey, cold air from outside. His eyes were paler up close. Blue, yes, though blue felt insufficient. There were men who wore their wounds loudly. Thomas Shelby kept his behind stillness, and for some reason that unsettled me more.

I took the glass from him without letting our fingers touch.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome, Margaret Allen.”

My name in his mouth sounded different than when John said it. Less teasing, more deliberate. As if he had placed it somewhere in his mind already and meant to remember where.

“You know everyone around here?” I asked.

“Most.”

“And those you don’t?”

“I learn.”

Air left me in the form of a small laugh “That sounds exhausting.”

“It has uses.” Thomas' eyes stayed glued to mine.

“I imagine it does.”

Arthur watched us with open dislike now. John watched as if he had discovered a new form of entertainment. Mary watched with the expression of a woman calculating how many exits stood between me and disaster.

I drank the rest of the whiskey.

All of it.

It burned hotter this time, or that was only because Thomas Shelby stood close enough to notice whether I flinched.

I didn’t.

His mouth moved again. There and gone. “Irish aye?!”

“The best kind. Harry has a talent.”

“Harry pours what he’s told.”

“Useful man.”

“Sometimes.”

I handed the empty glass to the bar without looking away from Tommy. “Good evening, Mr. Shelby.”

John made a small noise at the formality of it.

Tommy inclined his head. “Nurse Allen.”

Mary caught my arm then, less warning now and more necessity, and pulled me toward the door before I could say anything else unwise.

Harrison and Peter followed fast. Peter looked as though he had aged three years during one song. Harrison kept glancing over his shoulder.

The cold outside struck me across the face.

I welcomed it.

Mary did not speak until we were half a street away from the Garrison. Then she stopped, turned to me, and pressed both hands over her own mouth as if holding in either laughter or a scream.

“What?” I asked.

She dropped her hands. “What?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Margaret.”

“Yes?”

“You told Arthur Shelby to stop speaking.”

“He was unpleasant.”

“You told Arthur Shelby to stop speaking.” She repeated as if it was any different from the first time.

“So you’ve said.”

Peter, behind us, let out a nervous laugh. “I thought he was going to knock me through the piano.”

“Why would he knock you through the piano?” I asked.

“Because I was standing closest.”

“That’s poor reasoning.”

“That’s Arthur.”

Harrison shook his head slowly. “Tommy stopped him.”

Mary looked at me when Harrison said it.

I looked back.

The street seemed colder now. The whiskey sat in my blood, warm and bold, making my fingers tingle inside my gloves.

“He seems very used to stopping him,” I said.

“He is,” Mary replied.

“And John?”

“John likes trouble.”

“So he likes himself then.”

Peter laughed before fear could stop him.

Mary pointed a finger at me. “You are going to get yourself killed with that mouth.”

“Possibly. Though at least Birmingham will have been warned.”

She stared at me a second longer, then laughed despite herself. The sound cracked the tension enough for all of us to begin walking again.

But I could still feel the Garrison behind me.

That room with thick smoke. That pale gaze fixed on mine with unsettling patience.

Thomas Shelby had known my name before I offered it. He knew the hospital, knew Matron Hawthorne, knew enough of me to say I had served before I wished to speak of it. Mary had said he owned enough of the men walking the streets. I felt that truth tonight.

Perhaps some men did not need to own a place in order to make it answer when they entered.

At Mrs. Hodge’s door, Mary turned to me with a look that had lost most of its laughter.

“Promise me something.”

“I dislike promising before I know the terms.”

“Try.”

I waited.

“If John speaks to you again, be careful. If Arthur speaks to you, find me. If Tommy speaks to you...” She paused.

The pause said more than the warning.

“If Thomas Shelby speaks to me?” I asked.

Mary’s eyes searched mine. “Remember he does nothing without deciding why first.”

The whiskey warmth faded a little.

I nodded.

Mary seemed unsatisfied, but she let me go.

Upstairs, my room was cold and exactly as I had left it. Charles’s photograph lay face-down in the drawer. My journal waited on the desk. The city muttered outside the window, softer tonight, though no kinder.

I removed my gloves slowly.

My hands were steady.

I lit a cigarette and opened the window either way. Smoke drifted into Birmingham’s smoke until mine became impossible to separate from the rest of it.

After a while, I sat and opened the journal.

26th March, 1921.

Went to the Garrison with Mary, Harrison, and Peter. Drank Irish whiskey. Danced once. Met John Shelby again. Met Arthur Shelby and lived, despite speaking unwisely.

I paused, pen hovering above the page.

Then I wrote:

Met Thomas Shelby.

The line looked bare.

I stared at it for some time.

There were many things I could have added. Quiet voice. Pale eyes. Dangerous stillness. Knows too much. Watches as if waiting for the blood to show through the bandage.

Instead, I wrote only one more sentence.

I think Mary is frightened of him.

I closed the journal before I could add that I was not sure I was.

Outside, somewhere in Small Heath, a man laughed, a door slammed, and the night carried on with all its ordinary violence.

I finished my cigarette by the window.

Sleep did not come easily.

It rarely did.

But when I finally lay down, the last thing I saw before closing my eyes was not France. It was not Charles, though guilt came soft and sharp at the edges when I admitted it.

It was Thomas Shelby standing in smoke, holding out my whiskey as if he already knew I would take it.

THOMAS POV

John was right, she was stunning and stubborn all at once. So Thomas watched her from across the room quietly.

That was the first mistake most men made about him. They assumed he only noticed what he looked at directly. They assumed quiet meant absence. They mistook stillness for disinterest, and by the time they realised stillness could be a blade held flat against the palm, it was usually too late to stop bleeding.

He had seen her at the bar first.

London coat. Nurse’s posture. Gloves still on though the Garrison had enough heat and smoke inside to soften paint. She stood with Mary Doyle and the two hospital cleaners, Harrison and Peter, as if she had agreed to come and already regretted the public nature of the decision. Her hair was pinned with care, though a few darker strands had escaped around her face from the damp outside. Her skin held the tired pallor of someone sleeping badly and refusing to discuss it. Her mouth was made for refusing things.

And then she ordered whiskey.

Irish. Just like his.

Tommy had been standing near the side door with Arthur and John, speaking to a man from Camden about a shipment of cigarettes and the cost of moving men through London without troubling the wrong police sergeant. He had kept half an ear on the conversation and the rest on the pub, as usual. The Garrison was useful because men forgot who might be listening once drink loosened their teeth.

Then Harry the barman laughed and said something to her.

Tommy looked over.

The woman looked back at Harry with no smile at all and answered him as if every man in the pub was a schoolboy daring her to blink.

John had snorted into his glass.

“That’s her,” he said. “The nurse from the station.”

Arthur barely looked. “What nurse?”

“The one I told you about.”

Arthur drank, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You tell us about a lot of women, Johnny boy.”

“Not like this one.”

Tommy’s eyes stayed on her.

She took the whiskey and drank it as if the burn was something she knew how to use. It hit her. He saw it in the faint tightening around her eyes, the stillness at her throat. She did not cough. Pride, then. Or practice. Perhaps both.

“What’s her name?” Tommy asked.

John smiled at him. “Margaret, London girl, served in France.”

“You got all that walking her to the hospital?”

“Got more than that.”

Arthur made a noise. “Course you did.”

“She was lost.”

“Was she really?” Tommy asked quietly.

John looked at him. “Kind of”

“Because women like that don’t admit when they are.”

John’s smile widened. “You’d like her.”

Tommy lifted his cigarette and took a slow drag. “I know.”

Arthur looked between them, irritated already and not sure why. “We working or watching John’s new nurse?”

“We’re working,” Tommy said.

He returned his attention to the man from Camden, listened to three more minutes of prices, risk, routes, and promises. He spoke little. Asked two questions. Corrected one figure. Decided the man was either careless or lying, and either way would need watching.

Still, his eyes found her again.

Peter from cleaning was leaning too close now, smiling with all the confidence of a man who had never had to bury a friend in mud. Margaret answered him with a dry mouth and a colder gaze, yet she did not step away. Mary watched the exchange with the look of a woman standing beside an open flame and hoping the curtains did not catch.

Then Peter asked her to dance.

Tommy knew because her face changed.

Only a little.

The refusal came first. He saw that in her shoulders, in the set of her chin, in the hand that hovered near the glass as if work might still call her back if she reached for it. Then something loosened. A tired woman choosing one small bit of danger because the safer room had become unbearable.

She placed the glass down.

One song, he read from the movement of her lips.

John leaned near Tommy’s shoulder. “Told you.”

Tommy said nothing.

She danced better than Peter deserved.

That was his next thought, and it arrived with enough force to annoy him.

Margaret did not dance as if she wanted the room to admire her. She danced like someone remembering a body she had neglected. Her steps were careful at first, then surer. Peter turned her too quickly once and she corrected the movement with a look that made him laugh and lower his head as if apologising to royalty. Her skirt moved around her calves. Her cheeks took on a little colour from whiskey and heat.

Beautiful, Tommy thought.

The word came clean and unwelcome.

He had seen beautiful women before. He had had them look at him across pubs, parlours, betting rooms, racecourses. He had known beauty in expensive fabric and cheap perfume, in Irish green eyes behind a bar, in silk gloves hiding trembling fingers. Beauty rarely surprised him anymore. Men with money and violence saw too much of it offered at the wrong price.

This was different enough to disturb him.

Margaret Allen was beautiful in a way that seemed unbothered by whether he noticed. Green, tired eyes. A mouth too sharp to be sweet. A face shaped by grief before age had had the courtesy to get there first. She held herself together with pins and nerve, and Tommy knew, with the sudden certainty he trusted more than evidence, that if those pins were ever removed she would come apart silently.

That interested him.

Silence always did.

Peter spun her wrong.

She stepped back, heel catching against the uneven floor, and collided with John before she could fall. John steadied her by the elbow.

The room noticed because John was John.

Then the room noticed because Thomas Shelby moved.

He did not move far. He only stepped in behind his brother with Arthur on his left, and the noise nearest them thinned at once. Men looked into their glasses. A woman near the piano turned her head, then pretended to be invested in her cigarette. The piano player softened his hands over the keys, uncertain.

Margaret turned and saw John.

No fear first.

That made Tommy want to smile.

“Careful,” John said. “Didn’t want you falling.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” she answered.

“And dancing with Peter from cleaning part of your plan?”

“You know Peter?”

She was quick. Not showy with her words. Not performing wit for approval. Her words came edged because she had learned somewhere that edges kept hands away.

Then John turned with a grin meant entirely to irritate. “Tommy, this is the London nurse.”

Margaret’s eyes came to him.

There it was.

The small, live thing in the air.

Tommy had felt it before in battle, though that was a poor comparison and he hated that his mind reached for France so quickly. He had felt it when a shell landed close enough to steal the sound from the world before the blast came rushing back. A pause. A charge. The body understanding before the mind had bothered with language.

She looked at him as if she knew he was dangerous and had decided danger was too common to impress her.

“The one from the station,” Tommy said.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “The station has many people in it.”

John laughed under his breath. Arthur shifted beside Tommy, already disliking her because she had not lowered her gaze.

Tommy took a drag from his cigarette and let the smoke leave slow.

“Not many arrive and insult my brother before tea.”

“I didn’t know he was your brother.”

“Would that have changed anything?”

“No.”

John enjoyed that too much. Arthur did not enjoy it at all.

“She’s got a tongue on her,” Arthur said.

Margaret looked at Arthur. “I was born with one.”

Tommy felt John go still. Felt the pub go still with him.

Arthur could take a joke when drunk, depending on the man making it and the hour of night. He did not like unfamiliar women making him feel stupid in his own pub. His anger had been too close to the surface since France and closer still since the business began growing beyond what Arthur could beat into obedience with his fists.

Tommy watched Margaret watch him.

She knew enough to understand Arthur was a threat. And she did not step back.

That was courage or exhaustion. Tommy suspected she had a great deal of both.

“You always answer back?” Arthur asked.

“When spoken to.”

“That’s answer enough.”

“Then you may stop speaking.”

Mary Doyle appeared at Margaret’s side, face bright with fear disguised as cheer. Peter lost colour. Harrison looked as if he wished the floor would open and take him before Arthur did.

Arthur took one step.

Tommy said his name.

“Arthur.”

A clear message of: Don’t do that.

Arthur stopped, breathing through his nose, jaw set like he had a knife between his teeth. Tommy did not look away from him until he stepped back. Family was a language. Arthur knew that tone. John knew it too, though John spent more of his life laughing at it.

Tommy turned back to Margaret.

She was looking at him now.

He liked that too much.

“You’re brave for someone new to Small Heath,” he said.

“I’m tired. People often mistake the two.”

There were phrases men brought back from France without knowing it. Little bits of truth wrapped in ordinary speech. Tommy heard one then. He saw it in her face too, in the guarded flicker after she spoke, as if she had given more than she meant to.

“Are you?” he asked.

“Am I what?”

“Tired.”

“Yes.”

“Then why come to the Garrison?”

There were several answers available to her. He could see them moving behind her eyes. Polite ones. Safe ones. A joke, perhaps. She had a talent for making a blade look like a hatpin.

She looked around the pub instead.

All the elements: Men, women,the piano player frozen over his keys. The room pretending not to listen to every breath between them.

“Because hospitals are full of the dying,” she said. “I wanted a room full of people pretending they aren’t.”

Something moved under Tommy’s ribs.

A trench board shifting in mud or a candle flame guttering inside a tunnel. Grace’s voice from an old room, singing while he tried to remember what quiet had felt like before guns learned his name.

He hated the precision of Margaret’s answer.

“You served,” he said.

“I nursed.”

“In France.”

“Yes.”

Before this night he had already known pieces already, her name, London, war, nurse, Birmingham City Hospital, boarding house run by Hodge two streets from the edge of Watery Lane, mother still alive in London, father gone, partner dead, Charles something… Tommy had not yet confirmed the surname, but he would.

He knew facts the way other men knew prayers.

Facts kept men alive.

Facts also told him this woman was lying every time she looked steady.

“Then you’ve earned your whiskey,” he said.

“I paid for it.”

“I didn’t say you hadn’t.”

There it was again. The spark.

No one else would call it that yet. John might later, if he had enough drink in him and the poor sense to say it aloud. Mary Doyle was already watching Tommy as if she wanted to pull Margaret behind the nearest wall and hide her from the whole Shelby family.

Smart woman, Mary Doyle.

He stepped to the bar and picked up Margaret’s glass.

The pub watched him take it to her.

He did it because he wanted to see whether she would accept something from his hand. Simple as that. Men told themselves stories about power. Tommy preferred experiments.

He held it out.

Margaret looked at the glass first, then at him. She understood the room. She understood an offer could be an order if made by the right man. Her fingers came up slowly, gloved, careful not to touch his.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome, Margaret.”

Her name suited her. Formal, clean, hard around the edges. A name that stood upright even when the woman wearing it had not slept.

“You know everyone around here?” she asked.

“Most.”

“And those you don’t?”

“I learn.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It has uses.”

“I imagine it does.”

She drank the whiskey in one go because she knew he was watching. Pride again flared in her eyes.

Also a want, perhaps, though too early for the word. Interest, certainly. On her side as well as his. There was an awareness in the way she held his gaze after the glass emptied. No simper. No invitation laid cheaply across the bar. She seemed almost angry with herself for not looking away first.

Tommy knew that feeling.

“Good evening, Mr. Shelby,” she said.

“Nurse Allen.”

Mary took her arm and led her out while there was still room to leave gracefully. Harrison followed with his head down. Peter trailed behind like a man grateful his face remained attached to his skull.

John watched the door shut behind them and whistled softly.

Arthur slammed his glass on the nearest table. “Fuck me, Tommy. She talks like that in here once more, I’ll—”

“You’ll do nothing,” Tommy said.

Arthur turned on him. “She made a mug of me.”

“You did that yourself.”

John laughed. “He’s right.”

“Shut up, John.”

John leaned against the bar, delighted and loose with it. “She told you to stop speaking.”

“I said shut up.”

“She told you very politely.”

Arthur lunged half a step, and John only grinned wider because brotherly stupidity did not know when to fear a punch. Tommy moved past them both.

“Private room,” he said.

The words ended the moment.

Arthur cursed, grabbed his drink of choice, and followed. John took one last look at the door Margaret had gone through before coming after them. Tommy noticed. Tommy noticed everything tonight, which annoyed him more than usual.

The private room behind the Garrison was quieter, though quiet in the Garrison always had noise pressed against the walls. Voices through wood. Piano starting up again with uncertain cheer. Glasses clinking. Men laughing harder now that the Shelby brothers had left the main room and allowed breath to return.

Tommy took his seat at the table. Arthur dropped heavily into a chair opposite him. John remained standing for a moment, restless, then sat sideways with one arm over the back.

On the table lay the business that had brought them here before Margaret Allen changed the temperature of the pub. Papers., names, figures, a map of London folded twice, a list of men who could be paid, and a shorter list of men who would need frightening before payment became an option.

Tommy lit another cigarette.

Arthur drank some more. “We talking about the London thing or John’s nurse?”

“She’s not my nurse,” John said.

Arthur scoffed. “You walked her from the station like a lost puppy.”

“She had a heavy suitcase.”

“Christ, he’s in love.”

John threw a matchstick at him. “Fuck off, I have a wife and too many kids to care about.”

Tommy looked at John through the smoke. “You told me she was difficult.”

“She is.”

“You failed to say she was clever.”

John shrugged, though his face betrayed him. “Thought you’d see that.”

“I did.”

Arthur leaned forward. “Can we not? She’s a nurse. London nurse. Mouthy as sin. Good for her. We’ve got business.”

Tommy tapped ash into the tray. “Then talk business.”

Arthur looked at the map as if he wanted it to confess on its own. “Camden man wants more money.”

“Camden man will get what we agreed.”

“They say London police aren’t like Birmingham police.”

“No,” Tommy said. “They’re more expensive.”

John leaned in now, boyish amusement settling into something sharper. “And Ada?”

The name sat heavier between the three brothers. Tommy’s eyes went to the map.

Ada was in London with Freddie and the baby, living in a kind of peace she had fought them all to get. Peace, Tommy had learned, was often only a room nobody had entered yet with muddy, heavy boots.

“We keep her away from it,” Arthur said at once.

John looked at him. “How?”

“By not doing business near her.”

“London isn’t a parlour, Arthur. We start moving there, people talk. People look for leverage.”

Arthur’s face hardened. “Nobody touches Ada.”

“No one touches Ada if we know they’re coming,” Tommy said.

The brothers went quiet.

Tommy unfolded the map fully and placed two fingers near Camden, then moved them south. “We don’t use her address. We don’t visit in groups. No Shelby cars on her street. No men waiting outside where neighbours can count caps and tell stories.”

Arthur shook his head. “She won’t like being watched.”

“She doesn’t need to like it.”

“She’ll know.”

“Probably.”

John rubbed his jaw. “Polly’ll have something to say.”

“Polly always has something to say.”

“And Freddie?”

Arthur’s lip curled. “Freddie can choke.”

Tommy’s voice stayed calm. “Freddie’s a father now. That changes where a man keeps his courage.”

Arthur made a dismissive sound, but he did not argue.

Tommy looked at John. “You speak to our man at Euston. Quietly. He gets eyes on movement in and out. No contact with Ada unless there’s danger.”

John nodded.

“Arthur, you speak to Camden again. Tell them the money stands. Tell them if they raise the price once more, I’ll assume it's been bought to waste my time.”

Arthur smiled for the first time that evening. “And if it has?”

“Then bring me a fucking name.”

That satisfied the older brother.

For several minutes, they worked. Routes mapped out, amount of money to be used, police to be bought, pubs they can buy, men who could be trusted because they feared the right things, men who could not be trusted because they liked hearing themselves speak. Tommy listened, adjusted, decided. The London business had to begin cleanly enough to look inevitable after the fact. No messy entrance. No unnecessary blood on the floor for newspapers to sniff at.

Still, part of him remained with the woman who had walked out of his pub with Mary Doyle’s hand around her arm.

Margaret Allen.

He did not like distractions.

He liked even less when a distraction presented itself as information he did not yet have.

Arthur noticed his silence first. Arthur was not stupid, despite what people took from his temper. He watched Tommy across the table and frowned.

“You still thinking about that nurse?”

Tommy turned a page. “Yes.”

John’s grin returned immediately. “Knew it.”

Arthur looked disgusted. “Why?”

“She works at the hospital.”

“So?”

“So hospitals hear things. Police wounds. Factory accidents. Men who talk under fever. Women who know who beat them and who paid for the doctor. Hospitals know more about this city than churches.”

John leaned back. “That why you’re thinking about her?”

Tommy looked at him.

John smiled because he knew the answer had teeth.

Arthur drank again. “She’ll be trouble.”

“Yes,” Tommy said.

There was no point denying that.

He could still see her in the smoke, chin lifted, whiskey burning down her throat. Too proud to flinch. Too tired to pretend innocence properly. Her beauty had caught him first, but beauty alone never held him. What held him was the way she spoke of dying people in a room full of drinkers and made the truth sound almost casual.

He wondered what Charles had been to her. Men left shapes behind when they died. Tommy knew that better than most. He wondered whether she slept with a photograph beside her bed. Wondered whether she woke reaching for cigarettes before she reached for prayer.

That thought irritated him.

It was too close to tenderness, and tenderness, for Tommy, had become a locked room since Grace took a ship to New York with his heart packed somewhere in her luggage.

Grace.

The name came less often now. When it came, it still cut clean. She had left the way people left when love was real but life had sharper teeth. New York had swallowed her. Or saved her. Tommy had never decided which version hurt less.

He had stopped waiting for letters he did not admit he wanted.

He had stopped imagining her voice in the Garrison.

Mostly.

Now a London nurse had walked in with war in her eyes and whiskey in her hand, and Tommy had felt something in himself stir awake like a thing he thought had died decently.

Arthur pushed his chair back. “I’m telling you, Tommy, keep John away from her. He gets daft around women with sharp mouths.”

John pointed at him. “I’m sitting right here.”

“Then hear it.”

“She’s not interested in me,” John said, with an honesty that surprised Tommy a little.

Arthur laughed. “That never stopped you before.”

John looked down at his drink, still smiling but quieter now. “She’s interesting, that’s all.”

“Boyish fascination,” Tommy said.

John looked at him. “And yours?”

Tommy held his brother’s gaze across the table.

The room seemed to still.

John, to his credit, did not look away. He had been a boy too long in many people’s minds. France had ruined that, fatherhood had changed it further, but John still carried a careless brightness around him when he could afford it. Tonight, that brightness had Margaret Allen’s shape.

Tommy leaned back. “Mine is my business.”

John’s mouth twitched. “Right.”

Arthur muttered, “Fucking hell.”

Tommy turned toward the door and raised his voice. “Jeremiah.”

A moment later, Jeremiah Jesus came in from the hall, hat in hand, eyes moving once across the brothers before settling on Tommy.

“Tom.”

“I need two men near Birmingham City Hospital. Different shifts, quiet. They watch the doors, the receiving entrance, anyone asking too much about staff.”

Jeremiah’s brows lifted slightly. “Trouble expected?”

“Trouble is always expected.”

Arthur watched him now, expression sharpening. “This about the London business?”

Tommy ignored the question. “Another man near Hodge’s boarding house. Across the street if possible. No standing under lamps like amateurs. No speaking to women going in or out. If Mary Doyle sees them, they move farther back.”

John sat up. “Tommy.”

Tommy looked at him. “What?”

“That’s where Margaret’s staying?”

“Yes.”

Arthur swore under his breath. “You already knew that?”

“I know where the nurses stay when they work in my city.”

“Your city,” Arthur said with mockery.

Tommy’s eyes stayed on Jeremiah. “No contact unless there’s need. If she’s followed, I hear. If trouble comes from Watery Lane toward that house, I hear. If police ask questions about her, I hear before the answer leaves anyone’s mouth.”

Jeremiah nodded slowly. “The girl from tonight?”

“Yes.”

John looked between them. His amusement had faded now, replaced by something more complicated. “She won’t like that.”

“She won’t know.”

“She’ll find out.”

Tommy took a drag from his cigarette. “Then I’ll hear about that too.”

Arthur shook his head. “You’ve lost your mind over a woman who told me to stop speaking.”

Tommy’s gaze cut to him. “You should have stopped sooner.”

John laughed once, despite the seriousness of the situation.

Arthur pointed at Tommy with his glass. “You want my opinion?”

“No.”

“You’re getting it.”

“No,” Tommy said again, firmer.

Arthur held the words in his mouth, then swallowed them with whiskey.

Jeremiah waited until the brothers’ silence settled. “Hospital and boarding house. Quiet men.”

“And good ones,” Tommy said. “No boys trying to impress anyone.”

“I’ll handle it.”

Jeremiah left.

The door shut behind him.

For a few seconds, only the muffled pub noise remained. The piano had found confidence again. Men sang badly. Life went on outside the private room because life always did, disrespectful as ever.

John was the first to speak.

“You protecting her because she’s useful or because she’s pretty?”

Tommy looked down at the map of London.

Margaret Allen was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. That was true enough to be useless. Beauty could be bought, stolen, married, ruined, buried. He had seen all of it. Protection did not come from beauty alone.

It came from interest.

And interest, once it took hold in Tommy Shelby, became action before most men had finished naming the feeling.

“She’s new,” he said.

Arthur snorted. “That’s your answer?”

“She’s new,” Tommy repeated. “She walked into the Garrison without knowing whose room she was entering. She works in a hospital that will see our men sooner or later. She lives close enough to Watery Lane for trouble to mistake her door.”

John studied him. “And?”

Tommy folded the map once.

“And I don’t like mistakes.”

Arthur leaned back with a laugh that held no humour. “Fuck me.”

John smiled into his drink. “She’ll eat you alive if she learns you put men outside her house.”

Tommy almost smiled.

He could imagine it. Margaret Allen at his door, tired eyes bright with anger, that London voice sharpened enough to open skin. He could imagine her calling him arrogant. Dangerous. Pleased with himself, perhaps, since she had already said it to John and seemed unlikely to waste a useful insult.

He found the thought more pleasant than wise.

“Then she’ll know where to find me,” Tommy said.

John shook his head, grinning now. “You do like her.”

Tommy’s eyes rose.

John’s grin softened, but he did not take it back.

Arthur missed the change. Arthur was still scowling at his glass, annoyed by London, women, business, and perhaps the entire arrangement of the modern world.

Tommy tapped ash into the tray and let his gaze drift toward the door.

Beyond it, the Garrison lived and smoked. Margaret Allen had gone back into the Birmingham night with Mary Doyle on one side and two harmless men behind her. She would return to the boarding house, he thought. She would likely write something down. Nurses did that. Women who survived things did that too, if they could bear having the truth in ink.

He wondered what she would write about him.

Then he wondered why he cared.

Grace had once told him there was a man inside him who wanted peace. She had said it like a promise. He had believed her because she had looked at him as if she could see that man clearly enough to call him out.

Then she left.

Peace, in Tommy’s experience, had poor staying power.

Margaret Allen had not looked at him as if she wanted to save him. That was the first sensible thing about her. She had looked at him as if she was deciding whether he deserved the inconvenience of her attention.

He liked that.

Arthur leaned over the table and dragged them back into business with a question about Camden. John argued. Tommy answered. Names moved. Money shifted. London waited.

But somewhere beneath the figures and routes, a new fact had placed itself in Tommy’s mind and refused to leave.

Margaret Allen.

A woman who told Arthur Shelby to stop speaking and drank from a glass Tommy Shelby placed in her hand.

He would learn the rest of her.

That was how interest became intention.

And intention, with Tommy, had always been the beginning of trouble.

TAGLIST.: @outlanderuniverse, @ourtiger04

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[joelssimp]

A WHISKEY AND A SMOKE | CHAPTER 01

W: DESCRIPTION OF INJURIES, GRIEF, MENTION OF THE GREAT WAR, PTSD, ANXIETY ATTACK, SMOKING, EARLY 20'S VIBES.

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CHAPTER 01 - GHOSTS THAT FOLLOW

The first thing Birmingham did was swallow me whole.

The station was not so much a building as a living thing with a filthy mouth. Steam breathed from the engines in great white clouds, rolling over the platform and dampening everything it touched. Men pushed through it with bags over their shoulders and newspapers tucked beneath their arms. Women gathered children by the collars. Porters shouted over the shriek of brakes. Somewhere close, a horse gave a miserable snort, and the smell of coal, wet wool, iron, and bodies pressed in on me with such force I stopped with one foot on the platform and one still inside the train.

Behind me, someone cleared his throat.

“Miss?”

I looked back. The coughing man from the compartment stood with his handkerchief crushed in one fist, his face grey around the mouth.

“Sorry,” I said, stepping down properly before I could hold up the queue of passengers any longer.

My suitcase nearly pulled my shoulder from its socket when I lifted it. I had packed as if I owned nothing, which was mostly true, and still it felt as heavy as a dead man. The handle bit through my glove. I shifted it from one hand to the other and moved with the crowd because there was little choice in the matter. Birmingham had no patience for a woman who needed a moment to gather herself.

The platform trembled beneath my boots.

That was what unsettled me first. London stations were loud, yes, and full of people rushing as though God himself had given them a schedule. But this place had a different sort of movement. Harder. Meaner at the edges. Everything seemed to scrape against everything else. Metal on metal. Voices on smoke. Boots against stone.

I made it as far as a pillar near the exit before I stopped again.

A boy ran past me carrying a crate of newspapers, his cap too big for his head, shouting something about King and country and another factory-strike somewhere north. A woman beside me cursed after him when he nearly took her ankle out. Two soldiers stood near the wall with their backs to the brick, one missing a hand, the other with half his face turned away from the world. Neither of them spoke.

I tried not to stare. Afraid of them being the ghosts inside my head. I looked for a sign instead. Any sign. Something pointing toward the street, the city, the hospital, a place where one could stand without being shoved aside by men who smelled of tobacco and rain.

There were signs, of course. Too many. None of them useful.

“Come on, Margaret,” I muttered under my breath.

My voice sounded small here.

I had the address written in my pocket. Birmingham City Hospital. I had read the letter so many times I could see the paper in my sleep, the black ink, the neat signature, the promise of work and lodging arrangements to be discussed upon arrival. It had seemed straightforward in London. Just one train, one station, a single hospital. A new life, if one was inclined toward dramatic thinking.

Standing in the middle of that platform with smoke dampening the hair at the nape of my neck, it felt rather less straightforward.

I set the suitcase down for a moment and reached into my coat pocket for the folded paper.

A shoulder knocked mine.

“Watch it,” a man snapped.

I looked up. “You walked into me.”

He turned, surprised perhaps that I had a voice. His eyes moved over my coat, my hat, my suitcase, and the gloves I wore even though the day was not cold enough to justify them. Then his mouth twitched.

“London girl,” he said, as if it were an insult.

I lifted my chin. “Yes.”

He gave a short laugh and disappeared into the crowd.

I hated him at once., then hated myself a little for being glad he had guessed it so quickly, because at least someone seemed to know where I was from.

The paper had softened along the folds from too much handling. I smoothed it against my palm and looked down at the address again as though it might have changed since the last time.

Birmingham City Hospital.

Right.

I could ask someone for directions.

That was the sensible thing to do. Nurses were sensible by necessity. We asked for instruments before we needed them. We counted pulse, checked pupils, watched the colour drain from lips and learned to move before panic had a chance to enter the room. Asking a stranger for directions was hardly a battlefield procedure.

Still, my feet remained where they were.

There were too many men. Too many eyes. Too many ways for a simple question to become an invitation I had not meant to give. I had learned that in London before the war and learned it again in France, where a woman in uniform was either a saint, a mother, or something men thought they could grab if the pain was bad enough and the morphine had not come yet.

My thumb pressed against the inside of my wrist.

Steady.

I folded the paper and pushed it back into my pocket.

“Lost, are you?”

The voice came from my left. Male, young and amused in a way that immediately made me want to be difficult.

I turned.

He was leaning against the pillar as though he owned it. Flat cap pulled low. His coat was dark, with his hands in his pockets. Younger than I expected from the confidence in his voice, though not a boy. There was something quick about his face, something bright and restless in the eyes. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth unlit.

He looked at my suitcase, then at my gloves, then at my face.

I stared back. “No.”

His mouth curved. “No?”

“No.”

“You’re standing in the middle of the station reading the same bit of paper like it owes you money.”

“I enjoy reading.”

“At a train station?”

“It’s a thrilling hobby.”

That made him laugh. A real laugh, short and warm, and I found that more irritating than if he had sneered.

He pushed himself off the pillar. “Where you headed?”

“I’m perfectly capable of finding my way.”

“Didn’t say you weren’t.”

“You implied it.” I went in completely defensive.

“I implied you looked lost.”

“I am not.”

His eyes flicked toward the exit, then back to me. “Right. Then you’ll be wanting that way.”

He pointed with his chin toward a passage half-hidden behind a knot of passengers and porters.

I looked despite myself.

His grin widened.

Damn him.

I picked up my suitcase again. The handle had warmed where my palm had been. “Thank you.”

“That all you’re carrying?”

“Yes.”

“Moving light.”

“Moving privately.”

Another laugh, softer this time. “Fair enough.”

I started toward the passage without waiting for him to say anything else. If I walked with enough purpose, perhaps Birmingham would be fooled into thinking I belonged to it already.

I managed six steps before he fell into stride beside me.

I stopped. “Are you following me?”

“Walking the same way.”

“Convenient.”

“It is, yeah.”

I studied him properly then. He had that look men in rough districts often wore after the war, whether they’d gone to France or only watched others come back from it. A face trained to make a joke before anyone noticed the bruising. Not actual bruising in his case, though there was a small healing cut near his brow and a faint swelling along one knuckle. His coat was good enough to mean money of some kind, worn carelessly enough to mean he did not have to beg for it.

“Do you make a habit of approaching women at stations?” I asked.

“Only ones who look ready to stab somebody with a hatpin.”

“I don’t own a hatpin sharp enough.”

“Pity.”

“I could improvise.”

He looked pleased by that, which told me he was either foolish or very used to women threatening him.

“John,” he said.

I did not answer.

He waited a second. “That’s usually where you tell me your name.”

“Is it?”

“In polite places, I hear that’s how it goes.”

“This is a polite place?”

He glanced around the station: the shouting men, the crying baby, the porter arguing over a trunk, the blackened glass overhead. “No. Suppose not.”

I began walking again.

He kept pace as if my refusal had been an invitation written in gold.

“I know the city,” he said. “You don’t.”

“You’ve gathered that from my accent?”

“That and the way you’re looking at everything like it might bite.”

“Will it?”

“Some of it.”

I hated that I wanted to ask which parts.

We reached the main concourse where the crowd widened and split toward the exits. A gust of colder air rolled through whenever the doors opened, carrying the stink of horses and smoke from the street beyond. I could see it now, Birmingham proper, waiting outside with its soot-dark buildings and narrow faces. The sky above the station was the colour of dirty dishwater.

John nodded toward my suitcase. “Hospital?”

I stopped again.

His expression changed before he could hide it. Only a little, but enough. His teasing eased back., and his gaze went to the cuff of my coat, where the sleeve had shifted and shown a glimpse of white beneath.

Nurse’s uniform.

He had not guessed. He had seen.

“That obvious?” I asked.

“Not to everyone.”

“Then you’ve had practice.”

His jaw moved once, like he had bitten down on a thought. “Birmingham’s got plenty of need for nurses.”

“Everywhere does.”

“Aye.”

Something passed through his face then, too fast to name. France, perhaps. Or a room where someone had died badly and no one had known what to do with the blood.

I had seen that look in London. In train compartments, or in pubs, on men who laughed too loudly and women who flinched at dropped plates.

The war had ended, according to newspapers.

No one had informed England.

“I need Birmingham City Hospital,” I said, because it was easier than standing there with the ghosts between us.

John nodded. “I can show you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know.”

“I don’t take walks with strange men.”

“Good. You shouldn’t.”

“And yet.”

“And yet I’m going that way, and you’ve got a suitcase that looks heavier than you.”

“It is not.”

“It is.”

“I carried wounded men heavier than this.”

The words came out sharper than I intended.

John’s face stilled. He did not make a joke, and that was something, at least.

“Then you can carry it,” he said quietly. “And I’ll walk beside you so nobody bothers you.”

I looked at him.

He held my gaze without pushing. There was no noble look on his face, no grand display of gentlemanly sacrifice. He seemed, if anything, mildly uncomfortable with having said something decent.

I let out a slow breath through my nose. “Fine.”

His grin came back, though smaller. “Fine?”

“You may walk beside me.”

“Generous.”

“You may also refrain from speaking.”

“That’ll be harder.”

“I suspected as much.”

We stepped out of the station into Birmingham.

The city hit me with both hands.

London had fog, but this was different. This was industry thick enough to taste. Smoke dragged low between buildings and clung to window ledges, faces, washing lines, the backs of horses. The street outside the station was churned with mud and black water. Carts moved alongside motorcars, boys darted through gaps with the desperate confidence of children who had learned early that wheels rarely stopped for them. Men in caps stood in clusters outside shops and public houses, smoking, watching, saying very little.

Everything looked as if it had been rubbed with coal.

John noticed me taking it in. “Welcome to Birmingham.”

“It’s cheerful.”

“That’s the sunniest bit.”

“Splendid.”

He laughed again and moved to the outside of the pavement, closer to the road. I noticed that without wanting to. Men did that sometimes when they wished to appear protective. Men did it sometimes because they understood roads better than women’s fear. John did it with the distracted ease of someone who had been taught by women and trouble.

“You’ll want to learn the streets quick,” he said. “Main ones first. Don’t cut through alleys unless you know where they come out.”

“I’m from London, Mr. John. Alleys are not a Birmingham invention.”

“No, but ours have more personality.”

“By personality, do you mean knives?”

“Sometimes.”

I glanced at him.

He smiled around the unlit cigarette. “Sometimes fists. Depends on the day.”

“Useful distinction.”

“You’ll also want to keep your bag close in the markets. Don’t look too interested in anything unless you want the price doubled. And if a man offers to carry that for a penny, he’ll run with it before you’ve finished saying thank you.”

“I would never pay a stranger to steal from me.”

“You’d be surprised how many do.”

We passed a row of shops with grimy windows. A butcher was hosing blood from the front step into the gutter. A girl no older than twelve stood outside with a basket over one arm, her cheeks red from the wind, watching us with open curiosity. Across the street, a man came out of a public house though it was barely afternoon. He leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette with hands that shook worse than mine.

I looked away before he caught me seeing him.

The suitcase pulled at my arm again. I adjusted my grip.

John noticed. Of course he did.

“You sure you don’t want me to take it?”

“Quite sure.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“And you’re observant.”

“My aunt says that as though it’s an illness.”

“She may be right.”

That earned a quick look from him, amused and bright. “You talk posh, but you’ve got a bite.”

“I’ll write to my mother. She’ll be relieved.”

“She worried about you coming here?”

“Everyone is worried about everything nowadays.”

“That’s true enough.”

A cart rolled past close enough to splash dirty water over the hem of my coat. I stepped back too late and looked down at the black spots blooming in the wool.

John winced. “There’s your first bit of Birmingham.”

“I shall treasure it.”

“Don’t worry. By next week the whole coat’ll match.”

“Comforting.”

He pointed ahead with two fingers. “Hospital’s past there. Another few streets.”

I followed the line of his hand and saw taller buildings rising beyond the roofs. Red brick with long windows and a shape that looked stern even from a distance.

Something inside me tightened.

Not panic this time, though panic stood nearby, waiting for permission. This was the edge of arriving. The last few minutes before a person became whoever she had claimed she was going to be.

A nurse, twenty-three years of age, and somehow capable.

My throat went dry.

John slowed half a step. “You all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“That was quick.”

“What was?”

“You saying fine before I’d properly asked.”

I looked at him. “Do people in Birmingham make a habit of examining every word?”

“Only when they’re interesting.”

“I’m not interesting.”

“You’re a London nurse with war medals, a suitcase, and a temper. That’s interesting enough.”

I stopped walking and he stopped too, a few feet ahead, then turned back.

“I didn’t say medals,” I said.

“You did at the station.”

“No. I said I carried wounded men.”

He looked at me for a second, and there it was again, that flicker of something more careful beneath the grin.

“Your posture said the rest.”

“My posture?”

“Yeah.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard today.”

“You stand like a soldier pretending not to be one.”

I had no answer for that.

A woman pushed past us with a basket of laundry, muttering about fools blocking the path. I moved aside automatically, cheeks warming in the cold air. John waited until she had gone.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said.

People always said that after meaning enough.

I started walking again. “I trained as a nurse during the war. That’s all.”

“That’s not all.”

“It is all I’m telling you.”

He nodded. “Fair.”

We continued in silence for a while.

I preferred him that way, or told myself I did. It gave me room to listen to the city: Hooves, wheels, a factory whistle in the distance, a baby crying somewhere behind a closed door. The low rumble of men coming out of a building in work clothes, shoulders bent from labour and lungs filled with whatever made this city rich enough for some and hungry enough for the rest.

There were women everywhere too. Women with cracked hands and tired backs. Women in dark coats holding children by the wrist. Women who looked at me and saw the stranger in my boots, my London coat, my suitcase. Some glanced away. Some did not.

The hospital grew larger with each street.

By the time we reached the gates, my hand ached from the suitcase handle and my lungs felt lined with soot.

Birmingham City Hospital stood behind iron railings, broad and severe, its brick darkened by weather and smoke. The windows were tall, many of them open a crack despite the cold. Somewhere inside, a bell rang. A motor ambulance waited near the entrance, its paint scratched, one wheel splashed with mud. Two orderlies carried a stretcher through the doors at a brisk walk. The patient on it was covered to the chest with a grey blanket, one hand dangling over the side.

The sight steadied me more than anything else had.

A hospital was a hospital. Even an unfamiliar one.

Blood had the same smell in Birmingham. Pain made the same sounds. Fever flushed skin the same way. A frightened man was a frightened man no matter the city.

I could work with that.

John watched me instead of the building. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?”

“Like you’re about to fight it.”

“Perhaps I am.”

“The hospital?”

“The future.”

He looked at the building then. His expression softened in a way that made him look younger for half a second. “Well, give it a hard one for me.”

Despite myself, I smiled.

It surprised us both.

John pointed at the main doors. “Ask for the matron when you get in. If she scares you, don’t show it.”

“Does she scare you?”

“I avoid hospitals when I can.”

“That’s usually what men say before turning up half-dead and bleeding on the floor.”

“Then you’ll see me soon enough.”

“I hope not.”

He tapped the side of his cap. “That almost sounded kind.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Course.”

I shifted the suitcase to my other hand and looked at him properly. “Name’s Margaret. Thank you for walking me.”

“You’re welcome, Margaret.” He replied grinning.

“Mr. John,” I said slowly, “are you always this pleased with yourself?”

“Most days.”

“That must be exhausting for everyone around you.”

“My brothers say worse.”

“Then your brothers sound sensible.”

He scoffed “That’d be news to them.”

A shout came from farther down the street. John turned his head toward it, attention catching like a match strike. For the first time since he had appeared beside that pillar, I saw the restlessness in him sharpen into something harder. Recognition, perhaps. Duty, or trouble calling a familiar name.

He looked back at me.

“You’ll be all right from here?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“I’m standing in front of a hospital, not the mouth of hell.”

“You haven’t met the matron yet.”

“I have survived surgeons with God complexes and soldiers biting through leather straps. I can manage a matron.”

His smile returned, quieter now. “I believe you.”

I was not used to strangers believing me.

He stepped back from the gate. “Careful in the city, Margaret.”

Before I could say something else, he nodded once and began walking backward down the pavement, hands in his pockets again.

“Welcome to Birmingham.” John said over his shoulder and disappeared into the moving street as if the city had folded around him.

I stood by the gate for a few seconds after he left.

The iron was cold beneath my gloved hand when I touched it. Behind me, Birmingham went on shouting. Ahead of me, the hospital waited with its tall windows and open doors. I felt suddenly aware of my coat hem stained with street water, my hair loosened by the walk, my mouth dry from nerves and cigarette smoke.

I wanted to light another one.

Instead I lifted my suitcase and walked through the gates.

Inside, the air changed.

The entrance hall smelled of carbolic soap, boiled linen, damp coats, and that sour scent of sickness. It was unpleasant enough to be comforting. My boots struck the tiled floor with a sound that seemed too loud at first. A clerk behind a desk looked up over his spectacles, took in my suitcase, then returned to his papers as though women carrying their whole lives through hospital doors were a daily inconvenience.

Perhaps they were.

“I’m here to report for nursing staff,” I said.

He did not look up. “Name?”

“Margaret Allen.”

He dipped his pen into ink. “From London?”

“Yes.”

“Matron’s expecting you.”

The word matron landed with more weight than it had outside.

The clerk pointed down the corridor without lifting his head. “Straight through. First left. Office at the end. Don’t wander.”

“I wasn’t planning on sightseeing.”

That made his pen pause. Only for a moment.

Then he wrote something down. “First left.”

I followed his directions.

The hospital corridors were wide but busy. Nurses passed in pairs, aprons clean, faces set in that particular expression women wore when they had too much to do and no intention of being interrupted by men pretending urgency was competence. A porter carried a stack of folded blankets high enough to hide his face. Somewhere beyond the walls came the sharp cry of a child, followed by a woman’s soothing voice. A bell rang twice.

My shoulders loosened one inch.

Work had a rhythm and rules. Even chaos behaved differently in a hospital than it did on a train platform. People could still die, and often did, but there were basins, charts, bandages, routines. Pain could be given a name and written in ink.

At the end of the corridor, a frosted glass door bore painted letters.

MATRON E. HAWTHORNE.

I set the suitcase down, smoothed my coat, and knocked.

“Come in.”

The voice on the other side was crisp enough to cut bread.

I entered.

Matron Hawthorne stood behind her desk rather than sitting at it. She was tall, narrow, and built from discipline. Her grey hair was pinned beneath her cap with military precision, and her uniform looked so exact it seemed less worn than enforced. She held my letter in one hand.

“Miss Allen.”

“Yes, Matron.”

Her eyes moved over me with swift assessment. Coat. Gloves. Boots. Face. She missed nothing, which meant I disliked and respected her within the same breath.

“You’re late.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. “By seven minutes.”

“Late is not measured by how much one prefers it to be excused.”

“No, Matron.”

A silence. Then her mouth twitched so faintly I wondered if I had imagined it.

“Your train?”

“Crowded.”

“They usually are.”

“Yes, Matron.”

She set the letter down and lifted another sheet. “You served in France.”

“I trained in London first, then volunteered with a medical unit attached to casualty clearing work.”

“I did not ask for modesty, Miss Allen. I asked for confirmation.”

I held her gaze. “Yes, Matron. I served in France.”

“Experience with surgical cases?”

“Yes.”

“Amputations?”

“Yes.”

“Gas injuries?”

“Yes.”

“Abdominal trauma?”

My fingers tightened inside my gloves. “Yes.”

“Shell shock?”

The room grew smaller for half a second.

“Yes.”

She watched me closely.

I gave her nothing else.

Matron Hawthorne nodded once and placed the sheet on her desk. “Then you will find Birmingham less dramatic and more relentless. We have industrial injuries, infections, births, beatings, burns, men who drink away their wages and women who pay the consequence. We have children with lungs ruined before they learn to read. We have former soldiers who will not call themselves patients until they collapse in the street.”

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t. But you will.”

Fair enough.

She moved around the desk and opened the door. “Your lodging has been arranged temporarily at a nurses’ boarding house two streets over. Respectable enough. Cold in the mornings. You’ll be given directions after supper. Until then, you’ll meet the staff, receive your schedule, and change into uniform.”

“I start today?”

“You arrived today.”

“I only meant—”

“I know what you meant. We are short-staffed.”

Of course they were.

Every hospital in England had been short-staffed since the war, and before that too, though men only noticed shortages when they were the ones needing care.

Matron Hawthorne stepped into the corridor, and I followed with my suitcase.

“You’ll begin on women’s surgical for the remainder of the afternoon. Tomorrow you’ll rotate through receiving. After that, we’ll see where you’re useful.”

Useful.

I liked the word more than I should have.

She led me down another corridor and into a small room where two nurses stood near a cupboard, arguing in low voices over a missing apron.

One of them was tall and fair, with a sharp chin and tired blue eyes. The other was shorter, dark-haired, with a rounder face and a mouth that looked as if it smiled often despite the hospital’s best attempts to prevent it.

Both turned when we entered.

“Nurse Clarke,” Matron said. “Nurse Doyle. This is Nurse Allen from London. She’ll be joining us.”

The fair one, Nurse Clarke, looked me over without warmth and without cruelty. A practical assessment.

The dark-haired one smiled at once.

“London?” she said. “Well, that’s fancy.”

“Mary,” Matron warned.

“What? I’m welcoming.”

“You are commenting.”

“That too.”

Nurse Clarke stepped forward and gave me a small nod. “Edith Clarke.”

“Margaret Allen.”

Her handshake was dry and firm.

Nurse Doyle took my hand next with both of hers, warmer than expected. “Mary. Don’t mind Edith’s face. She was born disappointed.”

Edith sighed. “I was born quiet. You mistake the two because you’ve never tried it.”

Mary looked at me. “See? Friendly already.”

A laugh almost left me. It caught somewhere near my ribs and turned into a breath instead.

Matron Hawthorne pointed to the cupboard. “Find Nurse Allen an official uniform and show her where to change. She’ll be on women’s surgical.”

Mary’s brows lifted. “Today?”

“She has experience.”

Edith looked at me again, this time more directly. “War?”

“Yes.”

Something shifted in her face. Recognition without pity.

Mary’s smile softened but did not disappear. “Right then. We’ll keep the worst of ourselves hidden until tomorrow.”

“Speak for yourself,” Edith said.

Matron Hawthorne gave them both a look capable of sterilising instruments. “I expect her on the ward in fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, Matron,” they said together.

Matron turned to me. “Miss Allen.”

“Yes, Matron?”

“Birmingham does not reward softness. Do your work. Keep your head down. Ask when you don’t know. Don’t pretend around our patients.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

She left.

The room seemed to breathe again once she was gone.

Mary leaned closer to me and whispered, “She likes you.”

I looked toward the closed door. “That was liking me?”

“For her, yes.”

Edith opened a cupboard and moved a stack of linens. “She didn’t send you home crying. Practically a kiss on the cheek.”

“I can still hear you, Nurse Clarke,” Matron’s voice called from the corridor.

Edith closed her eyes.

Mary pressed her lips together so hard her whole face trembled.

Despite the ache in my arm, the soot in my lungs, and despite Charles folded somewhere inside my suitcase with my old life, I laughed.

Only once and quietly.

But it happened.

Mary looked delighted. Edith looked less disappointed than advertised.

“There she is,” Mary said. “We were beginning to worry London had sent us a statue.”

“I’m too tired to be made of stone.”

“That’ll fit in well here.”

Edith handed me a folded apron and pointed toward a screen in the corner. “You can change there. Keep your purse on you. Don’t leave cigarettes in the common room unless you mean to share.”

Mary gasped. “Edith Clarke, accusing nurses of theft?”

“I’m accusing nurses of being nurses.”

I set my suitcase down beside the screen. “I only smoke when my hands shake.”

The words came out before I had measured them.

Both women went a little quiet.

I hated the quiet more than I hated the mistake.

Then Mary reached into her own apron pocket and pulled out a cigarette case, scratched silver, clearly lived. She flipped it open, showed me three crooked cigarettes inside, and winked.

“Then you’ll never be without company.”

Edith shook her head, but there was something kind in the movement. “Change quickly. Women’s surgical waits for no one.”

I stepped behind the screen and began to unbutton my coat.

I folded my coat over the back of a chair and reached for the clean uniform. Changed fast. Women’s surgical smelled of boiled linen and old pain.

That was my first thought when Nurse Clarke pushed open the ward door with her hip and gestured for me to follow. There were sixteen beds, eight on each side, with narrow walkways between them and windows tall enough to let in a grey wash of afternoon light. The glass looked clean, which surprised me, until I noticed how the soot gathered thick around the frames where fingers could not easily reach.

A coal fire burned low at the far end. It gave off more smoke than warmth.

“Beds one through six are post-operative,” Edith said, walking with the brisk pace of a woman who did not waste steps. “Seven is waiting on Dr. Whitcomb to remember he’s got a patient with an abdomen hard as a board. Eight is Mrs. Barlow. You’ll know her because she shouts before she needs anything. Nine through thirteen are dressings, observation, infection watch. Fourteen is dying.”

She said the last part the same way one might say it was raining.

I looked toward bed fourteen before I could stop myself.

An older woman lay there with her face turned toward the window, cheeks hollow, skin stretched too thin over bone. Her breathing lifted the blanket in small, uneven movements. Beside her sat a girl of perhaps seventeen, twisting a handkerchief between red fingers.

“How long?” I asked quietly.

Edith paused near the medicine trolley. “Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow morning. Depends whether her heart is stubborn.”

“Is family informed?”

“The daughter knows. Sons haven’t come.”

There was a bitterness in her voice that made me wonder how many times she had said those words before.

Mary came in behind us carrying a tray with fresh bandages stacked high enough to hide the lower half of her face. “Mrs. Barlow threw a slipper at Dr. Whitcomb while you were gone.”

Edith did not look surprised. “Did she hit him?”

“Missed by inches.”

“Shame.”

Mary set the tray down and gave me a quick smile. “Welcome to women’s surgical.”

I thought of Matron Hawthorne’s words. Less dramatic and more relentless.

Already, I believed her.

There was no time for ceremony after that. No gentle introduction, no careful placement of the new nurse where she might watch before being trusted. Edith handed me a basin, Mary gave me a stack of clean cloths, and the afternoon opened its mouth.

I changed dressings on a woman with an infected incision below her ribs while Edith watched my hands for the first few moments, then moved away when she saw I knew what I was doing. The woman’s name was Clara Evans, twenty-eight years old, mother of four, husband working at one of the factories with a cough he refused to name. She apologized every time she winced.

“You don’t need to apologize for pain,” I told her, unwinding the old bandage slowly.

“I feel foolish.”

“Pain makes fools of everyone. You’re in good company.”

That made her smile for half a second before the dressing pulled at the dried edge and took the smile with it.

The wound was angry, red around the stitches with a thin seepage that had soaked the gauze yellow. I asked Mary for carbolic and kept my face steady as I cleaned it. Clara watched my expression more than my hands, as patients always did. They searched a nurse’s face for the truth doctors refused to give them.

“You’ve seen worse?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Am I meant to be comforted by that?”

“Only if it helps.”

She gave a small laugh, breathless. “Does it?”

“Sometimes.”

Mary looked at me over the tray, eyes softer than her mouth allowed.

After Clara came Mrs. Barlow, who had indeed been the slipper-thrower. She was a large woman with iron-grey hair, a sharp tongue, and an operation scar along her thigh that needed inspecting.

“You’re new,” she said the second I came near.

“Yes.”

“London?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so. You’re pale enough.”

“I’ll try to develop a Birmingham complexion by supper.”

Mary coughed into her shoulder to hide a laugh.

Mrs. Barlow narrowed her eyes at me, then decided I would do. “That doctor’s a fool.”

“Many are.”

“You can say that?”

“I can think it.”

She barked a laugh loud enough for the woman in the next bed to stir. “Oh, I like this one.”

“She’s been here twenty minutes,” Edith said from the foot of another bed. “Don’t encourage her.”

The afternoon went on like that. Bed to bed. Name to name. Pain moving from one body to another until the ward became less a room and more a collection of small wars nobody wrote medals for.

A girl with burns along her forearm from a kitchen accident bit down on her lip until it bled while I changed the dressing. A seamstress recovering from a fever asked me twice if her employer had sent word, and when I told her no, her eyes turned to the ceiling. Mrs. Barlow complained about her tea. Clara Evans asked if infection meant she was dying, and I answered carefully because there were cruel ways to be honest and cowardly ways to be kind.

“No,” I told her, adjusting the blanket at her waist. “It means we watch it closely.”

“That’s what nurses say when they don’t know.”

“That is what nurses say when they intend to keep watching.”

She studied me with tired eyes. “You talk funny.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“London funny.”

“Tragic condition.”

That earned another small smile. I tucked it away as if I had done something useful.

Near four o’clock, Dr. Whitcomb appeared with a harassed expression and ink on his cuff. He was younger than I expected for the authority in his voice, perhaps late thirties, with thinning hair and the kind of confidence often given to men before competence had a chance to catch up. He examined bed seven, finally, and did not like what he found. The woman’s abdomen was rigid, skin shining with fever sweat, pulse too fast beneath my fingers.

“Prepare for theatre,” he said.

I moved before anyone told me to.

For a moment, the ward narrowed to the width of a stretcher and the sound of wheels rattling over tile. Mary went ahead to clear the corridor. Edith spoke to the patient in a low, firm voice while I helped secure the blanket around her. The woman gripped my wrist.

“Am I dying?” she whispered.

Her fingers were hot. Too hot.

“No,” Dr. Whitcomb said too quickly and too annoyingly from the foot of the bed.

I looked down at her. “You’re very ill, Mrs. Ellis. They’re taking you to surgery because waiting would be worse.”

Her eyes filled. “My boys—”

“We’ll send word,” Edith said.

Mrs. Ellis kept hold of my wrist until the doors to theatre took her.

Afterward, I stood in the corridor with the warmth of her hand still printed on my skin through my glove.

For a second I was back in France.

Canvas overhead. Mud beneath the boards. Men calling for mothers, wives, saints, water. A boy no older than seventeen catching my sleeve with half his hand gone, asking whether he would see Kent again. I had told him yes because he needed to hear it, and because I had been twenty-one and still foolish enough to believe God might forgive a lie told gently.

He died before morning.

“Margaret?”

Mary’s voice cut through before the memory could finish sinking its teeth into me.

I blinked.

The corridor came back. Brick walls. Hospital tiles. The smell of carbolic.

Mary stood beside me with an empty basin in her hands, her face no longer bright. “You with us?”

“Yes.” My voice sounded too flat. “Sorry.”

“No need.”

I flexed my fingers once. “What now?”

She looked at me for a second longer, then nodded toward the ward. “Now Mrs. Barlow wants to know why her tea is cold. Very serious matter.”

I followed her back.

By the time the afternoon began to loosen toward evening, my feet ached, my shoulders burned, and the clean white of my apron had taken on honest stains. Matron Hawthorne came through once, checked the ward, checked us, checked me with particular attention, and said nothing. Edith later informed me that silence from Matron after a first shift was practically applause.

I believed her only because Mary agreed.

At half past six, another nurse came to replace us. The ward settled into that strange evening quiet hospitals had, when pain did not lessen but became more private. Lamps were lit. Curtains were drawn around bed fourteen. The daughter still sat there, handkerchief twisted to threads.

I washed my hands longer than necessary.

Some blood came away first, then only soap, then nothing. But I kept scrubbing.

Mary leaned against the basin beside me. “You’ll take the skin off.”

I stopped.

My knuckles had gone pink.

“Bad habit,” I said.

“War habit?”

I reached for the towel. “A little, yeah.”

Mary did not argue, which I appreciated more than agreement.

Edith joined us in the small changing room, unpinning her cap with a sigh that seemed to come from the soles of her feet. “You did well.”

I glanced at her in the mirror. “That sounded painful.”

“It was.”

Mary grinned. “She means it, though. Edith doesn’t hand compliments out unless someone’s fever breaks or a doctor admits he’s wrong.”

“That ever happen?” I asked.

“Which one?”

“The doctor admitting he’s wrong.”

Mary pressed a hand to her chest. “We live in hope.”

Edith gave her a look. “Ignore her. She talks more when she’s hungry.”

“I talk the correct amount.”

“You talk enough for three wards.”

Mary turned to me. “See how cruel Birmingham makes a woman?”

I folded my apron carefully, buying myself a moment to enjoy them without showing it too openly. Their bickering had a rhythm worn smooth by familiarity. It made the room feel warmer than the small stove had managed.

Matron had said lodging would be at a nurses’ boarding house two streets over. I expected directions, perhaps a scribbled note with a map, and to be sent out into the dark with my suitcase and a stern reminder about punctuality.

Instead, Mary pulled on her coat and wrapped a knitted scarf twice around her neck. “I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

“I can find it.”

“Probably. But you’re new, it’s getting dark, and Birmingham likes to introduce its rough self after sundown.”

Edith buttoned her own coat. “Let her walk you.”

I looked between them. “Is it that bad?”

Mary’s mouth tilted, though this time the smile did not quite reach her eyes. “Depends on the street.”

“Everything seems to depend on the street here.”

“That’s Birmingham.”

Edith took her gloves from the shelf. “And keep your cigarettes out of sight if you’re walking alone. Men will use any excuse to speak to you.”

“Men do that everywhere.”

“Yes, but here they’ll pretend it’s local charm.”

Mary laughed, then reached for my suitcase before I could stop her. “Come on. I know you can carry wounded men and your own luggage. Let me be useful before Edith calls me decorative.”

“I never called you decorative.”

“You thought it.”

“I thought noisy.”

“Same thing, in a nicer dress.”

I let Mary take the suitcase because my arm throbbed and pride was less useful than bone.

Outside, evening had settled over Birmingham with a blackened hand.

The lamps were lit along the street, their glow smeared by smoke and damp. Workmen moved in groups now, caps low, shoulders hunched against the cold. A woman dragged a child along by the sleeve while the child cried for bread. Somewhere down the road, a piano played badly through the open door of a public house, the notes staggering into the street as if drunk before any man inside had touched a glass.

Mary walked with purpose, suitcase in one hand, the other tucked into her coat pocket. She seemed smaller outside the hospital and somehow more alert. Her eyes moved constantly. Corners. Doorways. Men lingering near walls.

I noticed because I did the same.

“The boarding house is respectable,” she said. “Mrs. Hodge runs it. Widow, and sharp as a sewing needle. She’ll charge extra if you take hot water too often and scold you if you come in after ten, but she keeps clean sheets and doesn’t let men past the front room.”

“That’s better than London gave me.”

“She likes nurses. Her daughter died in the influenza. Had a nurse with her at the end.”

“I’m sorry.”

Mary nodded once. “Everyone is sorry for someone these days.”

We turned into a narrower street. The buildings leaned closer, their upper windows staring down with dark, blank faces. Washing hung between two houses, stiff in the cold. A group of boys scattered when Mary clicked her tongue at them, though one called something under his breath that made her stop and turn.

“Say it louder, Billy, and I’ll tell your mother where you hide the coins you nick off the bookies.”

The boy’s face went pale.

Mary kept walking.

I stared at her. “I’m beginning to think you’re dangerous.”

“Only to children and doctors.”

“That’s quite a range.”

She gave me a quick sideways smile, then her expression sobered as we approached another turn.

“Listen,” she said. “You’ll hear things about this part of the city. Half of it true, half of it told by men who like frightening women because it makes them feel tall.”

“I’m listening.”

“This isn’t the West End. It isn’t London respectable, either. People here mind their own business because their own business can get them killed if someone else minds it first.”

The street opened slightly ahead. More houses. More noise. A public house at the corner, windows glowing amber, men gathered outside with cigarettes and hard faces. One of them glanced at Mary, nodded once, then looked at me with interest.

Mary’s hand tightened on my suitcase handle.

“Watery Lane isn’t far,” she said quietly.

The name sounded familiar only because I had heard it in frightened versions of Birmingham before leaving London. My mother’s voice. Newspaper gossip. Women whispering while pretending not to enjoy the danger of it.

“That’s gang territory?” I asked.

Mary huffed a humourless laugh. “All of Birmingham is someone’s territory if you ask the right men.”

“And Watery Lane?”

“That belongs to the Shelbys.”

I looked at her. “Shelbys.”

“Family.”

“Criminals?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

“That sounds like an answer from someone who doesn’t wish to be overheard.”

Mary’s mouth pressed thin.

We passed the public house. The men outside stopped speaking for the few seconds it took us to walk by. I kept my gaze forward, though my skin prickled with the effort.

Once we were a little farther on, Mary spoke again.

“They run the betting, protection, pubs. Some factories fear them, some pay them, some do both at the same time. Men around here don’t say their names too loudly unless they’re friendly with them or too stupid to live long.”

I swallowed.

“Peaky Blinders,” she said, testing the name on my tongue.

The words landed with a strange quiet despite the noise around us.

I had heard the name, of course. Everyone had, in the way everyone heard names of men who became more story than flesh. Razor blades sewn into caps, men blinded in alleys, bookmaking, policemen paid to look the other way. My mother had said Birmingham was rough. She had said gangs as though the word itself might snatch me off the pavement.

I looked toward a narrow lane disappearing between rows of houses. A man stood there smoking beneath a lamp, cap pulled low enough to hide his eyes.

“And the hospital treats them?” I asked the real question that concerned me.

Mary gave me a look. “The hospital treats anyone bleeding enough to be brought through the door.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“No.”

We walked a few more steps.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Sometimes. Usually they’ve got their own people for smaller things. When it’s bad, they come to us. Or someone comes instead and pays in cash, asks no names, leaves before the constable can be fetched.”

“And Matron allows that?”

“Matron allows patients to live when she can manage it. She will only judge them afterward.”

I liked Matron Hawthorne a little more then.

Mary glanced at me, thoughtful. “You met one today, I think.”

“One what?”

“A Shelby.”

My feet slowed before I told them to.

Mary stopped with me beneath a streetlamp. Its weak light caught in the damp air between us.

“What do you mean?”

She adjusted the suitcase in her grip. “Word moves fast if you know who to hear it from. One of the porters said John Shelby walked some new London nurse to the hospital gates this afternoon. I thought he was making it up until I saw you.”

John.

Flat cap with a restless grin, hands in pockets… The way men had looked toward him in the street without quite looking at him.

My stomach tightened.

“He said his name was John.”

“Then he was feeling honest.”

“He didn’t say Shelby.”

Mary gave a small shrug. “They don’t need to.”

I looked back down the street as if he might appear there again, laughing at the fact that I had been walking beside danger and arguing with it about my suitcase.

“He didn’t do anything,” I said.

“I didn’t say he did.”

“He was... irritating.”

Mary’s lips twitched. “That sounds like John Shelby.”

“He walked me to the hospital.”

“That also sounds like John Shelby, if he liked you.”

“I don’t think he liked me.”

“Then he was bored.”

“That sounds more likely.”

Mary began walking again, slower now. “John’s one of the younger brothers. Arthur’s worse when he’s drunk, which is often enough. Tommy’s the one you keep your head down for.”

“Tommy.”

“Thomas Shelby.”

There it was. The name beneath the name. Spoken lower.

Even the smoke seemed to lean in.

“He owns the streets?” I asked.

Mary looked ahead. “He owns enough of the men walking them.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“It’s the safer answer.”

I did not like that, but also understood it.

A group of boys ran past us, laughing too loudly, chased by another boy carrying half a loaf of bread. Life went on around the warning as if warnings were ordinary weather. Perhaps here they were.

Mary stopped outside a narrow brick house with lace curtains in the front window and a brass knocker polished to a dull shine. A small sign near the door read MRS. HODGE — ROOMS.

“This is you.”

The house looked better than I had expected. Tired, but clean. The step had been scrubbed. A potted plant sat by the door with more determination than health.

Mary set my suitcase down. “Mrs. Hodge’ll give you a room on the second floor if Matron wrote ahead proper.”

“Thank you for walking me.”

“You’ll learn the way quick.”

“I hope so.”

“You will.” She hesitated, then added, “And Margaret?”

It sounded strange hearing my name from her so soon. Kind, though. Practical kindness. The kind women offered one another without making a performance of it.

“Yes?”

“If you see Peaky Blinders in the hospital, treat them as patients. If you see them in the street, keep moving unless they speak to you first. If they do speak, answer plain. Don’t flirt unless you mean it, don’t insult them unless you’re ready for it to be remembered, and don’t ask questions about things that don’t want answering.”

I absorbed that slowly.

“What if I’ve already insulted one?”

Mary’s face changed. “Did you?”

“I may have been... brisk.”

“Brisk how?”

“I asked whether he made a habit of approaching women at stations. I also told him he was pleased with himself.”

Mary stared at me for one breath, then laughed so suddenly that a curtain twitched in the house next door.

I frowned. “That’s reassuring.”

“No, it is. Really.” She wiped the corner of her eye. “John’s survived worse than a London nurse calling him pleased with himself.”

“He now knows my name.”

“So they all do.”

“That’s unsettling.”

“Most things about them are.”

The door opened before either of us could say more.

A woman in her sixties stood inside with a candle in one hand and an expression sharp enough to make Matron Hawthorne seem warm. She wore a dark dress buttoned to the throat, hair pinned back, eyes pale and unsentimental.

“You must be Nurse Allen.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Mrs. Hodge. Wipe your feet.”

I did.

Mary leaned toward me. “Supper is usually bread, stew if she’s feeling generous, judgment either way.”

“I can hear you, Mary Doyle,” Mrs. Hodge said.

Mary straightened. “Good evening, Mrs. Hodge.”

“Go home before your mother sends your brother looking.”

“God forbid.”

Mrs. Hodge looked at me. “Inside. Heat goes out when doors stand open.”

I picked up my suitcase and turned to Mary one last time. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Too early and in a terrible mood.”

“Something to look forward to.”

Mary smiled. “Welcome to Birmingham, Margaret.”

Then she was gone, scarf tucked high around her chin, disappearing into the smoky evening with the same quick steps she had used in the ward.

Mrs. Hodge shut the door behind me.

The boarding house smelled of boiled cabbage, furniture polish, and damp wool drying too close to the fire. A narrow staircase climbed along the wall. Somewhere above, floorboards creaked under careful feet. Voices murmured from a room to the right, women’s voices, tired and low. The house had that particular quiet of shared lodging, where every person tried to own a private grief behind thin walls.

Mrs. Hodge held out her hand. “Letter.”

I gave her the paper from Matron.

She read it with the candle held close, lips moving slightly. “Second floor. Back room. Washstand, bed, wardrobe, small desk. No gentlemen upstairs. No hot water after nine unless arranged. No spirits. Smoking out the window only. Supper in twenty minutes if you want it.”

“I do.”

“Rent is deducted through hospital arrangement. Anything broken, you pay.”

“Of course.”

She looked at my gloves. “You’ll be wanting sleep.”

It was not a question.

“I’ll be wanting many things.”

For the first time, Mrs. Hodge’s mouth moved in something near approval. “Most of us do. Come on.”

She led me up the stairs with slow, heavy steps, the candlelight trembling over wallpaper faded by years of coal smoke. On the first landing, a door opened and a young woman peered out, hair loose over one shoulder. She saw Mrs. Hodge and vanished again.

“Factory girl,” Mrs. Hodge said. “Night shifts sometimes. Don’t lend her money.”

“I hadn’t planned to.”

“Plans change when people cry.”

That, too, was fair.

My room sat at the back of the second floor.

Mrs. Hodge opened the door and stepped aside.

It was small. Smaller than the flat in London, though cleaner in certain ways. A narrow bed against one wall. A washstand with a chipped basin. A wardrobe with one crooked handle. A desk beneath the window, scarred with old ink marks and a burn in the corner where someone had left a candle too close. The curtains were thin, but washed. The blanket on the bed was grey and neatly folded.

The window looked out over the backs of houses and a strip of yard where laundry hung limp in the damp. Beyond the roofs, factory chimneys climbed into the evening sky.

No Charles. And specially, no bed with memories pressed into the mattress.

My chest tightened before I could prepare for it.

Mrs. Hodge placed the candle on the desk. “You’ll have quiet enough back here.”

“Thank you.”

She looked around the room as though checking that it had behaved in her absence. “Supper in twenty.”

Then she left, closing the door with a firm click.

I stood in the middle of the room and listened to the house settle around me.

A chair scraped somewhere below. Water moved through pipes. A woman coughed on the other side of the wall, a deep chest cough that made my nurse’s mind catalogue it before the rest of me could object. Outside, a cart rolled over uneven stones, wheels clattering until the sound faded into the distance.

I set my suitcase on the bed.

For a while, I did not open it.

Arriving felt different once nobody was watching. At the station, with John beside me, I could be sharp. At the hospital, with Edith and Mary and Matron measuring my usefulness, I could be capable. In this room, with only the candle and the soot-dark window for company, I was simply a woman with one suitcase and too many ghosts for the space allotted.

I removed my gloves finger by finger.

My hands were steady at first.

Then they were not.

The trembling started in the right hand, small enough to pretend away. Then the left joined it out of loyalty or spite. I flexed my fingers, pressed my palms flat against the lid of the suitcase, and waited.

“Stop,” I whispered.

They did not.

I reached for my cigarette case.

The metal was cool against my palm. Familiar. I opened the window before lighting one, as Mrs. Hodge had ordered. Cold air slid into the room and touched the sweat at the back of my neck. I struck the match on the side of the case. The flare of flame made the window glass show my reflection for a second.

Pale face. Dark eyes. Hair loosening from its pins. A nurse’s collar still fastened neatly at my throat as if neatness could hide exhaustion.

I inhaled.

Smoke burned its way down. The first pull always hurt a little after a long day. I liked that too much.

Below, someone laughed in the yard, then another voice told them to shut up.

I leaned my hip against the desk and smoked with the window open, watching Birmingham darken by degrees. The city did not soften at night. It only changed its weapons. Daylight had shown brick and smoke, carts and men with caps pulled low. Darkness brought lamps, shadows, footsteps that seemed to pause too long beneath windows.

Somewhere far off, a whistle blew.

My throat closed.

For a moment, it was not a factory whistle. It was the warning before wounded came in. It was someone shouting for stretchers. It was rain hammering canvas overhead while I tried to find the clamp with hands slick from blood.

I took another drag, held it until my lungs protested, then exhaled toward the open window.

“Birmingham,” I said softly, as if naming the place might keep it from becoming France.

The cigarette shortened between my fingers.

When I finally unpacked, I did it carefully.

Dresses first. Two dark ones for workdays when I did not need uniform, one better dress my mother insisted I bring despite the fact that I had nowhere to wear it. Stockings. Undergarments. Hairpins tucked in a small tin. My nursing books, worn at the corners. Bandage scissors wrapped in cloth. A fountain pen Charles had given me for my nineteenth birthday, the nib slightly bent from the day I dropped it on a floor after receiving news that three men from his regiment had been killed.

Then the photograph.

Charles stood stiff in uniform, chin lifted, eyes trying for brave and landing somewhere near frightened. He had hated that photograph because he thought it made his ears look too large. I loved it because he looked alive in it. Annoyed, nervous, proud, impatient to be done posing so he could take me for tea we could not really afford.

I sat on the bed with the photograph in my lap.

The mattress dipped beneath me with a tired spring.

“You’d hate it here,” I said.

The room gave no answer.

I traced the edge of the photograph with my thumb, careful not to touch his face. “Too much smoke. You’d complain about your collar. Then you’d pretend to like it because I’d tell you to stop being soft.”

My mouth moved around a smile that never fully arrived.

The worst part of grief, I had found, was how much of love became habit. The turning to share a thought, or the listening for a key in the door. Even saving of a piece of bread because he always got hungry at impossible hours. My mind still made room for him before remembering there was no body to fill it.

A knock sounded below. Mrs. Hodge calling names.

I placed Charles’s photograph on the desk, propped against my books, and went down before the room could pull me too far under.

Supper was thin stew, bread hard at the edges, and tea strong enough to stand a spoon in. Four other women sat around the table. Two nurses I did not know, one factory girl with hollow cheeks, and an older woman who worked in laundry and said little except to ask for the salt.

Mrs. Hodge presided over the meal as if commanding a military post.

No one asked me too many questions once they learned I had come from London. That was a mercy. One of the nurses, a red-haired girl called Annie, asked which ward I had been put on. When I answered women’s surgical, she made a sympathetic noise and said Mrs. Barlow once called a vicar useless to his face.

“That was one of her kinder days,” the other nurse said.

The factory girl ate quickly, eyes lowered, one hand curled protectively around her bread. I noticed bruising along her wrist when her sleeve slipped back. Old. Yellowing.

Nurse habit, I told myself.

Human habit, something else answered.

After supper, I returned upstairs with a cup of hot water Mrs. Hodge allowed me “because it’s the first night and I’ve not yet learned whether you’re wasteful.” I washed in the basin, changed into my nightdress, and hung my uniform where the worst creases might fall out by morning. My body was tired enough to ache in separate pieces. Feet. Back. Neck. The place between my shoulder blades where grief liked to sit when it wanted to feel physical.

Sleep should have come easily.

It did not.

I lay in the narrow bed with the blanket pulled to my chin, staring at the ceiling while the house quieted around me. Floorboards groaned. A door clicked shut. Someone whispered goodnight through the wall. The sounds were ordinary, which made no difference.

My body did not trust night.

It had learned too much in France.

Night was when the wounded came in blue-lipped and shaking. Night was when shells found hospitals because smoke and lamps gave positions away. Night was when men died calling for women who could not hear them. Night was when my own mind, deprived of daylight tasks, dragged every memory from its corner and set it beside me in bed.

I turned onto my side.

The blanket scratched my cheek.

Charles watched from the desk, his photograph dim in the candlelight.

“I’m trying,” I whispered to him.

The window rattled as I closed my eyes.

For a few minutes, perhaps longer, I drifted somewhere shallow. Then a crack split the distance outside.

My eyes flew open.

A gunshot.

Far away. Somewhere beyond the houses. One shot first. Then a second. Then shouting, thin and carried by the night.

I was out of bed before I knew I had moved.

My bare feet hit the cold floor. My hand went to the wall, searching for a basin, a lamp, an instrument tray that was not there. My heart slammed once, twice, too hard. The room tilted.

France.

No.

Birmingham.

The shouting outside grew louder, then broke into laughter or anger, I could not tell which. A man cursed. Something smashed. Another voice roared back.

My breath came wrong.

I pressed my hand over my mouth.

The wall beneath my other palm was wallpaper, peeling slightly under my fingers. The floor was wood. The air smelled of coal and candle smoke, not mud and chloride and open bodies.

Still, my knees nearly gave.

I fumbled for the cigarette case on the desk and knocked my pen to the floor. It rolled beneath the chair. I did not bother reaching for it. My fingers were clumsy with the match. The first one snapped, a second scraped uselessly. The third caught, flame trembling so violently I nearly burned myself before getting the cigarette lit.

I stood at the open window in my nightdress and smoked as if it were medicine.

The street behind the house was dim, shadows layered over roofs and laundry lines. I could not see whoever had fired. I could hear men somewhere to the left, voices rough with drink or rage. Then came the sound of running feet. A door slammed. A woman shouted from a window for them to take their bloody business elsewhere.

Bloody business.

Mary’s voice returned to me.

Watery Lane just down the street.

Peaky Blinders.

John Shelby’s grin appeared next. That careless tilt of his head. The way he had known the streets belonged to someone and still walked through them as if ownership were a coat he could shrug on or off depending on the weather.

I had met a gangster at the station and argued with him about luggage.

That should have frightened me more than it did.

Perhaps fear was too crowded in me already.

I smoked halfway through the cigarette before my breath began to obey.

On the desk, my journal waited beneath Charles’s photograph. Brown leather with worn spine and pages inside filled with years I sometimes wished I could tear out and years I feared forgetting if I did. I had begun it when I was sixteen because my mother said a young woman should keep her thoughts orderly. The war had made a mockery of order, but I kept writing all the same.

I sat at the desk and opened it to the next clean page.

The pen was still under the chair.

I crouched to retrieve it and had to pause there, one hand gripping the seat, because another shout outside made my stomach drop. No gunshot followed. Only drunken laughter fading away.

I returned to the chair and uncapped the pen.

For a moment, I did not know what to write.

Then I wrote the date.

March, 1921. Birmingham.

The ink looked too black on the page.

I wrote slowly at first.

I arrived today with one suitcase and all the confidence I could afford to pretend. The city is darker than London. Rougher in the mouth. Smoke gets everywhere. The hospital is better than I feared and worse than I hoped, which is likely true of most places worth staying.

I paused, listening.

The house remained quiet.

I continued.

Met Matron Hawthorne. Severe woman. Clever eyes. I think she could make a surgeon cry if given the proper motivation. Nurse Edith Clarke is sensible and dry. Nurse Mary Doyle laughs as though she has decided the world is absurd and she refuses to let it win. I like them both already, which is inconvenient.

My cigarette had burned down near my fingers. I crushed it in the saucer Mrs. Hodge had left on the sill, then rubbed ash from my thumb.

I hesitated before writing the next part.

A man called John walked me from the station. John Shelby, according to Mary. Peaky Blinder. I did not know. He was irritating, amused, and kinder than I expected from a stranger. I may have insulted him. He did not seem wounded.

The pen hovered.

I should have left it there.

Instead, I wrote Charles’s name.

Charles would have laughed at me for getting lost before leaving the station. He would have carried my suitcase even if I told him not to. He would have hated Birmingham’s smoke and loved Mary within five minutes. He would have called John trouble. He would have been right.

The ink blurred.

I blinked hard, angry with my own eyes.

My grief had become less theatrical with time. That was what made it dangerous. In the beginning it had come like weather, loud enough that people could see it on me and step aside. Now it waited in ordinary places. A suitcase handle. A hospital smell. Some stranger offering to walk beside me. Thin stew at a boarding house table. A joke I wanted to tell a dead man.

I pressed my fingers beneath my eyes until the tears retreated.

“I’m not doing this tonight,” I whispered.

Of course, saying that never stopped anything.

I turned the page in my journal to an older entry without meaning to. The paper fell open where it had been opened many times before.

April, 1918.

Rain through canvas again. Took in twenty-three before dawn. Three abdominal, six gas, too many limbs to count properly. Sister Agnes slapped Private Warren when he tried to stand with his femur in pieces. I laughed afterward and then vomited behind the tent. Charles’s letter came, muddy at the corner. He says he dreams of toast with too much butter. I dreamed last night I could hear him calling from one of the stretchers and could not find him.

I shut the journal.

Too late.

My mind had already found the tent.

The candle flame leaned in a draft. Shadows moved over the walls. For a moment, the washstand became an instrument table. The blanket at the end of the bed became a stretcher. The dark coat hanging from the wardrobe became a man standing in the corner with half his face gone.

I stood so quickly the chair scraped the floor.

Breathe.

The word was useless. Breathing was the problem.

I crossed to the basin and splashed cold water over my face. Once. Twice. The shock brought me back in pieces. My hands gripping porcelain. My hair falling loose. The floor cold enough to sting. Birmingham outside the window. Charles on the desk. The cigarette taste in my mouth.

I looked at my reflection in the small mirror above the washstand.

“You are in a room,” I told myself. “Second floor. Mrs. Hodge’s house. Birmingham. March, 1921.”

My reflection stared back, unconvinced.

“You are twenty-three years old.”

My voice broke on that one.

I tried again.

“You are twenty-three years old. You are a nurse. You worked today. You will work tomorrow.”

A sound came from outside. Quieter now. Wheels over stone, maybe. Or thunder too far away to matter.

I went back to the desk because lying down felt impossible. Studying was better. Studying gave the mind something to hold that did not bleed.

I opened one of my surgical texts and began reading by candlelight. Infection. Drainage. Fever patterns. The words lined up neatly, obedient little soldiers. I copied a note about abdominal rigidity, then another about antiseptic irrigation. My pen moved slower as the hour deepened. Somewhere in the house, a woman coughed again. I listened for the wetness of it, judged it without meaning to, then wrote more.

Around midnight, another distant crack sounded.

This one might have been a motor backfiring.

My body did not care.

The pen tore through the paper.

I sat frozen, ink blooming at the ruined point of the sentence.

No shouting followed. No boots. No cries for stretcher-bearers.

I waited anyway.

Minutes passed, or perhaps seconds disguised themselves as minutes. I could feel every beat of my pulse in my throat.

At last, I reached for another cigarette.

The room had grown cold with the window open, but I did not close it. Smoke needed somewhere to go. So did I.

I smoked and watched the city through the dark glass until my eyes stung. Birmingham looked almost peaceful from above if one ignored the sounds. Roofs gathered close together. Chimneys stood black against a blacker sky. A few lamps burned in upstairs rooms where other people fought their own private wars.

I wondered how many widows lived on this street.

I wondered how many men had come home from France and found they had brought the battlefield with them tucked under their minds.

I wondered whether the Shelby’s slept well in the city that spoke their name so carefully.

The thought came from nowhere and irritated me at once.

I did not need to wonder about dangerous men. I had work in the morning. I had Matron Hawthorne’s eyes, Edith’s dry approval, Mary’s warnings, patients with fevers, a boarding house with rules. I had enough to fill my mind without making room for a gangsters I had no business being around.

I finished the cigarette and returned to the journal.

Couldn’t sleep, I wrote.

Then stopped.

The sentence sat alone on the page, too honest and too small.

I added beneath it:

First night in Birmingham. Gunshots in the distance. Men fighting somewhere near Watery Lane. I thought of France more than once. I thought of Charles too. I smoked too much and studied because the body must eventually tire if the mind refuses mercy.

A pause.

Then:

I am afraid I will never sleep properly again.

The words looked shameful once written.

I almost crossed them out.

Instead, I left them.

There had been too much crossing out in my life already. Too many things softened for other people’s comfort. Father left became Father travelled for work when neighbours asked. Charles was blown apart somewhere in France became Charles did not make it home. I was terrified became I am fine.

Ink could keep the truth if my mouth would not.

Near two in the morning, the street quieted. Real quiet this time. The dangerous sort, though I was too tired by then to care what danger wanted from me.

I undressed from my dressing gown and returned to bed with cold feet and a head full of smoke. Charles’s photograph remained on the desk. I did not turn it away. I needed him there, even if looking at him hurt.

The mattress creaked as I lay down.

I kept my eyes on the ceiling until shapes began to blur. A cart rolled somewhere distant. A dog barked once. The woman beyond the wall coughed into cloth.

My last thought before sleep finally came was of the station.

Steam with noise. And a stranger’s voice asking whether I was lost.

I had said no.

I wondered, as Birmingham dragged me under, whether that had been my first lie in this city.

Or only the first one anyone had heard.

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[joelssimp]

STILL | CHAPTER 27

CW: Little Angst, miss-communication, reality of loving a celebrity, mention of grief and loss, vulnerable Pedro. Not much on this one, but we're heading to the end.

11.5K words

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27 - Neruda

PEDRO'S POV

The weather had shifted again. Spring trying to claw its way through the cold, running later than any place I've ever been.

I woke up to that grey-blue Calgary sky that never seemed to fully decide what it wanted. Rain, snow, sunlight — everything just hung there together.

A few more days and we were heading to Grand Prairie for the last stretch of shooting, that damn hospital scene that I know for a fact will take everything left from me. One more week after that and we’d be wrapping the whole year of shooting.

It honestly felt both, a long time coming, and too early at the same time. I should’ve felt lighter about finishing it. Instead, it felt like standing too close to the edge of a cliff.

She was already awake when I got back from the call sheet meeting. Her camera bag sat open on the couch, gear spread around her in neat little systems only she understood. Batteries lined in rows. Lenses cleaned spotless. Memory cards stacked beside her coffee cup.

She looked up when I walked in, but only for a second.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

My keys hit the bowl by the door with a sharp little clink. She went back to packing almost immediately.

“You ready for Grand Prairie?”

“Almost.” She spoke as someone who's too focused to talk. “Think I’m missing only a charger.”

“You want me to steal one from base camp?”

“I’ve got it.”

Too fast.

I stood there a second longer than I meant to. Watching her move around the apartment without really settling anywhere. Her shoulders were tight, with a mouth pressed thin. I knew that look on her. She got like that when something was chewing at her and she didn’t know how to spit it out yet.

Lately, it’d been happening more.

“I was thinking maybe after wrap party we could disappear for a few days,” I said carefully. “Before everything gets insane again.”

She paused with her back to me.

“I don’t think I can afford that.”

Something in my chest tightened a little. “Why not?”

She shrugged. “Meetings. Calls. Stuff coming in.”

“That Berlin project?”

“And Finland.” She finally looked over at me. “And some U.S. stuff now, apparently.”

“That’s good, though, right?”

“I don't know.”

There was no excitement in her tone, not a single drop of that feeling of doing something right. If anything, she sounded tired.

I walked farther into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet mostly so I had something to do with my hands.

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

“That’s not it.” She rubbed at her forehead briefly. “It’s just… everything’s moving really fast all of a sudden.”

I leaned against the counter. “You mean work?”

Another shrug.

“Work, travel...” She looked down at the strap in her hands. “Us.”

There it was.

That quiet dread of a feeling I've seen on her in passing. But lately, there was more to it, always afraid of something breaking.

I looked away first, jaw tightening before I could stop it. Filled my glass from the sink.

Behind me, I heard her sigh softly.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s fine.”

It wasn’t.

I took a drink and a deep breath. A few seconds passed before she spoke again.

“Sue talked to me yesterday.”

My hand stopped halfway to the counter.

“She... What?”

“At lunch.” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “It wasn’t a big thing.”

I turned toward her slowly. “What did she say?”

“She just…” Her shoulders lifted helplessly. “She said some stuff about being realistic.”

My stomach dropped immediately.

“Realistic how?”

“She said people get caught up when they work together. That proximity makes things feel more intense than they actually are and—”

She stopped herself. Didn’t need to finish.

I set the glass down harder than I meant to.

“She actually said that to you?”

“She wasn’t rude, Pedro.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I think it was the sharp edge my words came out with, the room went quiet after that. Tense in that awful way where you can feel something bigger sitting underneath the conversation, waiting for somebody to touch that ugly monster hiding under the bed, just waiting for the wrong moment.

She looked down at her sleeve, thumb worrying at the cuff.

“I didn’t really listen at first,” she said quietly.

“But now you are.”

Her face shifted a little at that. Guilt maybe, or just frustration. Could Probably be both too.

I could see it happening in real time — whatever she’d been carrying around the last few days finally climbing up her throat.

And suddenly I didn’t want to hear it anymore.

I already knew it was going to hurt both of us if she let it out.

She opened her mouth like she was about to say something.

Then stopped.

A small shrug. Showing me that she was exhausted with herself for even bringing it up.

“Forget it,” she muttered.

I stared at her for another second, waiting. But she turned back to her camera bag instead. Safer to be busy.

And I let it die there.

Mostly because I was too tired to figure out how to save the conversation once it started breaking apart.

***

Two days in Grand Prairie and I was ready to call out of it. Even with the show being 95% done by now, the hardest and the most emotional part on my end was this hospital scene. It all leads to this.

Two days of stunts giving me headaches, freezing and dark corridors of this abandoned hospital, sixteen-hour shoots and catering coffee that tasted burnt no matter how much sugar you drowned it in.

Two days of sleeping in the same bed with her without really sleeping together.

By the time we got back to the room that night, my whole body hurt. Hers too, probably. She dropped her camera bag beside the little desk with a tired clatter and immediately started pulling memory cards from her jacket pockets.

Work mode.

Always work mode lately.

I shut the door behind me and watched her move around the room for a second.

No kiss hello.

No hand on my back.

Nothing.

Just that pure exhaustion hanging between us like wet clothes.

“You ate today?” I asked finally.

“Mhm.”

That probably meant no.

She crouched beside her bag, digging for a charger, shoulders tight beneath the hoodie she’d stolen from me weeks ago and never given back.

I stepped closer automatically, reaching for her jacket where it had twisted beneath the strap.

She flinched enough for it to sting inside of me. A knife straight into my ribs with such a small movement.

My hand dropped , and suddenly I was too tired of pretending I didn’t feel it anymore.

“Okay,” I said tiredly. “What’s going on?”

She froze for half a second before going back to the bag again.

“Nothing.”

“C’mon now.”

Another silence, then a sigh.

Exhausted don't even begin to cover or state right now. But we had to go over this. We had to.

“You already know what’s going on.”

I leaned back against the dresser, rubbing a hand over my face. “I know Sue talked to you. I don’t know what she said.”

The way I pointed it out made her finally look at me.

Her eyes looked wrecked. Red around the edges. She’d probably slept four hours total in the last two days.

“Already told you, she just…” She swallowed buying time to find the words. “She said we should be realistic, that's it.”

I let out a humorless laugh under my breath.

“Jesus Christ.”

“She wasn’t trying to be cruel.”

“That’s generous.”

“She wasn’t.” Her voice sharpened slightly, defensively. “She was talking about the industry. About schedules and distance and—”

“And what? Me suddenly forgetting I love you because filming ends in a couple of weeks?”

The second it came out, I regretted how harsh I sounded.

Her expression shifted immediately. Hurt written all over her face.

“That’s not what I fucking said.” She spat, also harsh, protective.

I looked away first.

The room felt too small all of a sudden. Hampton Inn hotel room, boots by the door, damp jackets hanging from the heater, our stuff in different places all at once.

I could feel us getting lost in this conversation already.

“Sue only said people get attached when they work together,” She explained again, with more bite to her worlds than she had the last time we had this same argument. “That proximity makes things feel bigger than they are.”

“And you believe that?”

“I don’t fucking know, Pedro.”

Those words echoed inside the room, followed by a silence none of us wanted.

We were tired enough to be honest. Too honest.

She sat down slowly on the edge of the other bed, elbows on her knees.

“I’ve worked too damn hard for my career to disappear into somebody else’s life.”

“You think that’s what I want from you?”

“No.” She shook her head immediately. “No, that’s not—”

“Because it kinda sounds like that.”

“That’s not fair.”

I laughed once, no humor behind it, of course.

“Yeah? Neither is having my agent telling my girlfriend I’m eventually gonna leave her because my schedule gets busy.”

Her jaw tightened.

“She’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

I watched her fold into herself a little. Arms crossing tight over her chest like she was trying to physically hold everything in place. And suddenly she looked less angry, and more scared.

“I just…” Her voice cracked softly. “I don’t wanna build my life around someone and wake up one day realizing I was the easy thing to let go of.”

Silence.

Real, painful silence this time. Because I knew that fear didn’t start with my agent at that lunch meeting they had, no, Sue just gave it words.

I sat down slowly across from her, elbows on my knees mirroring hers.

“You really think I’d do that to you?”

She stared at the carpet, not able to meet my eyes.

“I think people mean things when they say them,” she whispered. “And then life gets complicated.”

Those words cuts through me when I'm not expecting. Maybe because part of me knew she wasn’t really talking about me anymore. She was talking about every person who’d ever made love feel temporary.

I looked at her for a long second before speaking again.

“You let somebody who barely knows my personal life tell you who I am.”

Her face tightened immediately.

“I know.”

“But you didn’t come to me.” My voice dropped quieter now. Trying to reach her in that dark place her mind made up. “You just started disappearing on me.”

That finally made her eyes lift to mine, and there she was again underneath all of it.

Scared. Exhausted. Loving me anyway.

“I didn’t know how to say it without sounding insane.”

“You could’ve sounded insane.”

A weak breath of a laugh escaped her then. Barely there, but enough for me to relax a little more.

My hands almost reached for her.

Almost.

But someone knocked twice before immediately pushing the door open.

Kate stepped inside holding a laptop against her chest, already talking before she fully looked up.

“I need you downstairs for the edit—”

She stopped.

Her eyes flicked between us once. Reading a lot ins just our body language.

“Oh,” Kate said carefully.

Neither of us answered.

Kate shifted the laptop awkwardly against her hip. “Sorry. I didn’t know you guys were…”

Fighting?

Nobody said it out loud.

Eyes still on Kate I felt the shift of my girl pushing herself up from the bed first, scrubbing both hands over her face.

“I’m coming,” she muttered.

Kate looked at her for another second too long. Concern written all over her face now.

“I can wait..."

“No need, I'm coming.”

Kate nodded, some embarrassment clinging to her expression as she watched her best friend gather her stuff around our room.

“We still have to go through yesterday’s hospital stuff before production sends selects. Don't wait for me."

Right.

More work.

More hours.

More avoiding each other while standing five feet apart all day.

I watched her pull her hoodie sleeves over her hands without looking at me once. Somehow that hurt worse than the argument itself.

When she reached the door, she finally paused. Kate already gone from there, no audience, but she still didn't turn to me to say it. Just stood there with her hand on the knob.

“I wasn't lying, I do love you, you know...” she said quietly.

Then she left before I could answer.

***

I’ve never hated silence this much before.

Don't get me wrong, we still talk, mostly about call times, weather delays, or which road production wants blocked off next. She still hands me coffee when catering runs out before I get there. I still reach for her instinctively when we’re crossing those dark hospital corridors in between setups.

But everything feels half a second off now.

Like we’re both thinking too hard before touching each other.

She's been looking at me like loving me scared her more than losing me.

She keeps working like nothing’s wrong, when everything is.

That’s the worst part.

Camera always hanging around her neck, hair shoved up messily. Fingers moving nonstop — changing lenses, adjusting settings, wiping dust off equipment with the sleeve of her jacket because she’s too tired to look for a cloth.

Nobody else would notice anything.

But I do.

I notice she doesn’t lean against me while playback resets anymore.

I notice she walks back to the trailers with crew instead of waiting for me.

I notice every tiny thing she stops doing, and I still try to act normal. Still joke around between takes. Still run my stunts around, even though I shouldn't be doing them, but I'm too stubborn. Still sit with everyone at lunch pretending my stomach doesn’t feel permanently twisted.

Some part of me is waiting all day.

Waiting for her to look at me the way she did before Sue talked to her.

A look of recognition that I was her home, her safe place.

Around noon, Kate drops down beside me on an apple box near catering, unwrapping a protein bar with her teeth.

She watches me for a second too long before speaking.

“You look like shit.”

I let out a tired laugh through my nose. “Good afternoon to you too.”

“I’m serious.” She nudges my knee lightly with her boot. “What’s going on with you two?”

I glance automatically across set.

She’s near the monitors with one of the lighting guys, reviewing stills on the back of her camera. Focused enough, professional as hell, and somehow the most beautiful human being to exist.

But she was too far away.

“Nothing,” I say.

Kate snorts immediately.

“Pedro.”

That tone right there — best friend tone. The one that says don’t insult my intelligence.

I look down at the sandwich in my hands. Suddenly not hungry anymore.

“We’re just tired.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We are.” My voice comes out too quickly "this last stretch is wearing us out."

Kate studies me for another second.

Then softer:

“You guys haven’t looked at each other properly in like… four days?”

Yup, that tracks. Kate's right.

We’ve looked around each other. Through each other. Past each other. But not really at each other lately.

I scrub a hand over my mouth, exhausted down to the bone.

“It’s complicated.”

Kate sighs quietly beside me, folding the wrapper in half between her fingers.

“Did she tell you what Sue said?”

Part of me wants to pretend I don’t know what she means.

I’m too tired for that too.

“Some of it.”

Kate mutters something under her breath that definitely sounds like a curse. Then she glances back toward her best friend again, expression tightening slightly.

“She’s scared,” she says finally.

“I know.”

“No, I mean really scared.” Kate looks back at me. “You know how she gets when something matters too much.”

Yeah. I do know how she gets, and maybe that was the problem.

Because suddenly I understood that none of this distance was coming from her loving me less. It was coming from her loving me enough for it to terrify her.

Kate bumps my shoulder lightly.

“Just don’t let her sit in her own head too long,” she says. “That place is dangerous.”

Then production calls my name from somewhere behind us and she pushes herself back up with a groan. Conversation interrupted is something Kate hates more than anything.

“Also, seriously,” she adds, pointing at me as she walks backwards away from me, “you look deeply terrifying right now. This whole Joel look mixed with Pedro who's in a middle of a fight will do numbers on television.”

I laugh despite myself. A real one this time.

Only Kate can get something like that from me at the moment.

Across set, her eyes flick toward me automatically at the sound.

Just for a second.

***

Bella notices next.

Of course they do.

They’re sitting outside the waiting area between setups with their that awful hospital gown and one earbud hanging loose, pretending to scroll through their phone while quietly tracking every person around them like a tiny exhausted detective.

I just finished one stunt scene, there's still fake blood hanging on my clothes and my skin, but I don't care, just head over there mostly because my legs need a minute to stop hurting. The second I sit beside them with a groan, Bella glances sideways at me and immediately squints.

“You look deeply unwell.”

I laugh tiredly, rubbing both hands over my face before reaching for my water bottle. “That’s a horrible thing to say to someone.”

“I’m serious.” Their eyes narrow slightly. “You look like a divorced dad who forgot how to use happiness.”

Damn, that gets an actual laugh out of me, small and rough from exhaustion.

“Jesus Christ.”

Bella shrugs, entirely pleased with themself.

Around us, production is resetting lights for the next setup. Crew members stomp through cabes of lights carrying some other cables while somebody farther down the corridor swears loudly after dropping a case of equipment. Everything feels cramped lately — set ups, stunts, extras, crew all in one single small space.

I take a long drink of water and immediately realize Bella is still staring at me.

Studying.

“What?” I ask finally.

They hesitate for maybe half a second.

“Did you guys break up?”

I choke so hard on the water it burns the back of my throat.

Bella barely reacts.

“That bad, huh?” They mutter.

“We did not break up.”

“Okay.” They pull one knee up against their chest. “Then what’s happening?”

I look automatically across set before answering.

She’s standing near video village with her camera hanging against her chest, talking quietly to Craig and Neil while flipping through stills on the tiny screen. From far away she looks normal enough. Focused. Working. But even from here I can see how tired she is. The way she keeps shifting her weight from one leg to the other. The way her free hand keeps rubbing absentmindedly at the back of her neck between shots.

I know every version of her by now.

Including the ones nobody else notices.

“It's nothing,” I say finally.

Bella hums softly beside me, unconvinced.

“You handed her the battery that fell on the ground three hours ago like it was a hostage exchange.”

I look over at them slowly.

Bella lifts both hands innocently.

“I’m just saying. The vibes are bleak.”

Despite myself, my mouth twitches a little.

But the truth is they’re right.

Today somehow feels worse than the actual fight did.

At least the fight had emotion in it. Anger. Fear. The rawness of it all. But now it’s just this slow careful distance that keeps growing every time we don’t say what we actually need.

We still move around each other automatically all day long, but it feels different now. Hesitant. As if both of us are suddenly aware of every touch before it happens.

She stops at craft services only when I’m leaving.

I catch myself waiting before walking into rooms if I hear her voice inside them.

Nobody else notices it because nobody else knows us well enough to see the difference. To everyone on set we probably just look overworked, which honestly isn’t wrong. She’s barely slipping between production and meetings for projects after wrap, and I’ve spent so much time emotionally tangled up in my own head the last few days that I don’t even remember the last thing I ate.

Still, every now and then I catch her looking at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention.

And every single time it wrecks me a little.

Bella follows my gaze back toward her again.

“She looks sad,” They say quietly.

And that's the ugly truth. No matter what, the past few days, every time I look at her I see that same messy feeling. Even when she laughs now, it disappears too quickly afterward.

“Yeah,” I admit softly.

Bella leans back against the chair beside me, silent for a moment.

“You know in apocalypse stories the first thing that falls apart is always communication.”

I glance over at them.

Bella shrugs one shoulder.

“I’m just saying. Historically speaking, you two are making terrible survival choices right now.”

It's not funny, I know that. But we both laugh at the comparison. Genuine laugh.

Bella looks deeply satisfied by that small miracle.

“Okay, good,” they mutter. “You were starting to concern me on a spiritual level.”

Later that night after wrap, I found her sitting there wrapped in one of the blankets from the room with her MacBook open beside her on the metal railing near the ice machine, staring out into the parking lot like her brain had wandered somewhere too far away to come back quickly.

The hotel sign buzzed overhead, throwing that washed-out red-blue light over everything. It caught in the damp ends of her hair and painted tired shadows beneath her eyes. She still had one of my hoodies on underneath the blanket, sleeves pulled halfway over her hands.

For a second I just stood there watching her without saying anything.

I missed her even now, sitting right there.

The last few days had been full of almosts. Almost touching her. Almost saying something right. Almost reaching for her in all the little automatic ways my body still wanted to.

And every time I hesitated, the distance between us seemed to grow another inch.

She noticed me eventually.

Her head turned slightly in my direction, eyes tired but softer than they’d been earlier. No smile showed up, but she shifted a little on the railing, moving the laptop enough to make room beside her.

It was such a small thing, but still felt like relief.

I walked over quietly and sat beside her, the metal freezing even through my jeans.

“You’re gonna get hypothermia out here.”

That finally pulled the faintest hint of a smile from her mouth.

“Probably.”

The cold air turned our breath white between us for a second before disappearing.

I looked over at her properly then. Up close, she looked exhausted. Not just physically, but the exhaustion that settles into somebody after too many nights thinking instead of sleeping.

There were dark circles under her eyes she’d stopped bothering to cover by day three of this shoot. Her fingers kept tapping lightly against the edge of the laptop in restless little patterns, like her body didn’t know how to power down anymore.

“Why aren’t you inside?” I asked more quietly.

She stared out toward the empty road beyond the parking lot before answering.

“My brain won’t shut off.”

Yeah.

I knew that feeling too well.

Anxiety.

For a minute neither of us said anything. Somewhere down the road a truck engine groaned loudly before fading off into the distance again.

I wanted to touch her so badly my chest hurt with it.

Not even in some huge dramatic or sexual way.

I just wanted to take her hand.

Pull her sideways into me. Rub warmth back into her fingers. Kiss the tired space between her eyebrows that only showed up when she was overwhelmed.

I wanted us back fully.

Instead I looked down at the laptop screen beside her.

“What’re you working on?”

“Berlin schedule and budget before the next meeting.”

The answer came carefully.

As if she was testing whether saying those words out loud would hurt me. And suddenly that hurt worse than the project and the distance themselves ever could.

Because somewhere along the line, she’d started treating her future like something she needed to soften around me.

I leaned back slightly against the railing, trying not to let any of that show on my face.

“That’s good,” I said quietly.

She nodded once but didn’t look convinced.

We were two exhausted people sitting shoulder to shoulder while too many unspoken things crowded the air around them, so there was some silence.

Her blanket shifted slightly in the wind and without thinking, I reached over to pull it more securely around her shoulders.

The movement made both of us pause for half a second.

The automatic feeling I have to protect her was still here. And it felt good to let her see that.

Her eyes lifted to mine then, softer now. Tired enough to stop pretending she didn’t miss me too.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

I nodded once.

My hand stayed there for a second too long before dropping back into my lap.

After another minute, she finally closed the laptop with a tired sigh and leaned back beside me. Her shoulder brushing mine lightly.

Neither of us moved away from it this time.

And somehow that tiny bit of contact felt bigger than every conversation we’d failed to have all week.

READER'S POV

I still don’t know why I said yes to lunch.

Maybe because part of me was curious.

Maybe because another part of me was tired of feeling like I was constantly being evaluated by people who already thought they knew exactly who I was.

Sue had never been openly rude to me. Neither had Franklin. That was the thing about them — they were too polished for cruelty to ever look obvious.

But there’d been moments over the last few months that stayed under my skin longer than they should’ve.

Rejected stills over microscopic details nobody else cared about. Last-minute requests for reshoots after HBO had already approved selects. Tiny notes buried in emails that somehow always managed to make me feel young, inexperienced, temporary.

Never enough to call it personal.

Always enough to feel it.

So when Sue stopped beside me outside basecamp that afternoon and asked if I wanted to grab lunch before afternoon call, I think part of me thought maybe this was her extending an olive branch.

Or maybe I just wanted her to finally see me as more than the girl sleeping with her client.

“There’s a little Italian place nearby,” she’d said while slipping sunglasses onto her head. “Quiet. And they make decent coffee, which is apparently impossible in this city.”

I remember laughing at that.

And then, somehow, saying yes.

The restaurant was tucked between a pharmacy and a bookstore a few blocks off set. Warm inside. Low lighting. Dark wood tables scratched with years of use. The kind of place that tried to feel casual while still charging twenty dollars for pasta.

Sue looked perfectly at home there.

Everything about her always seemed carefully assembled without appearing overly done. Cream blouse. Gold jewelry. That expensive kind of minimal makeup that somehow made people look genetically superior instead of professionally styled.

Meanwhile I still smelled faintly like fake blood and set mud.

I caught myself trying to wipe dirt from beneath my nails before she noticed.

That annoyed me immediately.

The waitress recognized Sue within seconds, though not in a celebrity way. More like the kind of recognition people reserve for women who seem important.

Sue smiled politely, ordered sparkling water with lemon, then turned her attention fully onto me in a way that immediately felt disarming.

She asked about the stills from episode eight first. Told me she’d seen some of the winter shots from that one and liked the way I framed isolation inside wide landscapes.

Actual technical observations.

I remember blinking at her for a second because most people outside photography talked about my work like they were describing wallpaper.

“Your composition’s gotten stronger since the beginning of the show,” she said while unfolding her napkin across her lap. “You’re letting moments breathe more now.”

And stupidly, embarrassingly, I felt proud hearing that from her.

Because she’s someone who has been in this field longer than I have, and she knows what success looks like. Sue was one of those women who walked into rooms already knowing exactly how much power she had inside them.

“You’ve been looking at my work that closely?” I asked, trying to sound lighter than I felt.

Sue smiled slightly over the rim of her glass.

“Well, yes. It’s part of my job to know what’s surrounding Pedro.”

There it was.

Subtle enough to almost miss.

I smiled anyway.

We ordered food after that. I got wine mostly because suddenly I felt nervous in a way I couldn’t explain. Sue didn’t drink.

“If I start before three, somebody from HBO’s getting verbally assaulted by dinner,” she said dryly.

That got a real laugh out of me.

And honestly, for a while, lunch felt… nice.

That was the dangerous part.

She asked about what was next for me. What the future holds for the award winner. I told her the future still looks a little uncertain, that I’m still choosing.

Most people in this industry still treated my career like an accessory to whatever production I happened to be standing beside. Sue talked about it like it had weight. Like it existed independently from anybody else.

Like I existed independently from anybody else.

“You’re at an interesting point right now,” she said eventually, twirling pasta slowly against her fork. “Your name’s starting to circulate in rooms that matter.”

I tried to shrug it off casually even though my stomach tightened immediately.

“Maybe.”

“No, definitely.” Her eyes lifted to mine evenly. “You’ve got instincts people can’t teach.”

That one got to me, or better: That got to my head. My artist mind filling itself with that dangerous ego.

Because I’d spent so many years clawing my way into rooms where nobody took still photographers seriously to begin with, let alone young women without decades of credits behind them.

And suddenly here was someone powerful treating me like an artist instead of an attachment.

I think that was the moment my guard really dropped.

By the time she finally brought Pedro into the conversation, I’d already forgotten to protect myself properly.

“So,” she said lightly, setting her glass down empty. “How are you two handling all this?”

The question caught me off guard enough that I paused halfway through reaching for my drink.

“All this?”

“The secrecy, and schedules.” A small shrug. “The fact that his life’s about to become completely unmanageable.”

It didn’t feel like an attack, not with that smooth and gentle tone. Almost like she really cared about how we’d survive what’s next.

I stared down into my wine for a second before answering.

“We’re figuring it out.”

Sue nodded slowly like she understood more than I was saying.

“I imagine that gets complicated.”

I thought immediately of December.

A blurry picture leaking into the press and suddenly I was transformed into the secret girlfriend. Everything around me that time was focus on the mystery.

I didn’t even asked him how much they spent trying to manage the damage done by one brief kiss at the airport.

“We’ve been careful,” I said quietly.

“You have,” Sue agreed.

Something about the way she said it made my chest tighten.

“He’s getting pulled in a lot of directions right now,” she continued carefully. “I’m pretty sure he already told you about Marvel wanting him. Studios and directors want him. Every network suddenly wants meetings.” Her eyes stayed on mine. “And your career’s taking off at exactly the same time.”

My fucking mind started the works right then. The possibilities, and all the paths ahead of me and my career. Everything felt real now. A good four to five months of my year swallowed by productions that wanted me.

For the first time in my life, people were asking for me specifically.

“I’m not asking him to choose between things,” I said finally, deflecting and defensive all at once.

“I know you’re not.”

Again, so soft you could almost miss it.

That was what made her dangerous.

Sue leaned back slightly in her chair then, studying me with an expression I still can’t fully explain even now.

“You know what I think?” she asked quietly.

I should’ve shut the conversation down there.

Instead I sat there waiting for her answer, curious enough to get hurt.

“I think you’ve worked very hard to become somebody on your own.” Her voice stayed calm and warm and impossibly measured. “And I’d hate to see you disappear into someone else’s orbit right when the industry’s finally starting to see you clearly.”

A red alert was lit up right there inside my mind. None of those words were new to me, but when someone spoke them so clearly, it finally set something off inside of me.

Because I was already afraid they might become true someday.

And Sue saw it happen on my face too.

That was the worst part.

She fucking got what she came here for.

When lunch came to the end, she offered to pay the whole bill, and we were talking about lenses and festival circuits again as if nothing had happened.

I cursed my stubborness. So dumb for nothing, letting some stranger get inside my mind like that.

I felt the shift when I spotted Pedro laughing beside one of the trucks, sunglasses on, curls pushed back by the wind.

Usually seeing him made my whole body soften automatically.

That day, something else slipped in too.

Fear of how much I suddenly had to lose.

***

I spent most of the morning of my day off wandering around Grand Prairie with my camera hanging uselessly against my chest.

Pretending to be out to exercise my creativity. Pretending I was doing something photography related.

Really, I was just trying to figure out how the hell to fix what I broke.

The town was quiet in a way Calgary never was. Empty sidewalks. Wet pavement from the rain early that day. Little stores with handwritten signs in the windows and pickup trucks parked crooked outside cafés.

Everything felt slow here.

Meanwhile my brain hadn’t shut up in three days.

Everywhere I looked, I kept seeing him.

A jacket he would've made fun of. A bakery window he would've stopped at immediately because he had the appetite of a tired teenage boy whenever we worked long shoots. A dog tied outside the grocery store that would've had him crouched on the sidewalk making baby voices within seconds.

And underneath all of it was this awful realization slowly clawing its way up my throat:

I missed him even when he was standing five feet away from me.

I missed him all the time now.

By the time I wandered onto Main Street, my hands were freezing around the camera I’d barely used all morning.

I’d spent the last hour pretending I was out looking for compositions, but every time I lifted the camera to my eye, my brain drifted somewhere else entirely. Toward him, in that hotel room… Toward the horrible expression on his face the night we fought.

It hit me all at once then, standing outside some tiny pharmacy while cold wind pushed at my jacket:

I didn’t know how to exist in my life anymore without automatically making space for him inside it.

Like my days had quietly rearranged themselves around loving him when I wasn’t paying attention.

By the time I reached the bookstore near the corner, I knew I was looking for something that would’ve say: I’m sorry for hurting you.

The little cart outside was overflowing with secondhand paperbacks swollen from weather and age, pages yellowed and curling at the corners. The whole thing smelled faintly like damp paper and dust warmed by old heaters.

I almost walked past it.

Then I saw the Neruda book tucked sideways beneath a stack of cracked mystery novels.

The cover was soft with wear, faded blue around the edges, Spanish printed beside English in uneven lettering.

And immediately I thought about Pedro half-asleep beside me after long shoot days, slipping into Spanish without realizing it whenever he got tired enough.

The way his voice changed when he spoke it.

Softer somehow.

More unguarded.

I picked the book up carefully, running my thumb along the bent spine.

It felt like him.

Not polished Pedro. Not actor Pedro.

The real one.

The one who read over my shoulder in bed. The one who kissed my forehead absentmindedly while answering emails. The one who looked at me like I was something fragile whenever I got overwhelmed and tried pretending I wasn’t.

Before I could overthink myself out of it, I carried the book inside.

The woman working the register barely glanced up while ringing me through. Some old folk song crackled quietly through a radio behind her while she dropped the book into a paper bag.

“You from the production?” she asked casually.

“Yeah.”

She nodded like that explained everything.

Outside again, the cold hit my face immediately, but I barely noticed it this time.

Because suddenly I was terrified.

Not of him.

That was the thing.

Pedro almost never raised his voice. Even angry, he tried to understand people before he reacted to them. Sometimes to a fault.

No, what scared me was walking back into that room and seeing distance in his face again.

Seeing resignation.

Like he’d started preparing himself for me leaving already.

I reached our room, my stomach in knots so tight I thought I might actually throw up.

One minute long of thinking about opening that door. I stood there longer than I should have, fingers curled around the paper bag hard enough to wrinkle it.

Inside, I could hear the ac unit rattling faintly through the wall.

For one ridiculous second, I almost turned around.

Then I thought about sleeping another night beside him without really touching him and suddenly that felt unbearable.

So I finally pushed the door open quietly and stepped inside.

The curtains were mostly shut, thin afternoon light spilling through the gaps in pale stripes across the carpet and bedspread. Pedro was lying on top of the blankets fully dressed, one arm thrown over his eyes, boots still on like he’d laid down for a second and never found the energy to move back up again.

And God, the second I saw him, every wall I’d spent days building around myself started collapsing at once.

I closed the hotel door quietly behind me, careful with the handle out of habit more than necessity.

Pedro shifted slightly on the bed at the sound, one arm still thrown over his eyes, boots hanging halfway off the mattress like he’d laid down intending to rest for five minutes and never found the energy to move again. The room smelled faintly like damp jackets and the stale motel heater humming near the window.

For a second I just stood there looking at him.

The last few days had done something to both of us. I could see it now that I wasn’t busy defending myself against every feeling I had. There was tension sitting heavily in his shoulders, exhaustion carved beneath his eyes. Even asleep — or close to it — he looked like somebody bracing for impact.

And the worst part was knowing I’d put some of that there.

“Hey,” I said softly.

His arm moved enough for him to look at me. “Hey.”

Jesus, his voice.

Still warm and gentle, even after everything.

I crossed the room slowly and sat down near his legs, the mattress dipping beneath me. Pedro shifted automatically to make space without even thinking about it. Some habits between us had become muscle memory by now.

For a few seconds neither of us really spoke. I could hear the television from another room bleeding faintly through the wall and the sound of tires moving slowly over wet pavement outside.

“I walked around town for a while,” I said finally.

Pedro rubbed a hand over his face before looking at me properly. “Find anything exciting?”

I huffed out the smallest laugh. “Depends. Do you consider hypothermia exciting?”

That earned me the faintest smile. Tired, but real enough to soften something inside my chest immediately.

“There’s apparently an alarming number of antique stores in this city,” I added. “Which feels unnecessary for a town this size.”

“Maybe old people just really thrive here.”

“Possible.”

The smile lingered another second before fading again, though not completely this time. He pushed himself up a little against the pillows, attention settling fully onto me now in a way that made my stomach tighten.

I held the paper bag out toward him carefully.

His eyes dropped to it first, then back to me with quiet confusion before he finally reached for it. Our fingers brushed when he took the book from my hands and neither of us pulled away quickly enough to pretend we hadn’t both noticed it.

Pedro glanced down at the cover.

Movements stilled.

“Neruda,” he murmured, thumb dragging lightly across the worn spine.

I nodded. “I saw it outside this bookstore and immediately thought of you.”

His expression shifted at that. Small. Almost impossible to catch if I didn’t know him so well by now.

“Why?”

“You still see beauty even in the darkest places.”

Pedro looked back down at the book, quieter suddenly. More careful with it than something secondhand probably deserved.

“And also,” I added softly. “I remembered you mentioning your mom liked him.”

For a second he didn’t answer. He just opened the book slowly near the middle, eyes scanning the pages without really reading them.

Then he exhaled through his nose and leaned his head back against the wall behind the bed.

“I haven’t seen this one in years.”

Something about the way he said it made a strong sad feeling lodged inside my chest.

Not because it sounded nostalgic. This memory of his felt too personal.

I watched his fingers moving absently over the pages while I tried to gather the courage to say the thing I should’ve said days ago.

All the rehearsed versions disappeared the second I opened my mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

Pedro’s eyes lifted to mine immediately.

The room suddenly felt very small.

“I think…” I stopped, rubbing my hands together nervously before trying again. “I think I got so scared of needing you this much that I started pulling away before you ever had the chance to hurt me.”

The words sounded ugly out loud. Honest in the worst way.

Pedro stayed very still across from me, listening so carefully it almost made me emotional all over again.

“I didn’t even realize I was doing it at first,” I admitted quietly. “I just kept hearing all this stuff in my head about timing and distance and careers and eventually it turned into…” I shook my head helplessly. “Whatever the hell the last few days were.”

He swallowed once before answering.

“You made me feel like you were already leaving.”

There wasn’t accusation in his voice. Just hurt and the kind of helplessness that comes with not knowing what to do.

I looked down at my hands immediately because I couldn’t stand the expression on his face for another second.

“I know.”

The silence after that stretched long enough that I could hear the ac click loudly behind us.

Then I felt the bed shift a little.

Pedro moved closer slowly, elbows resting on his knees now, the book still hanging loose in one hand.

“You know what the worst part was?” he asked quietly.

I looked up again.

He gave this small exhausted shake of his head before continuing.

“I understood why you were scared.” His eyes stayed on mine. “That’s what killed me.”

Damn.

Something inside me cracked open completely at that.

Because of course he understood.

Pedro understood people too easily sometimes. Even when they were hurting him.

“I kept thinking maybe if I pushed too hard to fix it, you’d disappear even faster,” he admitted, voice rougher now. “So I didn’t know what to do except stand there and watch you get farther away from me every day.”

My eyes burned instantly.

Without thinking, I reached for him then. Both hands wrapping around his wrist first before sliding down to lace through his fingers.

Pedro let out the smallest breath the second I touched him.

Relief in it’s purest form.

His hand closed around mine immediately like his body had been waiting for permission.

“I missed you so much,” I whispered.

That finally pulled a real expression out of him. Pain, affection, exhaustion — all tangled together across his face at once.

“I was right here,” he said softly.

“I know.”

And that was exactly why it felt so awful.

Because he had been right there beside me the entire time while I let fear turn him into something distant in my head.

Pedro’s thumb moved slowly across the back of my hand while he watched me for another long second.

Then, carefully, like he still wasn’t fully convinced I wouldn’t pull away again, he reached up and touched my face.

His palm was warm against my cheek.

“You’re freezing, Cariño” he murmured automatically, brushing his thumb beneath my eye where tears had started gathering again without me noticing.

The tenderness in that simple sentence nearly undid me.

I leaned into his hand before I could stop myself, eyes closing for half a second at the familiar feeling of him touching me like something precious.

“I love you,” I whispered.

The words came out quietly. Like breathing.

Pedro shut his eyes briefly after I said it, forehead dropping forward for a second like he physically felt the impact of hearing it again after the last few days.

Then he looked at me and kissed me.

Slowly at first.

Carefully enough that I could feel the hesitation still lingering between us, the leftover fear, the uncertainty about whether we were fully okay yet.

But the second my hand slid into his curls and his mouth softened against mine, something between us finally gave way.

The tension was no longer a thing. That distance becoming less and less threatening.

Pedro made this quiet sound against my mouth that wrecked me instantly, one arm pulling me into him hard enough that I nearly lost balance climbing fully into his lap.

And suddenly we were kissing like people who had spent days pretending they didn’t need each other quite this badly.

His hands kept moving like he was reassuring himself I was really there — my waist, my back, my hair, my face — while I held onto him just as tightly, forehead knocking against his once when we both laughed breathlessly into the kiss.

When we finally pulled apart, neither of us moved very far.

Pedro rested his forehead against mine, breathing unevenly, one hand still cupping the back of my neck.

I was home, safe. Finally.

After that desperate kiss, he kept turning the book over in his hands, thumb moving slowly along the softened edges of the cover while I stayed tucked against him beneath the blankets. The motel room had gone dim around us at some point.

For a while we just stayed there tangled together quietly, my head resting against his shoulder while his fingers drifted absentmindedly through the damp ends of my hair.

Then he smiled faintly down at the book again.

“You know,” he said, voice still rough and sleepy from everything we’d just cried through, “she used to read Neruda to us all the time.”

I lifted my head slightly to look at him. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” His eyes stayed on the pages as he opened the book carefully. “I haven’t held one of these in years.”

There was something in his expression I couldn’t fully place at first. Not sadness exactly. More like somebody brushing their hand over a scar they forgot was still there.

I shifted closer instinctively, one leg sliding over his beneath the blankets while my hand settled against the center of his chest. His heartbeat felt steady under my palm now. Calm again.

“I didn’t know that about you.”

Pedro let out a quiet laugh through his nose.

“There’s probably a lot you still don’t know about me.”

He said it lightly, but there was vulnerability underneath it that made me look at him more carefully.

He’d always shared pieces of himself slowly. Never because he was closed off or secretive — that wasn’t really him. Pedro loved loudly and very openly. But there were parts of him tied so tightly to childhood and grief and family that he handled them gently even in conversation.

“She loved poetry,” he said after a moment, fingertips pausing against one of the pages. “Especially Neruda. My mom used to read to us when things were rough at home.”

His arm tightened slightly around my waist while he spoke, pulling me in until my cheek rested fully against his chest. I could hear the low rumble of his voice through him before I even caught the words themselves.

“We’d all be sitting in the living room pretending we didn’t want to be there,” he continued with a softer smile. “Javiera would complain the loudest. Lux usually got emotional immediately.” He laughed quietly at the memory. “And Nicolás always acted deeply inconvenienced by feelings in general.”

I smiled against his shirt. “Sounds familiar somehow.”

“Oh, I was absolutely the worst of them,” Pedro admitted. “My poor mother had four dramatic children and a husband who encouraged all of us.”

“That explains a lot actually.”

He laughed again then, fuller this time, and I felt some of the heaviness between us finally loosen for real. The sound vibrated warm beneath my ear while his hand moved slowly up and down my back beneath the oversized hoodie I’d stolen from him weeks ago.

But after a minute the laughter faded naturally, leaving behind something quieter.

“There were periods after we moved where things got hard financially,” he said eventually, gaze drifting somewhere far past the hotel room walls now. “Hard enough that even as kids we could tell everybody was stressed all the time.”

His fingers kept tracing absentminded circles against my side while he spoke.

“My parents tried really hard to protect us from it. Especially my mom.” A small pause. “But kids notice everything. You hear conversations through walls. You hear your parents trying not to fight.”

Something tightened painfully in my chest hearing him talk like this. Maybe because I’d spent so long seeing the version of Pedro everybody else saw — charismatic, funny, impossible not to look at — that moments like these still caught me off guard sometimes.

The softness underneath him.

That shy little boy still living somewhere inside the man I love.

“She used to read when the house got heavy,” he said quietly. “Like she could pull everybody into another world for half an hour and let us breathe there instead.”

I stayed quiet, letting him move through the memory at his own pace.

Pedro looked down at the book again with this distant expression that made him suddenly look younger to me somehow.

“I think that’s probably where I got it from,” he admitted with a small shrug. “Acting. Storytelling. All of it. Watching somebody change the feeling in a room just by speaking.”

I don’t think he even realized how vulnerable he sounded in that moment.

Or maybe he did.

Maybe that was the point. He was letting me in.

I reached up slowly and brushed my fingers through the curls near the back of his neck, feeling him melt almost immediately beneath the touch.

“Will you read one to me?”

Pedro hesitated then, eyes flicking briefly back toward the pages.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because this mattered to him.

I could feel that now.

Then he nodded once and adjusted himself against the headboard, pulling me fully into his lap without even thinking about it. One arm wrapped securely around my waist while the other held the book open between us, his thumb resting near the spine.

Held.

That was the overwhelming feeling of it.

Held so carefully that my entire body started relaxing before my brain caught up.

Pedro cleared his throat softly before he started reading, and the second the words left his mouth, his whole voice changed.

Lower and slower.

His actor voice gone, as this was not a performance. This was something incredible intimate and private. Only for me this time.

“I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off…”

His accent thickened slightly around certain words, eyes drifting automatically toward the Spanish text whenever he lost rhythm in the English version. I could feel every line resonate through his chest beneath my cheek while his hand moved slowly against my side in unconscious patterns.

Outside, I could hear trucks somewhere on the highway and some people walking in that hotel, but all of it started fading behind the sound of him reading.

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”

Emotion climbed slowly into my throat listening to him.

The poem itself was beautiful, sure. But I cried because this was him.

This was the most unguarded version of Pedro I’d ever been allowed to see.

No cameras around, no questions from interviews, no charming public version of himself carefully assembled for other people.

Just a tired man in a hotel room reading poetry the way his mother once read it to him when life felt frightening.

By the time he reached the final lines, my eyes were already wet.

“So close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.”

Neither of us spoke immediately afterward.

Pedro stayed still for a second with the book open in his lap while my fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt.

When I finally looked up at him, his eyes were already on me.

Open in a way that almost hurt to look at directly.

“Was that her favorite?” I asked softly.

He nodded once.

“Yeah. She used to read that one whenever one of us was sad.” A tired smile touched his mouth. “Which was often. We were an aggressively emotional household.”

I laughed quietly through some tears threatening falling again.

“I genuinely cannot imagine where you got that from.”

That earned me another small laugh, but it faded quickly this time.

Pedro looked back down at the book for a moment before speaking again, his thumb resting against the edge of the page.

“She made people feel safe,” he said quietly. “That was her thing. You could walk into a room completely wrecked and somehow leave feeling like maybe your life wasn’t ending after all.”

His voice shifted slightly on the last sentence.

Almost imperceptibly.

Still enough for me to hear the grief underneath it.

“I still miss her all the time,” he admitted.

The honesty of it hit me harder than anything else had.

No performance in the words. No attempt to make grief sound poetic or profound.

Just truth.

I touched his face carefully then, thumb brushing beneath his eye while he leaned into my hand in a way that immediately undid me.

“I wish I could’ve met her,” I whispered.

Pedro looked at me for a long moment after that, something soft and unbearably emotional moving across his face.

Then he smiled a little through it and said quietly:

“She would’ve loved you.”

That was it.

That was the thing that broke me completely.

I buried my face against his neck immediately, laughing once through tears while Pedro wrapped both arms around me tightly enough that the book nearly slipped from his lap onto the bed beside us.

And somewhere in the middle of him holding me there — warm, exhausted, breathing softly against my hair — I realized relationships probably survived because of moments exactly like this.

Not the easy ones.

The moments where somebody trusted you enough to hand you the most fragile parts of themselves and believe you’d hold them gently.

After a while we gave up on pretending we were gonna leave the room again, it was already dark outside and the wind had picked up hard enough to make the hotel windows rattle every few minutes.

Pedro was sprawled across the bed beside me with his phone balanced on his stomach, scrolling through DoorDash with the concentration of somebody making life-altering decisions.

“This town has no good food,” he announced gravely.

“You’ve been saying that for two days.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

I laughed quietly into the pillow while he kept scrolling.

The truth was, I would’ve eaten cardboard at that point if it meant staying exactly where we were: Warm bodies tangled together again. Him absentmindedly rubbing circles into my hip through the blanket while some awful dating reality show played low in the background.

The relief of being back inside each other’s orbit felt almost physical. Like my whole body had unclenched without me realizing how tense I’d been.

Pedro suddenly sat up straighter beside me.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“Burger King is open.”

I stared at him.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Whopper meal. Onion rings. Chicken fries.” He looked over at me with genuine excitement. “Baby, we’re healing.”

“That’s the most divorced man order I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re being classist.”

I snorted so hard I almost dropped my phone.

Pedro immediately looked pleased with himself for managing to pull the sound out of me.

That was the thing about him. Even during the worst parts of the last few days, I’d still catch him trying. Little jokes under his breath. Touching the back of my arm when he walked past me on set. Looking over to make sure I was eating when the days got too long.

Pedro couldn’t help loving people out loud.

Even hurt, he still reached.

Twenty minutes later we were sitting cross-legged in bed surrounded by crumpled Burger King wrappers while the TV still played that aggressive terrible reality show neither of us fully understood.

Pedro had stolen most of my fries already.

“You have your own.”

“They taste better from your container.”

“That’s literally impossible.”

“It’s emotional science.”

I rolled my eyes and leaned back against the headboard while he reached over to steal another one anyway, grinning when I slapped his hand away too late.

Outside, rain tapped steadily against the windows.

Inside, though, everything finally felt warm again.

Comfortably messy.

My bare legs tangled automatically with his beneath the blankets while he balanced a carton of onion rings against my knee and got increasingly emotionally invested in the reality show contestants.

“I’m telling you right now,” he said around a bite of burger, pointing toward the television, “that man is absolutely cheating.”

“You think everybody’s cheating.”

“Because everybody usually is.”

“You’re impossible.”

Pedro looked over at me then, eyes crinkling behind the stupid paper Burger King crown he’d found in the bottom of the bag and immediately decided to wear for the night.

I thought to myself: There he was.

The version of him I’d been missing so badly it physically hurt.

Not actor Pedro, not the public celebrity Pedro, or the friend people liked. Here he was just my boyfriend being ridiculous in a hotel room while eating fries in bed.

I laughed hard enough at one point that soda nearly came out of my nose, which only made Pedro laugh harder until both of us were half collapsing against each other under the blankets.

By the middle of the second episode I was stretched across his chest listening to his heartbeat while he played absently with my fingers between commentary about the show.

Every now and then he’d kiss the top of my head without interrupting whatever deeply serious opinion he had about reality television politics.

The ease between us started returning slowly after that.

Small pieces here and there, like the way my body stopped hesitating before touching him. The way he automatically tucked my feet beneath his legs because he knew they were always freezing. The way silence stopped feeling dangerous again.

Later, when we showered together, it felt less like passion and more like muscle memory returning.

The kind built slowly over months of shared hotel rooms and exhausted set nights.

I washed shampoo from his curls and after a while he stood behind me with his chin resting against my shoulder, warm water running down both of us while steam filled the tiny bathroom until the mirrors disappeared completely. At one point he reached around me to grab the soap and kissed the side of my neck absentmindedly in the middle of the movement, like his body had finally stopped second-guessing its way back toward mine.

There was something deeply intimate about that more than anything else.

The normalcy of it.

Knowing exactly how he liked the water temperature. Knowing he always forgot towels until the last second, or that he’d complain dramatically about hotel shampoo while still using half the bottle.

Almost a year together and loving him had settled into my body in hundreds of tiny habits I didn’t even notice anymore until I thought I might lose them.

By the time I stepped out of the bathroom, my skin was still warm from the shower and the room had gone soft and dim with only the bedside lamp left on.

Pedro was already back in bed in grey sweatpants, no shirt on and his glasses for the last time that day just to have a look at me. He was stretched against the pillows with his iPad balanced on his stomach.

The sight of him hit me with this sudden overwhelming wave of affection so strong I had to stop for a second.

Domestic looked stupidly good on him.

He glanced up immediately when I walked out wearing one of his old shirts, towel still draped around my shoulders while I rubbed at my wet hair.

“There she is,” he murmured.

The way he said it made warmth spread low in my chest.

“You planning on coming back to bed tonight,” he asked, “or have you decided to abandon me emotionally for European cinema?”

I snorted.

“That depends. Is Burger King Crown Pedro still with us?”

“Always.”

“Then maybe.”

Pedro smiled slowly at that, eyes warm behind the glasses.

I was halfway across the room toward him when my phone buzzed loudly on the desk.

A calendar reminder.

My stomach dropped immediately.

“Oh shit.”

Pedro lowered the iPad slightly. “What?”

“The Berlin call.” I grabbed my phone, already wincing at the time. “Fuck, I forgot this was tonight.”

Recognition crossed his face immediately.

“That one you told me the other day?”

“Mhm.” I exhaled slowly, reaching for my laptop now. “The Cannes director’s on the call.”

For a second I genuinely considered cancelling.

Not because I didn’t want the project.

Because after the last few days, sitting in this warm hotel bed beside him suddenly felt dangerously easy to get attached to.

The idea of talking about Berlin while his side of the bed was still warm behind me made my chest tighten in ways I didn’t fully want to examine yet.

Pedro watched me quietly for a second before setting the iPad aside.

“You should take it.”

I looked over at him.

“You sure?”

“Baby.” His voice softened immediately. “This is important.”

He cares about it, and that somehow made me love him even harder.

I settled at the little table near the window while Pedro switched the bedside lamp off, leaving the room lit mostly by the glow of my laptop screen.

The call connected almost immediately.

Three faces appeared onscreen.

The director first — sharp cheekbones, silver jewelry, impossibly cool in that effortless European way that should’ve been annoying but somehow wasn’t.

Beside her small window, sat the producer, older, calm, wearing round glasses and a sweater that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

And then there was this guy from crew already on board for the project.

He has curly dark hair, with headphones crooked around his neck. Camera equipment stacked behind him like he’d forgotten he was supposed to look professional before joining the call.

The second he saw me appear onscreen, his entire face lit up.

“Oh thank fuck,” he said immediately. “You’re real.”

I blinked, caught off guard enough to laugh.

The producer sighed. “Harry’s been talking about your work for two weeks straight.”

“Because it’s incredible,” Harry cut in without shame. “Sorry, but the winter stills from that show ‘All that Remains’?” He shook his head dramatically. “Insane. I genuinely got angry after seeing them.”

I laughed again, embarrassed now.

Pedro glanced over from the bed at the sound, smiling faintly to himself before going back to pretending he wasn’t listening.

The conversation flowed easily after that.

They talked about the project for nearly an hour — the visual language they wanted, the intimacy of the story, the way they envisioned photography existing alongside movement instead of behind it.

Harry, especially, kept asking me questions about framing and emotional composition with the kind of intensity only another visual obsessive could have. He was the main camera for that project, dealing with all the technical part of the project.

At one point he actually got up to grab printed screenshots of my work from somewhere off camera.

“I told them there’s loneliness in your framing,” he said while holding one of the stills closer to the webcam. “But it’s never cold. That’s the thing. Your images still feel… loved.”

The comment hit the artist ego beneath myself. Because that was exactly what I was always trying to do.

Even in grief. Even in isolation. Find the humanity inside it.

By the time they started discussing logistics, my stomach had tightened completely.

Three months.

Berlin.

Meetings starting in June, right when we were going to shoot the last scene for this show.

A whole future unfolding in front of me while Pedro lay ten feet away in bed wearing glasses and waiting for me to come back under the blankets beside him.

When the call finally ended, I sat there for a second staring at my own reflection in the black laptop screen before slowly closing it.

The room felt quieter afterward.

Heavier somehow.

I turned toward the bed.

Pedro was still awake, lying on his side now with one arm tucked beneath his head watching me through the dark.

“You heard all that?”

“A little,” he admitted. “That guy Harry seems emotionally obsessed with you.”

I laughed softly despite myself and finally climbed back into bed beside him, immediately curling into the warmth of his body beneath the blankets.

Pedro took his glasses off, and opened his arm for me automatically.

The movement was so familiar now neither of us even thought about it anymore.

For a while he just played slowly with the damp ends of my hair while I listened to his heartbeat beneath my ear.

Then quietly:

“Three months is a long time.”

“Yeah.”

I tilted my head enough to look up at him. “You think I should do it?”

Pedro stayed quiet for a second before answering, his fingers still moving lazily through my hair.

“I think if you turn something like this down because of me,” he said carefully, “eventually it’ll hurt us anyway.”

That landed deep because I knew immediately he was right.

His hand slid slowly down my back beneath the oversized shirt.

“And I think you’d be incredible there,” he added more quietly.

Emotion climbed into my throat so fast it caught me off guard.

This was the thing nobody outside us really understood about us: Pedro had never once asked me to become smaller so he could feel bigger.

Even now.

Even while I could feel the sadness underneath his support.

“You’re very emotionally devastating when you’re mature,” I muttered against his chest.

That pulled a soft laugh out of him.

“Sorry.”

I pressed my body closer automatically, his warmth wrapping around me while rain kept tapping softly against the hotel windows outside.

And somewhere between his heartbeat under my ear and his fingers drifting sleepily along my spine, I realized I couldn’t picture my future anymore without him already living somewhere inside it.

Alright. I think we’re ready for the last chapter right? That’s one more and the epilogue. But I can totally see a second season coming up hahahaha.

Hope you guys stick around. I promise to try and be faster with those updates. Taglist: @kellyxo1 ; @joelmillerpascal ; @sarahhxx03 ; @sara-alonso ; @needz1nk ; @sassyispunk ; @flow33didontsmokeagain, @alixxhere

[joelssimp]

STILL | CHAPTER 26

CW: Alternate POV's, Lux being the support our couple need. Uncomfortable situation, smut, welcome home sex, squirting, first time saying three little words, emotions running high, crempie, p-in-v, little bit of anal play. I think that covers most of it.

6.4K words

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26 - Welcome Home

PEDRO'S POV Of course she left something behind.

And I only found it because I was packing my bags to leave for L.A right after the New York Premiere.

Tucked between pages of a book she’d been flipping through — something about women photographers and film history — like she knew I’d open it eventually, and I almost missed it.

But there it was: a square of her handwriting, and one of the polaroids we’d shot in my kitchen back in Calgary in a night she made me laugh so hard I nearly dropped the wine bottle.

The photo wasn’t innocent.

Not explicit either, not really — but the way she looked at the lens, at me, with that smile, my shirt hanging off one of her shoulder, legs curled under her on the kitchen counter like she had nowhere else to be…

It knocked the air out of me.

The note underneath was brief. Her handwriting always danced across the page as if it had music behind it.

Just in case you start forgetting how good it feels when I’m at your place. — Your girl

I sat back on the edge of the couch, hand still holding the polaroid, heart doing too much inside my chest.

Jesus.

I’d been busy after she left. Had long meetings with my agents, talked to some producers and directors. Coco came by for fittings with too much caffeine and enough of our bond to make me forget some of my problems.

So far I was good, great even. I’ve done what I always do: compartmentalize. Tuck the feeling of missing her into a drawer so I could get through the day. And each day it worked.

But now she was in the apartment again. In the faint scent I sometimes smelled, that same lotion she has in her camera bag whenever she’s on sets being efficient as hell. And now I had her in this damn picture I couldn’t stop staring at.

I tilted it in the light, watching the soft edges of her outline glow.

Gone. So gone for her. I didn’t even try to deny it anymore.

It was the kind of feeling that made me stupid. That made me want to cancel everything and fly to wherever the hell she was, just to watch her work, just to see her face light up when she laughed.

It scared the hell out of me.

Scary because I’ve been around long enough to know what this business does to love. I’ve seen it chew up good things and spit them out, turning timing into a curse so fast you don’t actually get a minute to remember what the real thing was.

But none of that mattered when I looked at this photo.

She was real, stubborn and smart and too good at what she does. She saw through my moods and held space for them. She teased me until I let my guard down enough that she could get in with no effort. On top of all that, she gave me pieces of herself, trusting enough to share her life, and her fears, and now I didn’t know how to live with less.

I picked up my phone. I stared at the screen for a long time.

Then I texted her.

I just found your surprise. You’re a menace. I’m ruined. 15:35 - Pedro P.

I miss you like hell. 15:35 - Pedro P.

I stared at the photo one more time before tucking it in my wallet. Right where it could wreck me whenever it wanted.

***

Critics called the whole thing a genius piece of art. I was so proud of it, but still, those two premieres were in the way of me being back to Canada.

Had two nights in the suit, and two more rounds of answering the same questions: "What is it like to work with this insane actor?", “How was filming during the pandemic?”, “How is the last of us shooting going?", and “Who was the girl in that airport picture?". Just two more walks down a carpet that smelled like perfume, stress, and desperation masked as charm.

And then I’d be free.

Free to get on a plane, back to a not so cold weather — Spring doing its job now, but I’d still have long days on set, and her.

Lux stood beside me like a lifeline, dressed in this tailored black one piece that made her look like she owned the whole damn thing. She was always good at this part — those red carpets with too many flashes, the perfect amount of a smile to maintain for a long time. She knew when to lean in, and when to pose.

Thank God she was with me, because I was absolutely useless tonight.

I went through the motions: smile, wave, keep moving, nod politely. But I wasn’t really there. My body showed up. My mind, though?

Stuck with her.

The polaroid she left me — tucked inside my wallet now — might as well have been burning through the fabric of my white tux. I could feel it every second, as if it was alive in there. Her handwriting on the back, and that crooked little smile she had in it.

The way she looked like she belonged to me, and only me.

I blinked, snapped back to the present as someone from Lionsgate pulled me aside with a smile and a mic.

“Pedro, good to see you again! How does it feel to be premiering The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent in front of a live audience?”

I gave the expected answer. Something about how fun the movie was to make, how Nic was a legend, how the script was wild and weird and unlike anything I’d done before — all true, sure, but it all sounded rehearsed.

Then came the pivot.

“And I have to ask, because it’s everywhere online right now… rumors about someone special in your life. Is there any truth to that?”

Lux made a sound behind me, surprised at how the question came in directly with no hesitation. I smiled the way you do when you’ve perfected the art of dodging.

“You know I love to keep a little mystery,” I said, voice warm, a little coy. “Let’s focus on the movie tonight. Nic Cage is the real romance story here. I’m in love with him the same way Javi, my character, also is.”

The reporter laughed, took the hint. But I hated the way my chest clenched.

Because if I had it my way, I’d be shouting it. I’d be saying, Yeah, there’s someone. She’s not famous, but she’s extraordinary. The kind of extraordinary you don’t walk away from.

But I didn’t say any of that. 

When we stepped inside the venue and the chaos dimmed, I felt Lux's eyes on me again.

“You’re not really here,” my sister murmured, adjusting the collar of my shirt unnecessarily.

I shrugged, exhaling loudly. “Left half of myself in Canada.”

She looked at me for a long second, then gave a small nod. “Then get it back. First thing whenever you can. Don’t let this business steal the good parts of you. It already took enough, don’t you think?”

The answer didn’t come to me, I just swallowed hard and nodded.

The movie played, and I barely registered it. I was supposed to be proud, supposed to be soaking in the laughter, the applause — but I sat there running my thumb over my wallet, over the bump of the polaroid through the leather.

She called herself your girl in the note she left.

Don't get me wrong… I’d had flings. I’d had things that almost felt like love. I’ve been searching throughout my life for something.

But this? This was full-blooded, terrifying, all-consuming. And I’d never felt more alive.

READER’S POV

I wanted it to be perfect.

Mid April you’d think the weather would be this nice spring-sunny-transitional thing. But Calgary was hanging on to the cold and everything was still kind of slushy outside. Inside Pedro’s apartment though? I was determined to make it feel like the real spring. Or, at the very least, like home.

He’d left me a key from his rental, tucked into my bag the day I left New York, with a simple “in case you miss me too much” smile, and I’d been holding onto it, waiting for the right moment to do something.

I got in a few hours before he was scheduled to land. Dropped my bags by the door, kicked my boots off, and just stood there for a second in the quiet, letting the soft white noise of the fridge wrap around me. His scent never really left that place, since it was locked all the time he was off in New York and now Los Angeles.

I unpacked my plan slowly.

Flowers — A bouquet with almost every color in it, because I couldn’t decide which one suited him best.

Dinner — warming in the oven, homemade because I knew he’d be sick of microwavable things and take outs.

My clothes? Just one of his flannel shirts stolen from New York, now mine, hanging off my frame with nothing else under it as I moved through the apartment lighting candles like I wasn’t terrified this would all come off as too much.

It was a private moment of me saying with gestures how much I missed him here. Just the  kind of surprise you only pull when you’re all in.

My nerves were all over the place that night. I was fixing the wine glasses when I heard the key turn.

I expected to hear his voice, or maybe the jangle of his laugh, or some New York sarcasm about how I was trying to seduce him with food and firelight.

Instead, I heard another voice too followed by sharp high heels… Fuck.

“Pedro, just email me when you get the final sides, okay?” Sue’s voice echoed by the door.

I wanted to hide. Anywhere sounds good. Anywhere to hide my bare legs. Please God…

The door opened and there he was, suitcase in one hand, his eyes softening the moment he saw me, but then, confusion, quick and flickering behind his eyes, followed by panic of having someone else there with us.

Sue was right behind him, in a smart coat and heels, her brow arching as she stepped inside and took in the whole picture.

“Oh,” she let it out by surprise. “Didn’t realize you had company.”

Pedro blinked twice. “I—She—” He looked at me then at her, like he didn’t know which side of the room to run to. “You used the key.” He said to me.

“Yeah,” I replied, heat crawling up my neck and my eyes darting everywhere but to them. “I thought I’d surprise you.”

Sue was already stepping back toward the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Pedro.” Her smile to me was polite, but I felt like I’d been caught doing something wrong. Something intimate in a space she still considered business.

He shut the door behind her, and for a long second, neither of us said anything.

I looked down at the wine glasses. The candles. My bare legs under his flannel shirt.

“This was a stupid idea,” I muttered, already trying to find something to do with my hands. “I can pack this up, go back to my place. You probably want to rest or something.”

“No, hey,” he said quickly, crossing the space between us to catch my hand. “It’s not stupid. It’s perfect.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t meet his eyes.

“It just didn’t feel like that. Not with her looking at me like I’m… like I’m not supposed to be here.”

He stepped closer, his hand sliding to the small of my back. “She’s just… Sue. She’s all strategy and opinions. Don’t take it personally. She’s not used to anyone knowing me this well. But that’s not on you.”

“She hates that I’m here, doesn’t she?” I asked letting myself be hugged by his strong arms.

“She doesn’t know you,” he said simply with a shrug. “That’s her loss.”

I looked up finally, and saw the weariness in his face. The way the flight and the red carpet and all the meetings had drained him. Dark circles under his gorgeous eyes, and his shoulders a little too tense.

And underneath all of that — the soft ache that mirrored mine.

I pressed my forehead to his chest, breathing him in to steady my own heart.

“I wanted to say welcome home.”

He wrapped his arms tighter around me, pulling me closer, tighter, until there was nothing between us but heat and everything we hadn’t said for weeks.

“You did,” he murmured into my hair. “You do. This—this is home.”

And just like that, the tension melted.

But I knew — I knew — the shadow of that awkward moment wasn’t gone. It had just slipped into a corner. Waiting.

Because the higher we climb, the more people want a say in how we love. And I wasn’t sure how many awkward glances or judgmental smiles I could take before it started to chip away at all of this.

***

The stretch was unmatched. The drag and pull of his thick and painful hard cock had us both moaning and even whining a little.

We knew that when the tension was eased and the longing for each other surfaced, making its statement, we would be insatiable for the whole night.

Once both of our bodies were bare on top of the mattress, he started with his mouth directly into my cunt, making out with my lower lips, thrusting his tongue into my aching hole, and even giving my clit small teasing bites. And on top of all that, I could see his hips rooting against the sheets.

Pedro enjoys eating me out as much as I enjoy his mouth on me.

He already gave me two blinding orgasms just like that. And then, he got up, pulling my legs to my chest, sinking down on me with a grunt full of pleasure.

Skin on skin never felt so good.

His hips speed up a little, earning a gasp from me.

“That’s fucking right. My girl, all mine to fuck like this” He's mumbling so close to my ear. Making sure I listen to every filthy word he says.

Pedro’s teeth grazes my earlobe, sending shivers all over my body. I felt my nipple harden. “You love being fucked like this, don’t you, babe?”

I can only nod. If I open my mouth to say a single word I know I’ll scream. Pleasure overtaking all my senses.

“Ready to give me another one?” As the words comes out of his mouth, the force of his hips changes to a deep thrusting.

“Y—yes, fuck yeees” I cry trying to hold on to his forearms the best I can.

There’s half moons all over his skin from my nails. And I can tell that he loves getting those marks.

“Give it to me before I stuff you so full, you’ll be leaking my cum all ov— G-haaa” The last word is lost to the pleasure he also feels.

My eyes rolls back.

“Pedro—Babe, oh my fuckinggod” He shifts a little, hitting that hidden spongy spot only he is able to find inside of me.

Again.

And again.

And again.

“Right here, hun?” He speeds up more, hitting that damn spot.

My tights burn from being held up by him, but I don’t fucking care. Only thing I’m focused on is this burning heat inside my belly, numbing every sense. My legs shake hard and I lose my breath.

“Oh fuck, so damn tight, so tight, I’m gonna cum” Pedro almost chokes.

I’m too lost in my own pleasure, but once he is nailing me in that bed seeking his own release, my body goes on full alert mode.

This feels too good, and there’s a second and stronger orgasm overtaking the one I was already going through. But this time I felt an insane pressure inside my body. I was gasping for air and at the same time I felt some liquid coming out of my pussy and hitting Pedro’s thighs.

“Squirting all over me, hermosa” His voice is breathless, and so damn proud.

He’s fucking me through this intense release, still coming inside me. The sound we make together is pure filth with the combination of releases. Squishing through the room.

My legs are numb at this point, and my mind is a bliss.

He pushes the last rope of cum inside me, and his body stills, lips crashing into mine as we both try to come down from our high. My fingers find his curls, and the smile finds both our mouths.

“Fuck, that was good” His nose touches my chin, tracing lazy lines while he’s still inside me, but he let my legs fall from his grip.

I’m too full of emotions to answer anything clearly.

My boyfriend just made me come four times. My body feels boneless. And there’s only one thing inside my mind. He’s not expecting it, neither am I. But I manage to choke those three words out for the first time directly to him.

“I love you” I say, feeling too much.

He goes still.

Those brown eyes going wide.

I mean, it’s not like we didn’t know it. We’ve said we liked each other dozens of times, we’ve confessed to others how we love each other. But this is the first time ever those three words are out of my mouth directly to him.

“Say it again,” Pedro whispers, voice in complete disbelief.

I blink, my heart thudding so loud it’s hard to hear anything else. His right hand comes up to cup my cheek while our eyes are locked into each other.

“I love you, Pedro Pascal.” I lift one of my hands to touch his gorgeous and sweaty neck. “I don’t know why I haven’t said it to you yet, but it’s been true for a while now.”

He closes his eyes for half a second, exhales hard through his nose — like the words hit somewhere deep inside his ribs — it’s funny how such simple words can change the whole atmosphere of the room. And in a single movement he’s on me again. Mouth to mouth, forehead pressed against mine.

“I love you,” he says back in between kisses, and it’s not careful, nor its neat. His words feel like a dam breaking. “I love you. I love you. I love you. Te quiero, fuck, Te quiero tanto.(I love you so much)” 

And I realize…

He’s been waiting and holding it, carrying those words with him, maybe just as long as I have or even longer. Just waiting for me to say it first.

But now… now it’s real in a way it wasn’t before.

We said it.

We meant it.

And the second that door opens, there’s no way back through it.

“I didn’t know if I was allowed to say it first,” he murmurs, brushing his lips over the corner of my mouth. “Didn’t wanna scare you off.”

I smile, a little dizzy from the adrenaline we just had, the smell of sex still hovering the room, from the warmth still tangled between our bodies, from him.

“You could have said it, I was never good at showing it first.”

He lets out a breath of laughter, low and hoarse, and then he kisses me again as he lays down beside me. Kissing, not because it’s leading to anything again, but because he has to, because he doesn’t know anything but that, as if he can’t control it.

We lie there in the mess we made — the sheets barely clinging to the bed, his cum is dripping between my legs still, and his body still draped around mine, our legs tangled, the air thick with heat and breath.

And Love.

The real kind.

The terrifying, knock-the-wind-out-of-you, no-one-else-but-you kind.

“I mean it,” My voice comes out quieter now, like the moment deserves that softness. “I love you, and I have loved you through it all.”

He nods, brushing one thumb across my cheek. “I know. I knew before you said it.”

He kisses the inside of my wrist. His lashes are heavy, his body relaxed, but his mind is awake, I can see it.

“It’s gonna make the hard parts harder,” I whisper, almost to myself.

“Yeah,” he says. “But it makes everything else better.”

And I nod, my hand still tracing lazy lines around his bare chest. The warmth between us is still buzzing, but now there’s something else rising inside my mind — that quiet awareness of time. Of real life coming back in.

I shift just a little, enough to press my face to the side of his neck. “We should talk about what happens next.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.

“Yeah,” he replies softer now. “We should.”

It’s not the first time the thought’s crossed my mind. But it’s the first time we’re speaking it out loud — the schedules and distances, the choices that could start pulling us in opposite directions faster than we’re ready for.

“I’m about to close those two offers,” I start, my fingers resting lightly over his heart. “Just finishing up some details, and still need a couple of meetings to align the timeline. Berlin in July, Finland by the end of September, maybe early October."

He listens to every single word. I can feel his breath slowing, chest rising under my hand. His fingers lightly trace the curve of my spine like he’s grounding himself.

“And you should go,” he says after a while. “If that’s where your work’s pulling you. You’re too damn talented to ever sit still.”

I lift my head just enough to look at him. “And you?”

He exhales, one hand slipping behind his head on the pillow. “My agents have me looking at five films. All very different. Spread across continents. I’ve committed to two already — Strange Way of Life in Spain, and Freaky Tales in Oakland. The rest are still circling. But…”

He hesitates.

“But?”

“Franklin said Marvel’s sniffing around. Not officially, not yet, but… enough that he brought it up with the usual ‘don’t screw this up’ tone.”

My eyebrows rise, even though part of me isn’t shocked. He is the kind of actor who could disappear into something like that — the intensity, the gravitas, the pain just below the charm. 

He is the kind of actor that people took too long to realise how good he is, and now everyone will try to book him for their big parts.

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” He laughs a little, like it still doesn’t feel real. “It’s a big one, and it scares the hell out of me.’”

My stomach tightened a little, as I held his gaze. “You deserve every good thing coming your way.”

He catches my chin gently bringing my face to his. “Even you?”

“You already have me.”

“Damn right I do” He leans in again, biting my lower lip.

At the same time my heart is full, it's also aching with how unpredictable our future is. My mind is racing through it all, and he senses it, his arms holds me a little tighter until I speak again.

“I guess we’re gonna have to start actually talking about flights, and time zones, and how to keep something alive when we’re on opposite ends of the planet.”

“Or we talk about where we overlap,” Pedro offers as a solution. “Where I can fly to you. Where you can fly to me. Who’s got the bigger break. Who can afford a little sacrifice.”

“You think love can survive all this?” I ask, barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. His body shifts a little under mine, and his eyes scan my face.

“I think our love can,” he finally says.

I close my eyes. Let that settle.

We lay there a while, not rushing toward anything. Not needing to.

My head on his chest. His hand stroking slow up and down my back.

“I want to try,” I tell him, quieter now. “I don’t want this to be something we look back on as just a phase in Calgary. I want to figure this out with you.”

“So do I,” he says with a dreamy voice. “Even if it’s messy. Even if it means late-night FaceTimes and last-minute flights and sleeping alone more than we’d like.”

“I hate sleeping alone,” I whisper.

He kisses the top of my head. “Then I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t have to.”

***

When we awake, next morning, the sun comes in through his window, warm and low — a spring glow casting a sleepy golden light across the hardwood. I’m curled against him, one leg tangled in his, and for a while we just lie there like that, soaking in the slow silence of a morning we know is borrowed.

Even without looking up I knew something’s off.

He’s still holding me, hands still warm, but his mind… it’s already somewhere else.

I tilt my face up, resting my chin against his chest. “You’re thinking too loud.”

A soft laugh escapes him, but it’s tight. Not the kind that reaches his eyes. His fingers pause on my back, then resume.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“For what?”

He hesitates. Long enough that I pull back a little and look at him properly.

“Babe?”

He’s staring at the ceiling, brows slightly knit together, like he’s working through a script that doesn’t want to come out clean.

“I was thinking,” he starts, “about your dad.”

I blink. That’s not where I thought we were headed.

“My dad?”

“Yeah. About whether I should… go to London. Speak to him. Like, officially.”

I blink again, slower this time.

“Speak to him?”

He finally looks at me. “We’re… this is real. I mean, it’s been real, but now it feels like we’re not just in a bubble anymore. You’re planning work in Europe. I’m trying to balance five films and still find time to be in the same city as you. This thing—it’s us. It’s happening. And I don’t want to keep pretending like I’m not aware that some people think I’m… too old for you.”

I sit up, the sheet pulling with me. “Pedro—”

“Wait, let me finish,” he says gently. “I know your dad’s not a fan of me, and I can’t blame him, I mean, if I were him, I’d probably be wary too. But maybe if I… went down there. Spoke to him face-to-face. Let him see what I see when I look at you. Let him understand that I’m not some temporary thing or some… rebellion crisis story.”

There’s a lump forming in my throat. A part of me wants to wrap myself around him and never let go, but the other part of me feels the familiar pang of dread—the reminder of how complicated this is.

“He’s old-fashioned,” I say, choosing my own words. “And yeah, he doesn’t get us. But you showing up won’t magically change that.”

“I don’t need it to change him,” he says. “But I need you to know I’m not afraid of standing in front of the people you love and saying, ‘I’m here. For real.’”

The weight of his words stands right there in between us.

God, I love him.

I lower my gaze, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the sheet. “It’s not about being afraid. I just… I know how he is. He’s going to bring up your age, your fame, my career. He’ll ask what happens when it all fades.”

Pedro shifts closer, sitting up slightly, the morning light catching the lines on his face, the warmth in his eyes.

“Then I’ll tell him what happens when it all fades,” he says. “We’ll still be here. Figuring it out, trying even when it feels impossible.”

My breath catches when his hand finds mine.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” I whisper.

He smiles then, that soft kind of smile that tells me he’s about to shift the mood entirely “I’ve already fallen for you. If that’s not the most dangerous thing I’ve done in the last decade, I don’t know what is.”

We laugh a little, and his body shifts closer.

The silence that follows is thick with unspoken things—what ifs, timelines, long flights, complicated family dinners.

He looks down at the phone on the nightstand. “Call time’s at two. We’ve got the morning.”

I nod. “Want breakfast?”

He slides an arm around my waist and pulls me back into him. “I want you.”

I grin falling against his chest. “Flawed logic, Mr. Pascal. I’m not on the menu.”

He leans in, pressing a slow kiss to my shoulder, then my neck, making me shiver 

“Good thing I’m a regular.” He says muffled against my skin.

I smile wide, trying to play it cool. “Regulars still have to pay, you know?!”

He laughs, low and warm, his breath tickling my skin. “Oh, I pay,” he says, grazing his teeth along the slope of my shoulder. “Every single time.”

I shiver. “You sound way too proud of that.”

“I am. I’ve earned it.” He moves, slowly trailing kisses down the curve of my back. “Do you know how hard it is to behave around you?”

“I don’t recall asking you to.”

“You didn’t.” His voice is deeper now, soaked in sleep and the ache of lust flowing now. “But that’s the problem, hermosa. You just exist and I lose all sense of control.”

I roll over to face him, hair a little wild, mouth still warm from sleep. “You’re dramatic.”

“Maybe. But you like it.”

I raise a brow, pretending to stay unimpressed, but my legs tangle with his again and I know I’m losing this game already. “What if I said I was the one in control here?”

He smirks. “Then I’d say... prove it.”

Challenge accepted.

“Don’t tempt me,” I murmur, running a hand across his chest, slow and teasing, watching the way his eyes darken.

He watches me like he’s holding onto the last thread of control, jaw tense, breath slowing — until I drag my fingers just a little lower, just a little slower, and that thread snaps.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment. When he opens them again, something has shifted — he’s already lost this round, and he knows it.

He grabs my wrist gently but firmly, presses it back onto the pillow beside my head, and hovers over me, lips ghosting over mine but not touching yet. “You really want to play games with me right now?”

My smile is smug. “I thought you liked games.”

He groans, low in his throat, and then he kisses me—no hesitation, no teasing now. His mouth is hungry and soft all at once, like he’s been waiting days instead of hours. I kiss him back with everything I have, threading my hands through his hair, pulling him closer.

“You win,” he mumbles against my mouth, lips moving to my jaw, to that spot behind my ear that always makes my breath hitch. “You always fucking win.”

“Mm,” I murmur, legs already wrapping around him. “That’s what I thought.”

He lets out a breathless laugh and trails kisses down my neck, the teasing replaced by something rougher, more desperate. Like he’s been pretending he had restraint all morning, and now it’s finally slipping. His hands move across my waist, up my ribs, slow and tickling at the same time.

“You drive me insane,” he says, kissing down my chest, “do you know that?”

“Better than anyone,” I whisper, voice cracking just enough to make him grin against my skin.

He pulls the sheets down with one hand, the other still holding onto my wrist against the pillow, and I swear my whole body aches for him already. The room spins a little when his mouth finds my neck again, slower this time. Like he’s savoring it, pretending this is a reward he’s earned.

My back arches. My fingers grip the sheets. I try to stay quiet—because of the neighbors, or just because of decency—but he’s doing it on purpose. Every flick of his tongue, every breath against my skin is designed to push me to the edge and keep me there.

He’s bitting my collarbone, nose dragging against my skin , “You’re doing good for me.”

“Pedro…”

He smirks. “My good girl.”

“You’re evil.”

“I’m yours.”

When one of his fingers finds my clit, it’s like I don’t care about the walls anymore. I just care about him, about the way he’s worshipping every inch of me, like nothing else matters. And maybe in this room, at this moment, nothing does matter anymore.

The pressure is just right, he knows my body better than anyone has by now. His voice is hoarse when he murmurs close to my ear, “I told myself I was gonna take it slow.”

I manage a weak laugh. “You always say that.”

He lines himself to my entrance and slides in with a single movement of his hoops, we both gasp, the sound caught in our throats like a secret shared. My nails dig into his shoulder instinctively, grounding myself in the stretch, the weight of him, the way he fills every part of me like he was meant to. His forehead rests against mine, his breath hot and shallow. Our eyes stay locked, mouths brushing but not kissing—just sharing air, staying in that moment of stillness right before the storm.

“Okay?” he whispers, voice strained, like he’s holding on by a thread.

I nod, barely able to speak. “Yeah,” I breathe, “more than okay.”

He kisses me then, tongue slipping in deep, consuming, a little messy, and starts to fuck me down that matress. Slow at first, like he wants to feel every inch, like he needs me to feel it too. And I do. Every shift, every drag of him against places inside me that make my toes curl, make my back arch, make my breath stutter.

I try to keep quiet. I really do. But he’s good at this. Too good.

The bed creaks softly under the weight of our bodies, and the only soundtrack besides our breathing, is our skin against skin, and the occasional soft, stifled gasp that slips from me and makes his mouth twitch into a crooked smile.

“You’re gonna let every neighbour know what I’m doing to this pussy?” he murmurs, dragging his lips down to my throat. “So damn needy.”

I shake my head against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut as he rolls his hips with a slow, devastating rhythm. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he says between kisses along my collarbone, “are perfect like this. All mine.”

His free hand finds mine and pins it gently above my head, fingers laced. The other braces against the bed near my waist, muscles flexing. He’s holding back, but barely. I can feel the restraint trembling through him, and somehow that makes it hotter—knowing how much he wants to let go, but won’t. Not until I do.

“Baby” I gasp when he finds that sweet little spongy spot that sends an electric wave through my body “Don’t hold back, ple—please.”

I think it’s the way the word comes out from my mouth, he nods frenetically, and all his movements become so much rougher. His speed increases so fast, and we’re both painting for air that doesn’t come easily.

I feel every inch, every single drag, every pound and the slaps his balls give just around my ass. It’s too much, but we don’t stop, no—god, there’s no fucking way to stop this wrecking train.

“Pedro,” I whisper, my legs tightening around his hips, urging him closer, deeper. Both his hands come around my body and he grabs my ass-cheeks, needling both of them while still slamming the veiny cock inside of me.

“Take it, Cariño. Take everything,” he breathes, dragging his nose along my cheek, sweat sliding from his forehead.

A gasp comes from my mouth once I feel one of his fingers slide in between my asscheeks, first time teasing me around that ring of muscles. I clench in anticipation of what’s to come, my body chills all over just with the tip of his finger trying to breach that little entrance, while he’s still pounding me so damn hard, I’m seeing stars behind my eyelids.

“You’re gonna let me fuck you here one day?” I hear his voice, but I’m too damn focused on the pleasure reaping through my body.

“Y—yes, Pedro, yes, baby” My voice comes out thick. I’m not even sure of what I’m saying. “Do it now, p—please.”

“Not today baby” I feel his thumb breach in another few small millimeters, just enough that I finally cum all over his cock, pulsing, clenching, and gasping for air.

His pace is relentless, eyes locked on mine like he’s memorizing the moment.

Pedro is lost in it too, chasing his high, thumb still half buried inside of me as he fucks me through my own release. I can’t register what was happening besides the fact that my body is fully shaking.

“shitshitshit—fuckbabysogood” I curse, voice pitch high, and he continues to slam his body against mine, dragging every last wave of orgasm I have left.

The air around us is so thick, my hands pulls some of his brown hair, and the sting of it makes it for him.

He pushes in in a single deep stroke, cursing softly into the crook of my neck, my name a broken prayer on his lips. I feel the hot strings painting my sensitive insides for a while, grunts and curses coming in low as he tries to push his cock even more inside of me.

It’s nearly impossible to breathe, and then his weight is partially gone, trying not to crush me.

We collapse together, tangled and flushed, a mess of limbs and heat and racing hearts.

Silence settles over us, a bliss of thoughts, the kind of pocket of time that doesn’t need to be filled. He stays inside me a little longer, hands still holding my ass, forehead resting on my shoulder. I feel his lips press against my skin again.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispers, and I smile, chest still rising and falling against his.

“Same,” I breathe, and we just stay there like that, letting it all soak in.

When he pulls from inside of me, the emptiness of it all is cold. But I don’t say anything. Just lay there feeling his cum leaking inside my thighs.

Taglist: @kellyxo1 ; @joelmillerpascal ; @sarahhxx03 ; @sara-alonso ; @needz1nk ; @sassyispunk ; @flow33didontsmokeAgain, @alixxhere

Life is super busy atm, sorry this took longer than I was expecting. We're almost done with this one though. Only a couple more chapters left until TLOU season 1 is wrapped for our couple, then, they'll head their own ways?? I mean, I got a lot more story to tell, if you guys stick around. Love y'all. previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter

[joelssimp]

TROUBLE | CHAPTER 08

CW: Oh boy, where do I start? This is a heavy one. Alcoholic father, Graphic physical violence, cheating, Domestic abuse, Severe injury / medical trauma (including surgery, blood) , Verbal abuse & emotional manipulation, Graphic depictions of assault, Blood and gore, Implied near-death experience.

8.0K words

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08 - Leaving

Kings’s County, December/2009

Sam's POV It was the smell that hit me first.

Not just the sour tang of liquor, so usual now I barely notice it anymore. This was something thicker, heavier. The unmistakable stench of piss soaked into cheap carpet. It stopped me at the trailer door with a punch to the chest.

I dropped my bag by the door, kicked it shut with the back of my boot and followed that smell inside the trailer.

There he was, the guy I have to call ‘father’. Facedown just outside the bathroom door, like he’d missed the frame by inches. One boot still on, belt halfway undone. His cheek was pressed into the linoleum. His hand was twitching.

I stood over him for a full thirty seconds.

Long enough to think — Leave him. Let Shane handle this one.

But Shane had pulled a double that day, and he wasn’t gonna be home until past midnight. And I knew how this went — if I didn’t handle it, no one would. So I crouched, curled my hands under Simon’s arms, and heaved him up with a deep groan, because goddamn, he was heavy.

He slurred something when I dragged him toward the couch, I didn’t understand a single word. His legs caught on a stack of newspapers and he tried to say something again that came like, “Don’t throw out the coupons…”

“Yeah, sure, Dad,” I muttered, breathless.

I got him onto the cushions, slumped like a ragdoll. His face turned toward the wall. The wet patch on his jeans was already dark and spreading.

“You’re a good girl, Trouble,” he smiled a little.

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t tell him to stop calling me that. The nickname used to mean something cool when I was six, but now, it only brought pain, sliding off his whiskey tongue, an insult no one would ever understand.

No, telling him now would mean nothing to both of us, so I just went on and found the baking soda and a rag. Cleaned the carpet the best I could after a 10-hour shift. Sprayed the air with something citrusy that didn’t really help at all.

Later that night, I sat on the edge of my bed, sore and quiet. Locked door to keep the weird smell out. I reached under the bed and pulled out the coffee can. Opened it slowly, as if I was afraid the money would scatter.

Forty-five dollars went in. Folded tight. Counted twice.

$4,223.

Still not enough for all my plans, but so damn close, I could taste the freedom under it.

It all went downhill from that night.

Just a week after that incident with my dad, Shane came in with something under his arm and a wild look in his eyes.

He was done with all this bullshit.

It was just past 6 p.m., and I was folding laundry on the couch while Simon sat in his recliner, thumbing through a TV guide like he actually planned to watch something that wasn’t static or reruns of MAS*H.

Shane dropped the photo album on the table, as a man slapping down evidence in a trial.

“Remember this?” he asked, flipping it open. “Come on, Dad. Look.”

Simon blinked over the rim of his beer. Too drunk at this hour of the day to say anything at all. Shane turned the pages slowly.

“You holding me up at the fair. That summer when Mom still made your shirts from scratch. You see that smile?”

Simon leaned forward, squinting.

“This one — that beach trip down to Tybee. Remember how you made us all fried bologna sandwiches even though Mom said it was disgusting? You and her, sitting on that old striped towel, remember?”

Simon let out a breathy laugh. “She never knew how to stay,” he slurred as if this was the biggest joke of his life. “Couldn’t handle the heat. Or the rest of us.”

Shane’s face went blank.

The photo album shut with a loud thud.

He stood up. Walked out the front door without saying another word. I watched through the window as he sat down on top of his jeep, his hands shaking, frustrated enough to stay frozen in one place.

Simon leaned back in the chair and picked at the corner of the album. Maybe his brain was telling him he should care, but it annoyed him.

I left them both there to deal with their own feelings. Wasn’t having any of that anymore. I went to my room, sat on the floor, pulled out my notebook, and flipped to the last page where the numbers lived now. 

The quiet hope. A light at the end of a very dark valley.

Rent in Atlanta — maybe with Mariah if she gathers courage enough to leave this place with me. Bus fare, or a train ride. Deposit for the first and last month of rent. Money I would have back if I decided to move.

I made a little chart with all of it. Loved to see the numbers right there, at reach. One of those days searching for stuff, I drew a tiny rocket ship in the margin like I used to when I was twelve and wanted to be an astronaut just to get off this planet. From time to time I’d come back to it to add more stuff to the drawing, until it was time to launch.

My tip jar, aka coffee can, sat untouched by the side of my bed. Yesterday was the kind of bad night you try to forget. Too much work and too little money.

But I slipped a twenty from it, right into the middle of the notebook where some of the money was set.

$4,425.

Getting there. Little by little. Bill by bill.

***

Another week passed by, and it became unbearable to be in the same house as Simon. The fight that day started when he couldn’t find his bottle.

“Trouble, where is it?”

“What?” I had to lift my eyes from the sink full of dishes to watch him swaying in the same place.

“I left it right here,” Simon shouted, kicking a chair leg hard enough to knock it sideways. “Don’t lie to me, girl.”

“I’m not fucking lying,” I said, with my blood heating iniside my veins, but I was too tired to react.

“You think you can control me like your damn mother did?”

I stared at him. “She left. She didn’t control a damn thing.”

“Don’t talk to me like that in my house.”

“It’s not your house. It’s a trailer you never bother to pay the bills to keep the lights and water on, same place I scrubbed your piss out of this carpet a couple of weeks ago, so forgive me if I don’t roll out the red carpet for your drunk ass.”

His mind snapped.

He lunged like he was gonna throw something at me, or throw himself even, but something made him stop right before he could do anything to hurt me. His tall figure just stood there, panting, red-faced, and furious at the life he was living.

I’m so tired of all this, my heart pounded inside my chest with anger now, my skin had tingles going all over it, so I picked up the nearest glass — a cheap thing from the dollar store — and hurled it at the wall with a scream coming straight from my soul. The glass shattered on impact, raining little pieces across the linoleum.

Simon flinched at the sudden movement.

I slid down with my back against the sink and let myself sink to the floor, breathing hard with the urge of a panic attack. My hands were shaking. I pulled my knees to my chest, biting my lip until it bled.

Not knowing what to do, Simon went back to the living room, leaving me alone with this ache I felt.

Ten minutes passed before the front door opened again.

Shane walked in, saw the broken glass, saw Simon sulking in the recliner like a kicked dog, saw me curled up on the floor, and he didn’t even ask.

He just walked to the fridge, grabbed a warm soda, and handed it to me.

Then sat beside me in silence.

After a while, he said, “He’s not coming back, is he?”

I didn’t look at him.

“Which version?” I asked.

Shane stared at his hands. “The one who used to call us his whole world.”

There was nothing to say.

We just sat there in the dull kitchen light, surrounded by silence and broken glass.

Two siblings against a nightmare.

***

The bar was slow that next week. Cold weather kept people at home, or drunk somewhere else. But I still walked out with seventy in tips and a cramp in my lower back. It felt like I’d earned a damn trophy.

Markus handed me a wrapped sandwich before I could grab my jacket. “You look like you haven’t eaten all day.”

He was right, I haven’t. Every penny was worth saving now, even the ones I should spend with food.

By the end of the shift Mariah cornered me by the dumpster when we threw out the trash.

“If you really leave this place, I’m coming with you,” she said, lighting a smoke. “I’m not meant to rot in King’s County either.”

I laughed, but it caught in my throat. “We’ll see.”

“I’m being serious. Got contact in Atlanta. We can quit together.” She handed me the cigarette and I accepted it.

“I don’t know how long ‘till I can quit.” I said and took a deep drag of the smoke.

“Just let me know how we can do this together.” She smiled, tired from the shift and from life.

“I will, promise.” I filled my lungs with the smoke once again, and handed the cigarette back to her.

That night, back at the trailer, I stood in the kitchen watching Simon sleep.

TV was playing white noise again. He hadn’t shaved in… I don’t even know how long now, his shirt was buttoned wrong, of course it was, one side hanging lower than the other. His hand twitched in his sleep like he was dreaming of something violent.

I should’ve felt pity. He was becoming more of a loser each passing day. But the only thing I got from watching him was a state of numbness.

I went to my room. Closed the door. Pulled out the coffee can and counted the wad of small bills.

$4,763

I laid on my back, eyes on the ceiling.

Did the math in my head. If I worked through Christmas time, maybe $5,000. If I skipped it? That sweet number would come to me later in January.

Duffel bag was still packed under my bed, and sitting on that page of my notebook there was a rocket drawing, page curling at the corners, and waiting for launch day.

“Almost there, Trouble” I whispered to myself as a smile took over my lips.

***

Just barely 2 p.m. on that cold Friday, and the sky already looked like it wanted to call it a night. Gray and swollen, heavy with the kind of winter drizzle that never quite turned to rain.

I sat on an upside-down beer crate behind the bar, shoulders hunched under my jacket, fingers curled around a mug of weak-ass coffee.

Mariah was next to me, one leg slung over the other, boots resting on the wall like she owned it. Her red hair was tucked under a knit beanie and her eyeliner was already smudged like she’d been fighting ghosts.

We were between lunch rush and evening chaos — which meant we had a whole twenty minutes to pretend we weren’t tired, broke, or slowly rotting inside this place.

She blew smoke from her nose and passed me the joint. “Markus swears he saw Shane flirting with a soccer mom at the grocery store.”

“Swears or hopes?” I smirked, taking a drag.

She grinned, sharp and toothy. “He says she had milk and mascara. I said, ‘so do half of us here.’”

I laughed, and it felt good for a second, but then I looked down at my boots. My plans of leaving here, and leaving this day to day friendship we had with Markus, one of the best guys I’ve ever met. That made my smile disappear.

The words left before I could stop them. “I think I’m leaving right after New Year’s.”

Mariah blinked. “For real?”

“Yeah.”

She sat up straighter. “Damn, you were not joking that night.”

I nodded. “I’ve been saving since September. Almost have enough for the first and last month of rent. I might take a job in Atlanta — Markus has a cousin who works in some diner off Piedmont, says they’re always short-staffed.”

Mariah stared at me, her mouth halfway open like she was still loading the information.

“I thought you were just talking shit.”

“I was,” I said quietly. “But now I’m not.”

The silence that followed wasn’t judgment. It was grief. Her grief too. Because she was gonna be left behind. At least for now.

I knew she wasn’t really in a hurry to leave this place. She had a house, not much, but anything was better than what I had since I was born. She has her mom here too, which makes things complicated to leave behind in such short notice too.

Mariah pulled her knees up and stared at the horizon, gray on gray. “You really gonna leave Shane?”

I stopped for half a second to think about, my throat tightened. “Yeah.”

She looked wrecked. “I’ll miss you like hell, Sammy.”

That one hit like a sucker punch, because it felt sincere. Mariah could be hard to manage most days, but she’s a true friend. She’s always there when I need her the most, and even if she’s younger, she always had that ‘big sister’ energy.

“I’ll miss y’all,” I said. “Every single day.”

“So why leave?”

I looked down at my hands.

Because this place will eat me alive if I stay, or because loving people isn’t enough when it hurts more than it heals. Because being needed and being loved aren’t always the same damn thing.

But all I said was “Because I have to.”

Mariah nodded. “You know I’ll drive you myself if you need.”

“I know.”

She leaned her head against mine.

We sat in the quiet for a while, letting the cold seep into our bones. Letting the weight of the decision settle like dirt.

***

The air inside the bar smelled like stale beer, pine-scented cleaner, and peppermint schnapps. So, yeah, same smell as always.

I was in the back, perched on a cracked stool in the storage hallway, changing into my night shift shirt — black with grease stains that never quite came out, no matter how many times I scrubbed them in the sink with dish soap and hot water.

Shane stood at the other end, arms crossed, leaning against the ice machine the kind of stance of someone who thinks he owns the place. He’d brought me a coffee and a pack of fries from the gas station down the road, and I was inhaling them between tying my apron.

“You know you don’t have to work every damn night,” he pointed, watching me. “It’s Christmas time .”

“Tell that to the electric bill,” I muttered, mouth full.

He gave me a look. One of those classic big brother looks. The kind that carried all the worry he’d never say out loud unless it came out angry.

“You still coming to dinner at Louise and Thomas’?” He asked with that kind of puppy eyes “Louise is doing the ham, I’m bringing wine.”

“Wine,” I snorted. “You mean the kind with a screw cap?”

“It still counts,” he replied, smirking.

I hesitated then, wiping my hands on my apron. We were alone here in the back, suddenly I was aware that I was waiting for a pocket of space like this.

This was the moment.

If I didn’t say it now, I wouldn’t say it at all. And if I left without telling him… it’d haunt me.

So I looked at him. Right at my big brother. The one who is always here for me when I need it. The guy who would burn the world down if it treated me slightly wrong. His tired face, those  lines forming where there used to be none. The small scar near his eyebrow from a fight he got into when he was just a teen, only because a guy looked at me wrong.

“I’m leaving,” 

Fuck, it wasn’t supposed to come out like that.

Shane blinked. “The bar?”

“Yeah” I looked away with my chest too heavy “I mean. No.”

“Then what is it?”

“King’s County. I’m moving to Atlanta. After New Year’s.”

The silence that followed landed hard.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe, for a second.

Then he let out a soft curse before asking, “Is this about Dad?”

“No,” I said quickly. “It’s about me.”

I leaned back against the wall, hands gripping the edge of the counter behind me like it might keep me standing. “I’ve been saving for months. Working doubles. Skipping meals. I got a place lined up in Atlanta, maybe. Nothing fancy. But it’s a start.”

Shane’s jaw clenched. “You weren’t gonna tell me?”

“I didn’t know how,” I admitted looking anywhere but into his eyes. “You’ve always looked at me like I’m something you have to keep from falling apart. And I didn’t want you to think I was abandoning you. Because I’m not.”

He rubbed his hands over his face. “Jesus, Sam…”

“I’m not doing this because I don’t love you,” I said, stepping closer. “I do. You’re the best thing I got in this damn world. But I’m tired of patching up Dad’s holes, he’s fucking draining me to the bone, Shane. I’m tired of waking up in this town and knowing I’m just treading water. This can’t be it, just surviving another day can’t be the reason why I’m here.”

I swallowed the knot in my throat.

“I need something more, Shane. Even if it scares the hell outta me.”

He looked at me for a long time, processing everything I told him. Then stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me so tight it knocked the air out of my lungs.

“You’ll always be Trouble,” he murmured against my hair.

“Yeah,” I said, voice breaking, because I had nothing left in me to hold those damn emotions. “But maybe somewhere else, Trouble turns into something better, right?”

He pulled back just enough to look at me. With wet and red eyes, but a proud little smile tugging his lips upwards.

“You better call. Every damn day.”

“I will.”

“And don’t go falling in love with some slick Atlanta asshole who says ‘ma’am’ just to sound polite.”

“I make no promises.”

He smiled now, fuller but it cracked at the corners.

And I realized then — we’d both been holding on to each other so hard, afraid of letting go. But I needed to grow outside of all of this, or I would never survive.

***

December, 24th of this sick year, called 2009.

It was just past ten when I told them all to leave.

Markus had been watching the clock for the last hour, his fingers twitching toward the keys. Mariah was half-asleep at the empty bar, her Santa hat slipping sideways, eyeliner smudged in a way that made her look like she’d fought Christmas itself and lost.

“Go,” I told them, wiping my hands on a bar rag. “Seriously. I’ll close up.”

Markus frowned. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” I said. “Go home, go be with your family, open cheap wine, watch home alone and tell your moms you love them.”

Mariah stretched. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, Shane will pick me up anyway. Go, go, be happy and shit.”

They hesitated, like maybe they knew better than to leave me alone tonight.

But I used my secret weapon, that same tired, crooked smile I’ve used since I was fifteen and learned that the right smirk could deflect anything too heavy I was hiding inside of my chest.

That made them pack their few things by the locker, and head home, leaving me with just a few tasks to finish before I could finally trade this sad place for my own sad place, home, or if you’d like to call it: Trailer junk.

It was just me at the bar, and the low hum of the freezer in the back kicking back in for the night mixed with the faint buzz of neon against the main door sayin’ we’re closed.

I really liked when there was no one around to pretend I was a functional human being. I’m still a mess in all the wrong places, and all the right ones too. Still Trouble trying to figure out how to just survive another holiday as the only adult in the house that knew how to save money or plan for the future.

Here it was quiet, almost cozy, and peaceful in a way Christmas never really was at home. No slurred yelling, no broken ornaments, no need to smile for someone who’d already ruined the night.

I poured myself a Coke with a splash of the good stuff and sat on the stool behind the counter, legs stretched out, boots crossed at the ankle. The streetlights outside painted slow-moving shadows across the floor. Somewhere in the distance, someone set off fireworks — early or late, who the hell knows — and for a second, I let myself believe it was just a normal night.

A normal night before a new life.

I thought of Atlanta. Of maybe splitting rent with Mariah in the near future. Thought of picking up that server job, going home and not having to clean up after anyone but myself, and never again having to explain why I’m still here to someone who knows I shouldn’t be.

I let myself believe in freedom.

And that’s when the front door slammed open.

The jingle of the bell clattered against the sudden force.

I knew that silhouette before I even saw his face.

He was worse than usual. And I’ve seen his sorry ass very very drunk before. He was past that somehow.

“Thought you might be here,” he slurred, stepping in heavy, stumbling steps toward me. “Place looks real nice when it's empty, don’t it?”

My chest tightened. “It’s late, Dad.”

“Oh, now I’m Dad,” he spat. “Not Simon. Not him again. Now I’m Dad.”

I stood, putting the bar between us. “You been drinking?”

“You think I need to be drunk to know what you’re planning?”

I froze.

“What?”

He pointed a shaky finger at me. “You think you’re so smart, Trouble. Think your brother doesn’t talk in his sleep? Think I don’t hear things?”

My mouth goes dry  “You went through my things.”

“You’re leaving,” he just ignored what I said. “Running off. Like your goddamn mother.”

I swallowed hard. “It’s not the same.”

“Oh, it’s exactly the same. You think you're better than this place, better than me—"

“I’m trying to live, Simon!” My voice cracked across the bar like a whip. “I’m trying to get out before it kills me!”

He slammed his palm on the counter. “You think this place killed me? No, Trouble. You kids did. You and your goddamn brother with your looks, and your talk, and your fucking disappointment.”

“Don’t put that on me,” I hissed.

“You got your mother’s selfishness,” he growled. “You never wanted to be part of this family. Always too busy dreaming about stars and getting out. And now you’re doing what she did. Leaving me here. Alone.”

I felt the sting in my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall.

“You’ve never been alone,” I said. “Not when you pissed yourself in the hallway. Not when you pawned your own wedding ring. Not when I scrubbed your vomit out of the sink. Not even when I worked doubles just so we could keep the lights on.”

He swayed.

And for a second, I saw something in his eyes. Something like shame, like the man he used to be was still there — the one who taught me how to ride a bike on gravel roads, who made bad grilled cheese and called it gourmet, who used to sing Johnny Cash while cleaning the grease off his hands after a long shift.

But then it was gone.

Snuffed out like a match.

His jaw clenched, and his gaze dropped to the floor before snapping back up, hard.

“You’re gonna take your goddamn paycheck and run off to Atlanta, leaving me like your fucking mother did, little brat.”

The word mother spilled out like a curse that still tasted bitter after all these years.

Once he mindlessly stepped inside the bar where I was, I stepped back instinctively, but there was nowhere to go — just old wood, cold walls, and a closed front door.

“Dad, please, just leave.”

“You were never meant for more,” he hissed in between his teeth. “You think you’re better than this town, than me? Than your family?”

“I think I’m tired,” I answered once my back hit the wall.

“Tired?” he snapped and I winced. “I’m tired. Tired of busting my ass and being looked at like I’m the problem. You’re the one who broke this family.”

I laughed — a sharp, humorless sound. “I was eight when she left. Eight. You were already drunk most nights and mean the rest. I didn’t break shit, you did.”

The first hit sends stars bursting behind my eyes. My cheek burns, and I taste blood before I realize I’ve fallen down. The wood floor is cold against my palms, sticky where the bourbon spilled just hours ago. The second hit is with me on the floor. There’s no trying to stop it, he shouldn’t be this fast when he’s drunk, but his fist finds the side of my temple, splitting my eyebrow open, and I feel the hot blood starting to come out.

“You don’t talk to me like that,” he growled. “Ungrateful little bitch,” His boot connects with my ribs in a sudden movement at least three times, and the only thing I can focus on is the pain blossoming sharp and deep, knocking the air from my lungs. I try to crawl backward, but he grabs my arm — the crack is loud, sickening, and my vision goes white for a second.

I can’t even scream, my breath’s gone, the only thing I manage is a small cry, terrified for the fact that there’s no one around, and that sound must’ve triggered something in him.

His face twisted, and he shoved me back hard.

I hit the side counter with a thud. Pain exploded in my shoulder, white-hot and spreading like fire. I feel my legs buckling as I fall, too in pain to stand up. The blood came out fast from just above my left eye, and my body hit the floor.

It’s weird how my brain works around the blinding pain, as if I could only process one thing at a time. I noticed how I couldn’t move my arm. There’s pain flooding down into my ribcage and up into my throat and around my pelvis. I tried to scramble back, but something was wrong.

“Please—” I try to say, but it comes out as a choke.

He’s out of himself. It’s like the faint light inside of him has finally snapped shut, leaving only rage and this unreasoning anger against someone who he should be protecting.

“You ungrateful bitch,” he muttered. “I should’ve left you with her.” He grabs me by the collar, drags me up, slams me against the wall. My head hits something hard making my whole vision tilt. His spit lands on my cheek when he yells, but I don’t even hear the words anymore — just noise, wet and furious.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think of Shane. Of what he’d do if he walked in now. Of how Mama left, and maybe she was right to. Maybe she knew this was what staying would mean.

My knees give out, and I hit the floor again.

The last thing I see before everything blurs is the Christmas lights in the corner. Those are the cheap ones I strung up for the regulars, ‘cus they like the feeling of the holiday season. They were flickering over broken glass and blood on the floor, making everything look unreal.

Rick’s POV I don’t remember what started it, and that alone says more than anything we actually said out loud.

It had been building for weeks—maybe longer than that—and by the time it finally broke the surface, it didn’t come from one thing. It came from everything. From the quiet dinners where neither of us had much to say, or the nights I came home late and told her I was tired instead of telling her the truth, whatever that even was anymore. Even the way she’d started looking at me like she was waiting for me to either come back to her or leave for good.

Carl was asleep down the hall, and that fact sat between us like a warning we both understood but chose to ignore in our own ways. I kept my voice low because of him, because I couldn’t stand the thought of him waking up and hearing us like this, but keeping it low didn’t make it gentler. If anything, it made everything feel tighter, more controlled, like something was being held back that was only going to come out worse later.

“You’re barely here anymore.”

Lori didn’t raise her voice when she said it. She didn’t need to. The words carried enough weight on their own, and the way she stood there, arms crossed, shoulders drawn in just slightly, made it clear this wasn’t a passing complaint. She’d been holding onto this for a while.

I leaned back against the kitchen counter, letting my hands rest against the edge like I needed something solid to anchor my thoughts. My eyes drifted toward the sink, toward a plate I hadn’t bothered to wash and a glass sitting beside it, like there was something in that small mess I could focus on instead of her.

“I’m right here,” I replied, but even as I said it, I could hear how empty it sounded. Just a response I’d given too many times already.

Her mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Your body is, Rick.”

I kept my gaze steady, even though I could feel the truth of it pressing in from all sides. I had been there less. Not always physically, but in every other way that mattered.

“I’ve been working,” the fact escaped me as I was pushing off the counter just enough to stand up straighter. “You know that. It’s been long shifts, and—”

“I know you’ve been working,” she cut in, and there was something sharper under her tone now, something closer to frustration than hurt. “I’m not talking about your job, Rick. I’m talking about everything else.”

I looked at her then, and for a second I saw how tired she was. Not just tonight. Not just from this. Tired in a way that comes from waiting too long for something to change.

It never did.

“What does that even mean?” I asked, quieter now, not because I didn’t want to argue, but because I didn’t trust myself if I pushed any harder.

“It means you leave before I wake up some mornings,” she said, taking a step closer, like she needed me to hear this without any distance between us. “It means you come home and you’re somewhere else, even when you’re sitting right there at the table. It means I try to talk to you and you give me half an answer and then shut down like the conversation’s over.”

I dragged a hand over the back of my neck, feeling the tension sitting there as a rock pressing down the dirt.

“I’m just tired, Lori.”

The moment the words left my mouth, I knew they weren’t enough.

Her expression shifted, as if she’d expected that answer and was already disappointed by it at the same time.

“You’ve been tired for months,” she said. “People don’t disappear into ‘tired,’ Rick. They choose to.”

“I ain’t disappearing,” I counter it, my voice tightening despite myself. “I’m doing what I need to do. For this family.”

“For this family?” she repeated, and this time there was a bitter edge to it. “You think this is what that looks like? Because from where I’m standing, it feels like you’re already halfway out the door.”

I could’ve argued. I could’ve told her she was wrong, that she was reading too much into it, that she didn’t understand the pressure, the hours, the weight of everything sitting on my shoulders.

But none of that would’ve been honest.

So I didn’t say it.

Instead, I just stood there, feeling the space between us stretch wider with every second I stayed quiet.

Lori watched me, waiting.

And when nothing came, something in her face gave way.

“That’s what I thought,” she said, almost to herself.

I exhaled slowly, my chest feeling tight, like there was something stuck there I couldn’t force out.

“This ain’t a fight we should be having tonight,” I said, more carefully this time, trying to steady the situation before it slipped any further.

She let out a soft, humorless breath.

“Then when?” she asked. “Because there’s always a reason to push it off, isn’t there? There’s always something more important than this.”

I glanced toward the hallway again, toward Carl’s door, still closed, still quiet.

“That’s not what I’m doing,” I said, though I wasn’t sure she’d believe me anymore.

“It is,” she said. “And I’m tired of pretending it’s not.”

The room fell into silence after that, one of those thick and uncomfortable ones, the kind that doesn’t give you anywhere to hide.

I felt it then. A weird ache inside my chest pulling me to get out of there.

It had been there earlier too, but it was faint and easy to ignore before. Now? It felt stronger, sitting low inside my gut, twisting just enough to make it hard to focus on anything else.

Something wasn’t right.

I couldn’t explain it. There wasn’t a clear reason for it, nothing I could point to and say this is why. But it was there all the same, persistent, insistent, like a thought I couldn’t shake no matter how hard I tried.

I straightened slowly, my decision forming before I could fully justify it.

“I’m gonna go out for a bit,” I said.

Lori let out a short breath, something close to a laugh but without any real humor behind it.

“Of course you are.”

I grabbed my jacket from the chair, my keys from the counter, feeling the cold metal press into my palm as I closed my hand around them.

“I just need some air,” I added, though even to me it sounded like an excuse.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice quieter now, but no less certain. “You always do.”

I paused at the door, my hand resting against the frame for a second longer than it needed to.

Part of me wanted to turn back. To say something that would fix this, or at least keep it from breaking any further tonight.

But that feeling in my gut didn’t let up.

If anything, it sharpened.

I looked back at my wife. She hadn’t moved. Just stood there, arms wrapped around herself now, like she was holding something in place.

“You’re really going?” she asked.

I nodded once.

“Yeah.”

She held my gaze for a second, then looked away.

“Don’t stay gone too long,” she said, and there was something quieter under that, something I didn’t have the courage to examine too closely.

“I won’t,” I answered.

Then I stepped out into the cold.

The night air hit harder than I expected, sharp and clean, and I pulled in a deep breath as if it could my head from this bad feeling.

It didn’t.

If anything, it made everything feel more immediate.

I got into the truck, the engine turning over after a brief hesitation, the low rumble settling in around me as I rested my hands on the steering wheel. For a moment, I just sat there, staring straight ahead, trying to figure out where I was even going.

But the truth was, I already knew.

I just hadn’t wanted to admit it yet.

King’s County was quiet at this hour, the kind of quiet that feels unnatural, like the town had emptied out without telling anyone. Christmas lights blinked softly on a few houses as I passed, colors reflecting faintly off the windshield, decorations sitting untouched in front yards.

Everything looked the way it was supposed to.

It just didn’t feel like it.

My grip on the wheel tightened as I turned onto a road I knew well enough to drive without thinking, my body making the choice before my mind could argue against it.

I shouldn’t have been going this way.

There was no good reason for it. Nothing I could explain if someone asked.

But that feeling hadn’t gone away.

It had settled deeper instead, heavier, more urgent, like something was already in motion and I was late to it.

I thought of her without meaning to.

Just fragments of that Halloween night.

A kiss I hadn't dared to relive inside my head. The way she looked at people straight on, like she didn’t have time for pretending. Specially me.

The way something in me had shifted that night I crossed a line I hadn’t meant to. But Trouble pushed her way through every wall I put up.

I pushed the thought down before it could take shape into something more.

This wasn’t about that.

It couldn’t be.

I told myself I was just checking in. That it was nothing more than a habit, a sense of responsibility, something tied to the fact that I’d known her for years.

But my foot pressed harder on the gas anyway.

The bar came into view sooner than I expected, the dim lights inside casting a dull glow through the windows.

I slowed the truck, my eyes scanning the lot out of instinct more than intention.

And then I saw it.

Simon’s truck.

Parked wrong. Crooked, like it had been left there without care.

The driver’s side door wasn’t fully shut.

Something in my chest dropped hard.

That feeling, whatever it was, spiked sharp enough to make my pulse kick up.

I didn’t turn the engine off right away. Just sat there, staring at it, my mind trying to catch up to what my gut had already decided.

He drank. I knew that.

But not like this.

Not alone.

Not tonight.

I reached for the door handle, then stopped, my fingers tightening around it as I listened.

Nothing.

No music.

No voices.

Too quiet.

I stepped out, the cold biting into my skin again, but I barely registered it now. My focus had narrowed, every sense tuned to something I couldn’t see yet but knew was there.

Each step toward the bar felt heavier, slower, like I was walking into something I wouldn’t be able to undo.

I reached the door, my hand hovering just above the handle.

For a moment, I stood there, the weight of it settling in.

Then I pushed it open. One movement sharp and quick. It swings open easier than it should, and that alone told me something was wrong. Because at that time of the night, Sam would be smart enough to keep it locked.

The bar’s lights are low enough that I have to sharp my focus, the overhead lights half-dead since I don’t even know when, casting that dull yellow glow over everything. One of the bulbs flickers, buzzing faint under the thick silence. The place smells wrong. Not just stale beer and old wood like it always does, but something sharper underneath it.

Metal.

It takes me half a step inside before it clicks.

Blood.

There’s too much of it.

It’s on the floor in uneven streaks, dark against the worn wood, dragged and smeared like something’s been moving through it. It catches the light in a way that makes my stomach turn before my mind can catch up.

Then I hear it.

A dull, sickening thud from a hit, followed by a small cry.

“You think you can just walk out on me?” Simon slurs, his words thick, unstable, full of blinding rage. “You’ll learn your lesson, girl.”

Another weird sound of something breaking. Not anything of the bar, but of someone.

My body moves before I fully register it.

I round the corner of the bar, and that’s when I see them.

And everything inside me snaps into something I don’t recognize.

Sam is on the ground.

Not sitting. Not trying to get up. She’s on the ground in a way that tells me she couldn’t do anything, even if she wanted to.

Her body is twisted slightly onto her side, a weird angle of someone who fell and never made it back up. One arm is wrong—bent at an angle that doesn’t belong to anything living, her sleeve soaked through, dark with blood that’s still wet enough to shine under the flickering light. Her face—

Jesus.

There’s blood along her brow, split open just above her eye, running down into it, pooling at the corner before slipping along her cheek. Her eye is already swelling, skin turning dark beneath it, her breathing shallow and uneven like every inhale costs her something.

And he’s still standing over her.

Still moving.

Still hitting her uncontrollably.

The sound of his fist connecting with her again doesn’t register as a separate thing. It blends into everything else—the blood, the smell, the way her body barely reacts anymore.

I don’t think of anything else. Don’t weight my force, and most importantly: I don’t hesitate.

I’m on him before I even feel my feet move.

My hand catches the back of his shirt and I yank him off her with everything I’ve got, slamming him hard into the nearest solid thing, which is the old jukebox behind him that cracks on impact, glass splintering, the lights inside it flickering out in a shower of sparks.

“You touch her again—”

My voice comes out rough, louder than I expect, shaking with something I don’t bother trying to control.

My forearm drives into his chest, pinning him there, keeping him from moving back toward her.

His head snaps up, eyes unfocused, glassy with drink, but there’s something else in them too. Rage. The kind that don’t care where it lands.

“She’s my daughter!” he spits, breath hot and sour, words spraying between us.

“Then what the hell are you doing?” I snap back, my grip tightening without thinking, my body already leaning into the fight like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore. “You’re supposed to protect her, not do this to her.”

He laughs.

It’s broken a broken sound that triggers something primal inside my brain.

My fist connects with his jaw before I decide to do it.

Just once, but hard enough that I feel it up my arm.

His head jerks to the side, there’s a tooth flying from his mouth to the ground, and his body goes slack for half a second, but he doesn’t drop.

And there’s a part of me. A savage part, loud and immediate, that wants to keep on going.

To put him on the ground and make him feel even a fraction of what he just did to her.

My hand tightens in his shirt again, pulling him forward, ready to drive him back into the machine, into the wall, into anything that’ll take the force.

But Sam makes a sound. Trying to call for something, not very clear, but it cuts through the haze I’m in.

My head snaps to the side, she’s still there. Struggling to breathe. One eye bloody on the inside, and too much blood on the outside too.

The way her chest barely rises. The way her body stays too still after it does, like it’s struggling to keep up. The way her arm lies there, completely wrong, completely useless.

She’s not fighting anything anymore. No, she’s barely holding on.

And just like that, the choice is made.

Priority.

I shove Simon back hard, letting him drop, his body hitting the floor with a dull, heavy sound.

“Get the hell out,” I bark, the words coming out harsh enough to scare him.

He stumbles, trying to catch his balance, eyes still wild, still unfocused. For a second, I think he might come at me again.

Part of me almost hopes he does.

But he doesn’t, and ai don’t even have time to watch the direction he goes off. He’s by the door and I’m already moving toward her body.

“Sam.”

My voice drops the second I say her name, like something in me shifts the moment I’m close enough to reach her.

I drop to my knees beside her, the wood beneath them sticky with her blood, my hands hovering for half a second before I touch her, afraid of doing more damage than what’s already been done.

“Hey—hey, look at me.”

I keep my voice steady as I can, even though there’s something tight in my chest making it harder to breathe.

Her eyes move first.

Slow.

Like it takes everything she has just to focus.

They find me and I want to cry right then.

“Stay with me,” I say, softer now, my hand coming up carefully to her face, avoiding the cut, the swelling, trying to find somewhere I won’t hurt her just by touching her. “You hear me? Stay with me.”

Her breath catches, uneven, and I see the way it hurts her.

“I—” she tries, her voice barely there, breaking on the first sound.

“Don’t—don’t push it,” I tell her quickly. “Just breathe. That’s all you gotta do right now. Just breathe.”

My eyes move over her again, taking it in whether I want to or not.

The arm— My God, it’s bad.

Broken in three different places from where I can see. Then my sight moves to her ribs, and It's clear how every shallow breath takes effort. The way she’s protecting one side without even meaning to—

There’s more.

There’s something deeper going on. I have to move fast.

“Alright,” I murmur, more to myself than her, trying to keep my head straight. “Alright, I got you. I got you.”

My jacket comes off, and with a piece of an old chair, I manage to steady her arm as good as I can to move her from here.

I slide one arm carefully under her shoulders, the other moving to support her legs, adjusting as gently as I can, even though nothing about this feels gentle.

The second I lift her, she gasps.

Pain.

“I know,” I say quickly, my voice dropping closer. Only if that would help somehow. “I know, I know. I got you. I’m not gonna drop you. Hear me?”

Her head tilts slightly toward me, eyes half-lidded now, but still there.

Still fighting.

I hold onto that and carry her out.

Not thinking about the blood getting on me or anything really, except getting her somewhere safe.

That same cold wind hits us both when I push through the door, but she doesn’t react to it. Her weight shifts slightly in my arms, lighter than it should be, like she’s already pulling away from herself just to get through the pain.

“Stay with me,” I say again as I reach the truck, my voice tighter now despite everything I’m trying to hold together. “You hear me? Stay with me.”

I get the door open, ease her in as carefully as I can, adjusting her so her arm doesn’t move much, or her ribs don’t take more than they already have.

Every second feels like too long.

Every breath she takes feels like it might be the one that doesn’t come back.

I move around to the driver’s side fast, sliding in, my hands already shaking more than I want them to.

The engine roars to life.

And I don’t wait.

I drive.

previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter I have a taglist for this one, and if you want to be tagged, just let me know? taglist: @staley83 , @ravensare

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

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[joelssimp]

A WHISKEY AND A SMOKE | PROLOGUE

CW: GRIEF, MENTION OF WAR, MENTION OF DEATH, PTSD, ANXIETY ATTACK, EARLY 20'S VIBES.

2.5K WORDS

masterlist | next chapter

PROLOGUE - LONDON TO BIRMINGHAM

The kettle had started screaming before my anxiety did.

It rattled on the iron stove as if it meant to wake the entire building, though there wasn’t much of anyone left to wake. These old buildings were getting more expensive each day after the war. Almost impossible to keep up with the rent. Mrs. Godfrey downstairs had moved out in November right after her son came back from France without half his leg. The butcher’s wife across the hall left in January — said London was too full of ghosts.

I suppose that makes two of us then.

The kettle kept on screaming a little longer than necessary that morning. It filled the silence at least. Good, I thought, because I’ve learned that silence is when memories get loudest inside these walls.

Same smell of coal smoke and old lavender soap I didn’t bother to change. The wallpaper peeled in one corner above the narrow bed — I’d meant to fix it when we first moved in.

When we first moved in.

I closed my eyes. Memories too loud again.

We.

There it was.

I turned the stove off and poured the water into the chipped porcelain teacup Charles had bought me the week before he shipped out. Blue rim. Small crack near the handle. I always held it carefully, like if I didn’t, it might shatter and take whatever was left of him with it.

I carried it to the window.

Central London was already awake — carts rattling over cobblestones, boys shouting headlines about strikes and Irish unrest, the world insisting on moving forward whether or not I wished to.

I lit a cigarette before I’d even taken the first sip of the tea. The match flared bright against the skin of my finger, a reminder that even though I didn’t want to, I still felt, and I liked that moment — that small violence against my own skin. It matched something untouched inside me.

I wasn’t meant to smoke too much. Charles hated it.

“You look like a French film actress when you do that,” he’d laugh, stealing it from my fingers. “Too clever for your own good.”

I exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl toward the cracked glass.

“Well,” I murmured to the empty room, “you’re not here to scold me anymore.”

Empty words against the silence didn’t break me the way they used to. That frightened me more than my own grief ever had.

Grief, at least, proved he’d existed for the short while we were together.

My eyes scanned the room, empty now, with just a suitcase laying open on the bed behind me. Three dresses, one wool coat, some old pieces of clothes I had, and two of my nursing uniforms folded precisely. A photograph tucked between the linens as well — Charles in his uniform, stiff-backed and proud, pretending not to be afraid.

I had watched him leave from this very window. His trembling hands waving a farewell to his fiancee that smiled weakly to his figure. A heavy feeling told me that morning was the last time I was going to see my fiance.

I had smiled either way, because I didn’t know what else to do. That’s the cruel thing about love — sometimes you feel the ending before it arrives.

A knock sounded at the door pulling me from these memories. I already knew who it was before she even said something. My mother never knocked softly, thanks to the fact that she never had time to be soft, not as a single mother in this world shaped by men.

I crushed the cigarette in the saucer and crossed the room to open the door.

She stood there in her dark coat, hat pinned too tightly, lips pressed into a thin line that meant she’d rehearsed whatever she was about to say.

“You’re still here, my dear” she said.

“Where else would I be?”

“Birmingham train leaves at eleven.”

“It’s half past nine.”

Her eyes flicked over my shoulder into the flat. She’d never liked it, it was too small for her liking, too drafty… And too close to the life I’d built without her permission.

“You don’t have to go, you know?” she said as a last effort to protect me.

“Yes, I do.”

“You could transfer to St. Mary’s. Stay in London, you know the staff here. They’d take you in a heartbeat, you earned that with those medals…”

“I know the ghosts here, mother” I corrected gently. “And I don’t want to with them anymore.”

She looked at me then, eyes already a little wet, a proper look to the girl she raised. And for a moment, she wasn’t my mother — she was just a woman who had watched too many men leave and not return since she was little.

“Birmingham,” she said quietly. “It’s too rough.”

“I’ll be in a hospital, not a boxing ring.”

The joke didn’t make her smile..

“They say that gang there—”

“I’m not going there for gangs,” I cut in sharply. “I’m going because they offered proper surgical training. Because they don’t treat nurses like decorative furniture. Because I need… I need something new.”

Because I cannot breathe in this flat without feeling his presence in every corner. But I didn’t say that part.

She stepped closer to me without asking and walked to the small mantel. Her fingers brushed the photograph frame. Charles again, always him.

“You’re only twenty-three,” she said. “You’ve buried enough already.”

“And I’ll bury more,” I replied evenly. “That’s the job.”

Her mouth tightened even more.

“I can’t keep you safe, and your father—”

“No,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “You can’t. And don’t bring him up”

We both went still.

My father had left when I was fourteen. No war excuse for him, and not a single uniform to give him an out. Just a suitcase and a woman with brighter hair than my mother’s.

Men leaving was not new to me. To us.

“I’ll be fine,” I softened my voice a little. “I can handle myself.”

She studied me the way one inspects porcelain for cracks, but I wouldn’t let it show, at least not now when I was so close to start over.

“You’ve become hard, Margaret.” she stated the fact.

“No,” I answered with the tiniest twitch to my mouth. “I’ve become careful.”

A heart could only take so much before it cracks. Mine was at this bleak point where it craved a change. She knew it, and I knew it too.

Outside, a carriage rolled past loudly, wheels splashing through last night’s rain.

My mother reached into her handbag and handed me a small envelope. Money, of course.

“I won’t need it.”

“Take it anyway.” She insisted, shoving the small amount into my hands.

So I did. Because some battles aren’t worth winning.

We packed the last of my things in silence. The flat grew barer with each folded memory. By the time the suitcase snapped shut, the room looked like it had never belonged to anyone at all.

At the door, I paused.

I looked back once.

The bed where we’d laughed, where the plans of a big family grew just to be crushed by a cruel war. The window where we’d sat down to drink a cup of cheap whiskey together, planning a wedding that would never happen, and the damn stove where he’d tried and failed to cook eggs each and every morning of our month together.

I pressed my fingers to the cold wall.

“Goodbye,” I whispered.

To Charles, the boy that had loved me so fiercely. A farewell to the girl I’d been before getting shipped to volunteer as well, to learn medical procedures, and to stitch men back together.

My mother touched my arm.

“Margaret.”

I squared my shoulders.

“I’m ready.”

That door was closed for one last time.

There’s no turning back now.

I didn’t have much to work with, so the lowest fare was the only thing I could afford for now. And let me tell you, third-class compartments smells like damp wool and boiled cabbage. A mix that lingered around making me want to throw up a little, but I held.

The seats were narrow wooden benches with cushions that had long since surrendered any claim to comfort. A mother with two boys occupied the far corner, their boots muddy, and their voices too loud for the size of the carriage. Across from me sat a man in a threadbare coat who kept coughing into a handkerchief already stained with rust at the edges.

I placed my suitcase on my lap instead of the rack above, not trusting  the rack to keep it together the whole three hours of travelling.

The train shrieked when it pulled away from the platform — metal screaming against metal — and I felt it in my teeth.

I kept my favorite gloves on, always did it when I’m too anxious. It makes my hands feel contained, as if the shaking might not find its way out of my body.

London slid past the window in smudges of grey bricks and soot. Chimneys shaped like broken teeth around every corner, and laundry lines strung between buildings like surrender flags.

I watched it all until the platform disappeared in the distance. And then I exhaled.

Breath caught halfway down my chest, a warning in the format of a first spike of terrors my own mind kept on playing on repeat.

It always begins in my ribs — a tightening, like someone winding a key inside me. Then the thoughts begin to scatter.

You don’t know anyone there. What if the hospital isn’t what they promised? What if you can’t sleep just like you couldn’t in London? What if you never stop leaving things behind?

I reached into my coat pocket before the panic could climb any higher and found my cigarette case.

But something made me hesitate. The mother was watching me and her boys were staring openly now, curious.

I slipped the case back into my pocket.

Instead, I pressed my thumb into the inside of my wrist — hard enough to ground myself but not enough to bruise. A trick I’d learned after the news of Charles’ death got to me. Provoke pain sharp enough for the brain to register and small enough to not be overwhelming. 

The countryside began to replace the bricks now.

Fields after fields. Flat and pale under a low grey sky. Fences cutting the earth into obedient pieces.

The man across from me let out a wet cough again.

The nurse in me thought faster than the passenger could ever do, so I leaned forward slightly. “How long has it been like that?”

He blinked at me, startled that someone was talking to him.

“Like what?”

“The cough.”

He hesitated, embarrassed. “Since the beginning of winter.”

I hummed low in acknowledgment, “Fever?”

“Sometimes.”

I nodded once. Tuberculosis sat heavy in the poorer districts these days, all because of the war feeding it well.

“You should see someone in Birmingham,” I said. “If that’s where you’re headed.”

He gave a short laugh. “And pay with what?”

Fair enough.

I swallowed the rest of my advice.

The train rattled harder as we gained speed. Every jolt made my suitcase shift on my knees, so I tightened my grip around it.

I remember taking this same route when I was shipped out, and its very likely that Charles took the same one as well.

That thought arrived uninvited.

I imagined him sitting somewhere in this same train, boots polished, shoulders squared. Pretending bravery for the benefit of strangers that would bleed with him somewhere I don’t even know.

That second spike hit harder than I expected, my pulse climbed fast — too fast — until I could hear it in my ears. My breath shortened, not because I wanted it to, but because my body had decided it was necessary.

Not here.

Not in front of strangers.

I stood abruptly, carriage swaying harder than it had the right to.

“Lavatory,” I muttered to no one in particular.

The corridor between compartments was narrow and smelled worse than the seating. Coal smoke drifted in through cracks in the doors. The train roared beneath my feet.

I locked myself inside the tiny lavatory and leaned both hands against the metal basin.

The mirror was scratched and unforgiving.

“You are fine,” I told my reflection.

My eyes looked too large in my face, alert in the worst way, like an animal listening for gunfire in the middle of the woods.

I removed one glove, with trembling fingers, “Stop,” I whispered, as if they might obey.

The train lurched again, and the motion tipped something loose inside me.

It was something I didn’t even think about, my fingers moved on their own, reaching for the cigarette case. Struck the match. Light up the tip.

The flame flared bright in the small space, lighting the walls amber.

I inhaled deeply… Too deeply.

Coughed once with a gasp. But the nicotine did its work — slow, steady, dragging my pulse back down from the ceiling.

Smoke filled the cramped space. It curled around my face and blurred the edges of the mirror until I didn’t have to look at myself quite so clearly.

“I am not fourteen,” I murmured to the air  “I am not newly widowed.” I kept going as the cigarette burned bright  “And I am not afraid.”

The last one was a lie.

But I’ve learned lies can be useful.

When the cigarette burned down to the filter, I crushed it into the basin and ran water over the evidence. My glove came back to my bare hand, same hand that straightened my coat. And then I lifted my chin.

By the time I returned to the compartment, the boys were asleep against their mother’s shoulder.

The coughing man had closed his eyes too.

The countryside had shifted — fewer fields now. More factories. Tall black silhouettes against a sky already darkening though it wasn’t yet afternoon.

Smoke.

So much smoke on that poor sky.

Birmingham announced itself before the conductor could have the chance to.

Something tightened in my chest again, but this time it wasn’t panic, or anxiety. It was anticipation.

This city didn’t know me, or the ghosts I had.

It didn’t know I’d watched soldiers bleed out on tables while trying not to think of one particular uniform.

It didn’t know I woke some nights convinced I’d heard his boots at the door, or gunshots too close that could only be heard if you’re inside my mind.

Here, I could be simply Margaret Allen.

A nurse. Twenty-three years of age. Capable enough to have earned a couple of war medals.

The train began to slow down, the brakes screeched like something wounded.

I looked out the window as the buildings drew closer — brick stacked high and close together, narrow streets, men in flat caps, women with sleeves rolled to their elbows.

Not elegant as London was. Not gentle either.

This was something alive, breathing on its own after years of trouble.

My fingers tightened around the handle of my suitcase.

“All right,” I whispered “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Taglist opened.

[joelssimp]

MASTERLIST | A WHISKEY AND A SMOKE

A WHISKEY AND A SMOKE Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Original Female Character

Summary: Margaret Allen has already lived through more than most people twice her age.

A nurse who served on the front lines of the Great War, she returns to England with steady hands and a fractured heart. Her fiancé never made it home. The trenches did. The silence did. The memories did. When London begins to feel too small for her grief, Margaret accepts a position at a reputable hospital in Birmingham—hoping distance might quiet what the war left behind.

It doesn’t.

Birmingham is smoke, steel, and secrets. And at the center of it stands Thomas Shelby.

She smokes when her hands start to shake. He lights cigarettes when the ghosts get too loud.

Tags: War, PTSD, Grief, loss, anxiety attacks, violence, eventual smut MDNI. slow-ish burn? It takes place around 1921, Age gap (Margaret is 23, Tommy is 31). I'll tag each chapter if there's more warnings. (English is not my first language, let me know if there's something to fix). A/N: I had this idea a couple of years back. Kinda forgot about it until I saw the trailer for the Peaky Blinders Movie. So here I come with some Tommy Shelby from season 2 foward.

START HERE:

00 - LONDON TO BIRMINGHAM 01 - GHOSTS THAT FOLLOW 02 - GARRISON NIGHT 03 - WHAT DID YOU SEE? 04 - DANCE WITH ME 05 - ON GOING...

[ironinkpen]

me, reading my own wips: oh wow i hope the author finishes this