Plot: You want reassurance from Mihawk, but asking for it feels too much like losing.
The first week, you were fine.
That was what you told yourself.
Mihawk had been gone longer than expected before. He was a Warlord of the Sea. His life was not tidy, not predictable, and certainly not considerate of your nerves. Sometimes you went with him. Sometimes you stayed behind at Kuraigana.
This time, you had stayed.
This time, he had not called.
By the ninth day past when you had expected him, you had stopped pretending you were fine.
By the twelfth, you were angry.
It was easier than being afraid.
You reorganized shelves Mihawk would notice immediately. You moved one of his chairs three inches to the left because you were furious and petty and because imagining his slight pause when he returned was the only thing keeping you from pacing holes into the floor.
If he returned.
That thought hit, sharp and ugly.
You shoved it away.
Then it came back worse.
Dead. Captured. Betrayed. Bored.
Gone.
Your mind liked to return to that one best.
Gone because he finally tired of coming home to someone who could not simply trust him. Gone because you were too much work.
That evening, you were in the sitting room, not reading the book open in your lap, when the front doors opened.
You froze.
No knock. No announcement. No hurried footstep.
Only the sound of boots crossing the entry hall.
Mihawk appeared in the doorway. He removed his gloves one finger at a time, golden eyes moving over you.
Alive.
Whole.
Unbothered.
Something inside you cracked sideways.
“You’re back,” you said.
“I am.”
You closed the book with too much force. “How generous of you to inform me.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the book, then returned to your face. “I have just arrived.”
“Yes, I noticed. The dramatic entrance helped.”
He set his gloves on the side table. “You are angry.”
You laughed once, cold and humorless. “Am I? How perceptive.”
Mihawk did not take the bait. That only made it worse.
He looked composed in the doorway, his expression unreadable. No urgency. No guilt thrown at your feet.
You stood.
“Do you have any idea how long you’ve been gone?”
“Yes.”
“No call. No message. Nothing.”
He studied you. “Say what you mean.”
“I mean,” you said, voice sharpening, “that I had no idea whether you were dead.”
“I am not.”
Your eyes burned. “Clearly.”
“Nor was I arrested.”
“Oh, wonderful. That crosses two possibilities off the list.”
His mouth barely moved, not quite a frown. “And the third?”
You looked away.
Mihawk’s voice lowered. “Look at me.”
You did not.
He waited, because he knew you well enough to know force would turn you cruel, and gentleness too soon would make you run.
Finally, you looked at him.
“The third,” he said.
You folded your arms over your chest. “Maybe you decided not to come back.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Not in anger.
In recognition.
You hated that more.
“So you thought,” he said slowly, “that I had abandoned my home, and you, without a word.”
“You’ve left places before.”
“I have left places. Not you.”
“You say that like it’s simple.”
“It is.”
“It is not simple for me.”
“I know.”
The answer was so calm that your anger stumbled.
You wanted him unsettled. Not cruel. Not frightened. Just affected enough that you were not the only one standing there with your heart in your throat.
So you reached for the sharpest thing you could find.
“Maybe I should stop waiting, then.”
Mihawk went very still.
There. Finally.
It lasted only a second, but you saw it. The slight hardening around his eyes.
He crossed the room, unhurried.
You held your ground until he stopped in front of you.
His voice remained even. “If you want reassurance, ask for it. Do not attempt to provoke it out of me.”
Your throat worked.
“I don’t know how,” you said before you could stop yourself.
Mihawk did not answer immediately.
“You do,” he said. “Pride is not the same as inability.”
Your laugh broke before it became anything useful. “You think I’m proud?”
“I think you are afraid to ask.”
Your eyes stung again, worse this time.
You turned away, but he did not let the distance widen. His hand came to your waist.
“I waited,” you said, the words rough. “Every day. I kept thinking you would call. Then I thought maybe you couldn’t. Then I thought maybe you didn’t want to. And then I hated myself for caring either way.”
His thumb moved once against your side.
“I should have called.”
You blinked.
It was not dramatic. It was not dressed up. It was not even especially tender.
But from him, it landed heavy.
“I was delayed by Marines near the Calm Belt,” he continued. “It was tedious, not dangerous. I handled it. I assumed you would understand.”
“I did understand,” you said. “That was the problem. I understood all the reasonable explanations first.”
“And then?”
“Then I ran out of reasonable.”
His gaze softened by a fraction. “Yes.”
You swallowed hard. “I hate when you’re gone too long.”
“I know.”
Mihawk’s hand slid from your waist to the small of your back. “I have been with you long enough to know when your anger is only armor.”
Your chest hurt.
Mihawk’s eyes stayed on yours.
“I was not here,” he said, “but that did not change where you belonged.”
You stared at him.
The words were not sweet. Not soft in any ordinary way. They were too certain for that. Too absolute.
You hated how badly you needed them.
You loved him for knowing.
Mihawk’s hand rose to your face. His fingers touched your jaw. He did not kiss you yet. He only held you there, making you wait under the weight of his attention.
Your pulse changed.
He noticed that too.
“You are still angry,” he said.
“Yes.”
His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. “Then do not pretend otherwise.”
Your breathing went shallow.
Mihawk stepped closer until the edge of the table met your hips. He still had not kissed you. He only watched you with that devastating patience, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him and not enough to take it.
His hand slid to the back of your neck.
“You owe me,” you said, but your voice had changed.
“I do.”
Your stomach dipped.
He leaned in just enough that his breath touched your mouth. You lifted your chin, chasing him.
He did not let you have it.
“Mihawk.”
“There,” he murmured.
He watched you with quiet satisfaction. The bastard.
None of your anger disappeared. It only changed shape, burning lower now, tangled with relief and want.
“Ask,” he said.
Asking still felt too much like losing.
Mihawk waited.
He would wait all night. You knew that. He would stand there with his mouth an inch from yours, composed and merciless.
He would let you choose.
That was the worst part.
That was the best part.
“Kiss me,” you said.
He did.
It was not gentle.
His mouth took yours with controlled pressure, one hand firm at your neck, the other at your waist, pulling you closer to him.
You made a small sound against him.
He swallowed it.
The kiss deepened. When your lips parted, his tongue slid against yours, unhurried and deliberate.
Your hands grabbed his shoulders, pulling him in.
He allowed it for a moment.
Then he caught both your wrists and held them against his chest.
You broke from the kiss just enough to breathe. “What are you doing?”
“Making it up to you.”
“This feels like punishment.”
“No.” His mouth brushed your jaw. “Punishment would be leaving you untouched after you asked.”
Heat rushed through you.
“Mihawk.”
He kissed the side of your neck, slow enough to make your knees weaken. “You have had twelve days to imagine the worst.”
His hand moved to your hip.
“You can spend one evening learning patience.”
Your fingers flexed where he held them. “And if I don’t?”
His teeth grazed lightly beneath your ear.
“Then you will ask for mercy.”
Your breath left you.
Mihawk lifted his head. His eyes were dark now, all that cold gold warmed by firelight and want.
He released your wrists only to take your hand.
“Come,” he said.
You let him lead you from the sitting room, the rain still striking the windows, the book abandoned, the chair still crooked by three inches.
He noticed.
As you reached the doorway, he paused and looked back at it.
“You will put that back tomorrow,” he said.
You gave him a look over your shoulder. “Will I?”
His hand tightened around yours.
“Yes,” he said. “After I am finished making you forget why you moved it.”
Plot: A mountain getaway meant to save your marriage becomes the place everything finally breaks.
Read on AO3
Day One
The house looked smaller in the listing.
Not small.
Nothing with eight bedrooms, multiple fireplaces, a game room, a wet bar, and several separate living areas could reasonably be called small.
But smaller.
You stood beside the car and stared up at the dark timber and stone built into the snowy mountainside.
The house did not rise neatly in three floors. It spread across the slope in connected levels, with sections stepping down toward the trees. Tall windows caught the last light of the afternoon. Snow covered the roofs and gathered along the stone paths leading around the property.
Shanks came around the back of the vehicle with two suitcases in one hand.
“You booked a lodge.”
“I booked a house.”
“That is a commercial property.”
Your sister Amy slammed the door of the SUV parked beside yours. “It was discounted.”
Marco appeared behind her with three-year-old Robin asleep against his shoulder and a backpack hanging from one hand.
“It was still not cheap,” he said.
Amy turned on him. “We agreed never to discuss that.”
Six-year-old Ace had already escaped the vehicle and was attempting to climb the snowbank beside the driveway.
Marco caught the back of his coat without looking.
“No.”
“I wasn’t doing anything.”
“You were halfway up it.”
“I was looking.”
“You can look from the ground.”
Ace frowned.
Shanks watched them with a smile.
It was a familiar expression. The one that had made strangers trust him and bartenders pour heavier drinks for as long as you had known him.
He glanced at you.
“Still time to make a run for it.”
You looked at the road winding down the mountain. Snow had already begun filling the tire tracks behind you.
“I’ll take the car.”
His smile faltered for only a moment.
Then he lifted your suitcase slightly. “You’d have to wrestle me for the keys.”
There had been a time you would have stepped close, slipped a hand into his coat, and stolen them from his pocket while he laughed.
You walked toward the house instead.
Shanks said nothing.
Amy watched him.
She had been doing that often since you told her.
Not openly. Amy possessed many qualities, but subtlety had never survived long in her presence. Still, she tried.
She had cried when you told her.
Then she had called him several names you had not known she knew.
Then she had asked whether you wanted her to kill him.
You had said no.
She had asked whether you wanted Marco to kill him. Marco, sitting across the kitchen table at the time, had lowered his coffee and said, “I don’t think I was included in this discussion voluntarily.”
Nobody else knew.
Everyone knew something was wrong.
That was harder to hide than the reason.
The front door opened before you reached it.
Kayla stepped out wearing a cream sweater and fitted black trousers.
“You’re late.”
“You came yesterday,” you said.
“Yes. That is how seriously I take vacation.”
She hurried down the steps and hugged you.
Kayla leaned away and studied your face.
Then she smiled at Shanks over your shoulder. “You survived the drive.”
“Barely. She refused to let me control the music.”
“You played the same song.”
“It got better.”
“It did not.”
Kayla laughed.
You did too, because the exchange had been easy.
Because for one brief moment, it sounded like the two of you before.
Shanks looked at you.
The smile remained on his face, but something softened beneath it.
Hope.
You looked away first.
Another figure appeared in the doorway behind Kayla.
Mihawk wore a black sweater with the sleeves pushed to his forearms. He looked from Kayla to you, then to Shanks.
The two men clasped hands briefly, Shanks pulling Mihawk into a hug that Mihawk endured without returning.
It was the same greeting they had exchanged for years.
Mihawk had known Shanks before you had. Back when Shanks was never in one place for longer than a few weeks and Mihawk appeared whenever he pleased, offered no explanation, and left before anyone thought to ask for one.
You had been friends with Mihawk first.
Or perhaps acquaintances who gradually stopped pretending not to enjoy each other’s company.
Shanks had come later.
Louder. Persistent.
Impossible to overlook.
Mihawk looked at you over Shanks’s shoulder.
His eyes settled briefly on your face.
Shanks had told him before you could decide whether anyone should be told.
You had been furious about that too. Not because Mihawk knew, exactly.
Because Shanks had needed someone after confessing, and apparently even then he had not understood that you were the person left alone.
Mihawk stepped away from him.
“You look tired,” he said to you.
“I spent four hours listening to the same song.”
“Five,” Shanks corrected.
You ignored him.
Mihawk took your smaller bag before you could reach for it. “Your room is on the upper level.”
“Rooms,” Kayla said brightly.
There was a small pause.
Amy, approaching with two bags and Ace attached to her coat, stopped smiling.
Shanks glanced toward the house.
You looked at Kayla.
She did not know the reason you and Shanks had separate rooms.
Only that you had requested them.
The rental was spread out enough that no one needed to question it. You had said Shanks snored. He had laughed and agreed.
Mihawk turned and carried your bag inside. Amy waited until the others were out of earshot.
“He volunteered to sleep across the hall?”
“He wanted the same room.”
“Of course he did.”
The door opened again, and Lucy came out to help him. She had been Ace and Robin’s nanny since Ace was barely a year old. Lucy took the backpack from Marco.
“Robin fell asleep already?”
“She made it twenty minutes past the gas station,” Marco said.
“That’s better than last time.”
Robin stirred against his shoulder. Lucy lowered her voice. “Hey, sleepy girl.”
Robin reached for her without fully waking. Lucy took her easily, settling the girl against her shoulder while Marco stretched his neck.
Within a minute, Lucy had both children inside.
Amy looked at you again.
You pointed toward the remaining luggage. “Make yourself useful.”
“That sounds like something you should say to your husband.”
You gave her a look.
Her face fell.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, that was—”
“It’s fine.”
You picked up a bag before she could continue.
The trouble with telling someone your marriage was falling apart was that afterward every joke became dangerous.
Amy took the heavier suitcase from you without argument.
Together, you went inside.
————————
The entrance opened into the main living space.
A stone fireplace took up most of one wall, with sofas and chairs around it. Floor to ceiling windows overlooked the wooded slope behind the house, where snow weighed down the tree branches.
The kitchen and dining area sat a few steps above the living room. Beyond that, short hallways and staircases led into different sections of the house.
It was easy enough to understand while the lights were on. You suspected it would be less forgiving after dark.
Groceries already covered most of the kitchen counters. Kayla had arrived prepared.
She came down the staircase from the upper landing as you entered, followed by Shanks.
He had removed his coat. His shirt clung slightly to his shoulders from the long drive.
You noticed.
You hated that you noticed.
For over ten years, you had known the exact shape of him. You knew which shoulder tightened after long days. Where an old scar pulled when the weather turned cold.
Knowing him had once felt safe. Now every familiar detail carried something beneath it.
Had she noticed too?
Had he let her?
Shanks’s gaze found you immediately.
“You should see the room.”
“I will.”
“There’s a balcony. It’s heated.”
Amy passed behind him carrying the suitcase.
“What a comfort.”
He looked at her.
She smiled.
Shanks had known Amy long enough to recognize danger when she used that tone.
“Good drive?” he asked.
“Wonderful. My husband remained faithful through the entire thing.”
Silence dropped across the room.
Marco entered at exactly the wrong moment.
He stopped.
Kayla looked between them. “What?”
Amy opened her mouth.
You stepped on her foot. Hard.
Her face remained perfectly composed.
“It means he didn’t change the route after I told him not to,” she said.
You looked away.
Mihawk stood near the fireplace, watching Shanks.
Shanks’s smile had not disappeared.
It had changed. Barely.
Most people would never have seen the tension at the edges of it or the way his hand briefly closed at his side.
Kayla clapped her hands once. “Rooms first, then drinks.”
She took Mihawk by the wrist.
He looked down at her hand.
She released him, but not with embarrassment. More like someone adjusting an approach that had failed before.
“I picked the room near yours,” she told him.
“No.”
Her smile held. “No?”
“You’re staying in the south section.”
“I moved.”
Mihawk took a drink from his mug. “Move back.”
Shanks coughed into his fist.
Kayla turned toward him. “Something amusing?”
“Not a thing.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m naturally cheerful.”
Mihawk walked toward the kitchen. Kayla followed him. “There are eight bedrooms.”
“Then you should have no difficulty finding one that is not near mine.”
“We’ve shared rooms before.”
Amy’s eyebrows rose.
Marco began unpacking a bag of the children’s snow gear with sudden concentration.
“That arrangement ended,” Mihawk said.
Kayla folded her arms.
“It could start again.”
“No.”
The word was calm.
Not teasing.
Kayla’s smile remained, but it took effort now.
“You make everything sound so final.”
“When I intend it to be.”
Mihawk opened a cabinet, found it empty, and closed it again.
Kayla and Mihawk had been involved off and on for several months. Never officially. He would leave for work, return weeks later, and somehow they would fall back into the same bed.
Then Kayla began treating his returns like reunions. She arranged dinners around his schedule and expected him to remain after breakfast instead of disappearing.
Mihawk noticed. Two months ago, he ended it. Kayla insisted she could keep things casual. He did not believe her.
This was the first time they had spent more than an evening together since.
You had tried once to tell Kayla not to use the vacation as an opportunity to change his mind.
She had said she was not planning anything. You had known her too long to believe that.
“Come on,” Shanks said softly beside you.
You had not heard him approach. His fingers touched the inside of your wrist.
Your entire body became aware of the contact.
He noticed.
His thumb moved once across your skin, the gesture automatic and familiar.
“Let me show you the room.”
You looked down at his hand.
He let go.
“Fine.”
He smiled again.
This time it looked relieved.
He picked up both your remaining bags and headed up the stairs.
Amy watched you follow.
————————
The house became more complicated away from the main living area.
A short staircase led to an upper landing, then split in two directions. One hall crossed above the living room. Another disappeared behind a stone wall toward the bedrooms overlooking the trees.
Your room sat at the quieter end of the upper level.
Shanks opened the door and stood aside.
The room was beautiful.
A wide bed faced tall windows overlooking the snow-covered woods. There was a sitting area near a smaller fireplace, and glass doors opening onto the promised heated balcony.
Shanks carried the bags inside. He set the luggage down and turned.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The easy humor from downstairs did not follow you into the room.
Shanks slipped his hands into his pockets. His wedding ring caught the light before disappearing.
“Mine’s across the landing.”
“I heard.”
“The bed is probably terrible.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Could be dangerous.”
“You’ve slept on a ship deck in a storm.”
“Exactly. My back deserves luxury now.”
You unzipped your suitcase.
Shanks remained near the door.
You folded back the top layer of clothing and began removing sweaters that did not need to be removed yet.
He watched for another few seconds.
“I thought maybe we could have a drink out there later.”
You looked toward the balcony.
“Everyone is having drinks downstairs.”
“I meant the two of us.”
Your hands stopped.
There it was.
A drink on a heated balcony with a mountain view, as though atmosphere could carry you back into the marriage you had before.
Shanks saw your expression. His shoulders lowered slightly.
“Doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“That’s the problem.”
You looked down at the sweater in your hands.
“You keep trying to make everything normal.”
“I’m trying to spend time with my wife.”
“The way you used to?”
His jaw tightened.
You folded the sweater again, though it was already folded.
“You stopped doing that a long time ago.”
“I know.”
Shanks pulled one hand from his pocket and rubbed the back of his neck.
“I was gone too much.”
“That’s not all. You came home and acted like being home was enough.”
“I know.”
“You stopped asking me to come with you. The last time I packed a bag, you changed the trip by three days and told me after you reached the airport.”
His gaze dropped briefly.
“I know.”
“You keep saying that now.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know.”
That was the truth.
You had spent weeks trying to determine what words might help.
None had.
He had confessed the morning after it happened.
He had come home early, pale beneath his usual color, and told you before removing his coat.
There had been no discovered message.
No lingering affair.
No emotional attachment.
He had not loved her.
He had been drunk, lonely, and furious after an argument with you over a trip he had extended for the third time.
The woman had been there.
He had been weak.
Those had been his words.
Not excuses.
He had refused to call them excuses.
He had looked you in the eye and told you everything you asked.
That honesty had not made it hurt less.
Shanks stepped farther into the room.
“I can’t change what happened. But I’m here.”
You laughed once. There was no humor in it.
His expression tightened.
“You were here before.”
The words landed between you.
Shanks looked toward the dark windows. Snow tapped softly against the glass.
You wished he would become angry.
It would have been easier if he defended himself badly. If he raised his voice, accused you of refusing to move forward, or asked how long he had to keep paying for one mistake.
He never did.
He absorbed everything with an expression that made you feel cruel even when you knew you were not.
“I thought being away from work might give us room.”
“You thought a vacation might put us back together.”
“I thought it could be a start.”
You looked at him.
There was the optimism that had carried Shanks through storms, failed plans, and every terrible decision he had somehow survived smiling.
He believed a start meant momentum. He believed love could be repaired by showing up and refusing to leave.
Once, you had loved that most about him. Now it frightened you.
“Normal isn’t waiting for us,” you said.
His brow furrowed.
“Back home. After the trip. It isn’t sitting there until we’re ready to return.”
“I know things are different.”
“You don’t act like it.”
“You don’t know what you need, and I don’t know what you need, but every time I try something you act like I’m pretending.”
“Because you are.”
His mouth closed.
You put the sweater into the drawer harder than necessary.
“You touch me like you always did. You joke with me. You ask me to have drinks on balconies. You look at me like eventually I’ll laugh at the right joke and everything will unlock.”
“That isn’t what I think.”
You looked at him.
Shanks took a breath. His voice was quieter when he continued.
“I know I hurt you,” he said.“I know saying it once doesn’t cover it. I know being sorry doesn’t fix anything.”
“But?”
“But I don’t know how to be around you without being myself.”
Something inside you pulled painfully.
Shanks looked tired.
“I don’t know how to stop reaching for you,” he said.
“You managed with her.”
He flinched.
You hated yourself for the satisfaction that came with it. Then you hated him for making you someone who wanted to hurt him.
A knock sounded against the open door.
Mihawk stood in the hallway. His gaze moved from Shanks to you.
“Dinner is ready.”
Nobody downstairs had started cooking.
The lie sat plainly between the three of you.
You closed the drawer.
“I’m coming.”
You walked past Shanks.
Mihawk stepped aside to let you into the hall.
He waited until you were several paces away before following.
Shanks remained in your room.
————————
Dinner was not ready.
Amy was slicing vegetables while Marco worked at the stove. Lucy sat at the far end of the island helping Ace color a picture of what appeared to be a blue bear attacking a red house.
Kayla had opened the wine.
“You said dinner was ready,” you murmured to Mihawk.
“I was mistaken.”
“You don’t make mistakes.”
“I occasionally create them for practical reasons.”
You glanced at him.
He took the knife from Amy before she could cut an onion into six entirely different sizes.
She surrendered it without protest.
“Where is Shanks?” she asked.
“Upstairs.”
Her eyes sharpened.
Mihawk began correcting the onion.
You reached for a bottle of wine.
Amy put a glass in front of you before you could ask.
Marco looked over from the stove. He knew enough to recognize a marital argument without knowing its cause.
“Can you taste this?” he asked you.
You moved beside him.
The sauce simmering in the pan smelled of garlic and tomatoes.
You tried it.
“Needs salt.”
A few minutes later, Shanks came downstairs.
He entered the kitchen smiling.
Amy turned toward the cutting board before he could see her expression.
Marco handed him a beer.
“Need help?”
“No,” Marco said. “Which is why I’m giving you that.”
“Finally, someone appreciates my skills.”
He took the stool beside you.
That was how most of the evening went.
Shanks beside you but not touching.
Mihawk and Kayla across the table, her knee occasionally brushing his beneath it.
Amy talking too much whenever silence threatened.
Marco asking the children questions that had no coherent answers and treating each response seriously.
Lucy took the kids upstairs after Robin fell asleep against her shoulder.
Wine became whiskey after dinner.
The adults shifted toward the living room.
Kayla had attempted to save the place beside her for Mihawk by filling every other chair with cushions.
“You’ll change your mind,” she said.
“No.”
“You have before.”
Mihawk’s eyes rested on her.
The room became quiet enough for everyone to notice.
Kayla’s smile tightened.
Amy looked down into her wine.
Marco had taken the seat beside her. His arm settled across the back of the sofa.
Kayla leaned against the cushions.
“We’re on vacation. People relax on vacation.”
“I am relaxed.”
“You have a strange way of showing it.”
Mihawk lifted his glass.
“You are free to sit elsewhere.”
She rolled her eyes as though the exchange had not landed. But she stopped trying to make him move.
Marco suggested cards. For nearly an hour, everything almost felt normal.
You laughed twice.
The first time, Shanks glanced back at you. The second time, his shoulder relaxed.
That was the problem. He read every scrap of happiness as evidence.
You could see him collecting them.
A laugh.
Your knee brushing his arm when you shifted.
The fact that you refilled his glass when you poured your own.
To Shanks, these were small paths home.
To you, they were habits that had survived the destruction.
By midnight, Marco and Amy went upstairs.
Kayla stood and stretched. Mihawk’s eyes followed her before returning to his cards.
She noticed.
“Are you going up?” she asked him.
“Eventually.”
“My room is in the south section.”
“I remember.”
“You could help me find it.”
“You selected it.”
She smiled down at him. “Good night, Mihawk.”
“Good night.”
She bent and kissed his cheek. Mihawk did not turn toward her.
Kayla went upstairs.
Shanks gathered the cards.
“You know she expects you to follow.”
“I am aware.”
“And you want to.”
Mihawk stacked the deck. “That is not the problem.”
Shanks looked toward the stairs. “She says she can keep it casual.”
“She cannot.”
“You’re deciding that for her?”
“I watched her begin arranging her life around mine.”
Shanks leaned back slightly.
“So you ended it before it got worse.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t make it easier.”
“No.”
Mihawk’s gaze shifted to him.
“But difficulty does not make a bad decision less damaging.”
Shanks’s smile faded.
You stood.
“I’m going to bed.”
Shanks turned immediately. “I’ll walk up with you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
You looked at Mihawk. His expression remained unreadable. He had not mentioned the affair. He did not need to.
Shanks rose and followed you toward the stairs. Neither of you spoke as you crossed the upper landing.
At your door, you stopped.
“Good night.”
He remained where he was. You could feel him wanting to say something.
Ask you again about the balcony.
Tell you he loved you.
Promise tomorrow would be better.
He said none of it.
You stepped into your room.
“Shanks.”
Hope appeared so quickly that it hurt to see.
You nearly lost the nerve.
“Don’t read too much into tonight.”
His expression stilled.
“The laughing,” you said. “Dinner. Any of it.”
Shanks looked across the landing. Then back at you.
“All right.”
You closed the door.
For several seconds, you stood with your hand resting on the lock.
You did not turn it.
Across the landing, another door opened and closed. You listened to Shanks’s footsteps disappear into his room.
A/N: I hope this story makes you feel as many emotions as it did me.
Plot: A mountain getaway meant to save your marriage becomes the place everything finally breaks.
Read on AO3
Themes: Romance, modern AU, multiple pairings, heartbreak, angst. ANGST.
Warnings: Infidelity, violence, smut, marital conflict, adult language and topics.
Day One
Day Two
Day Three
Day Four: Part One
Day Four: Part Two
Day Five
Day Six
Characters
Shanks — Your husband of ten years. Captain of an international maritime crew.
Mihawk — A longtime friend of both you and Shanks. Works as a Special Marshal with the Special Operations Group (SOG).
Kayla — Your close friend from college, with a complicated history with Mihawk. She is the Director of Clinical Operations at Newgate University Hospital.
Amy — Your protective sister and a nurse practitioner at Newgate University Hospital. Mother of Ace, six, and Robin, three.
Marco — Amy’s husband and a renowned surgeon at Newgate University Hospital. Father of Ace and Robin.
Lucy — Ace and Robin’s nanny. She has worked for Marco and Amy for five years.
